Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the immeasurable genius of JK Rowling; I just like to borrow them and play with them.
Chapter 29
Stealing quietly through the dark passageway to Snape's dungeon office, Hermione emerged in the Potions classroom with the black eagle owl still riding silently on her shoulder.
Cautiously opening the door to the main dungeon corridor, she peered out to find it empty, before stepping fully into the long hallway, closing the classroom door tightly behind her. She was halfway to the staircase leading to the upper levels of the castle when a shape emerged from the shadows of an alcove.
She stopped, startled, her heart in her throat as the memory of the last time she'd been confronted alone in this very corridor rose in her mind. But this wasn't her attacker, or one of his accomplices who'd remained hidden in the shadows last time.
It was Malfoy.
"Granger," he said civilly, and then his eyes drifted to the owl. Recognition flashed across his face and he stepped closer to her, his eyes narrowing.
"What are you doing?"
She cursed inwardly. It hadn't occurred to her that the Head Boy's patrol took him through the dungeons at this time on a Wednesday night.
"Professor Dumbledore asked me to take this owl up to the Owlery, if you must know," she said stiffly.
He stared at her, and then at the owl again. Tonatiuh ruffled her feathers in a clear show of annoyance, and Hermione wondered if the owl recognised the young man?
"Why are you taking it up there?" he asked suspiciously.
"Because that's where owls belong, Malfoy," she said, adding snidely, "Surely the Head Boy knows that."
"That's not what I meant, Granger," he said, clearly irritated. "Do you know whose owl that is?"
Hermione hesitated. However surprised Malfoy had seemed at the news of Snape's 'disappearance' the previous week, he was watching her a little too carefully, waiting for her response. Was he genuinely curious as to whether the rumours of Snape's demise were true, or was he simply appearing so on the instructions of another – someone with more sinister motives? Whatever the reason, she wasn't about to give the game away, and could play her part well.
"I know whose owl it was," she said quietly, looking down at her feet.
Malfoy didn't say anything, and she looked up after a moment to find him watching the owl with a fearful look on his face.
"So it's true, then," he whispered, more to himself than Hermione.
"What?" she said sharply.
His eyes met hers in surprise, as though he'd momentarily forgotten she was there, before his expression changed, the stricken look replaced with a cool expression of indifference.
"You shouldn't be wandering the dungeons on your own, Granger," he said, a warning tone in his voice. "You never know who you might meet down here."
"If you're talking about yourself, Malfoy, I'm not scared of you," she said, and brushed past him to continue down the corridor to the stairs at the far end.
"It's not me you should be afraid of," a voice came from behind her.
She halted and turned, but the blonde had already turned, too, and was making his way down to the other end of the corridor and the stairs leading to another lower level and the Slytherin common room.
Frowning slightly in confusion, she continued up the many flights of stairs to the Owlery on the westernmost side of the school. It was quite dark in the draughty room, but Hermione could hear the rustle of countless owls on the rafters high above her head.
"Well," she said, twisting her head around to regard the bird on her shoulder. "This is your new home. I daresay it's not as comfortable as your old one, but there's plenty to eat out in the grounds and plenty of other owls to keep you company... unless you're a solitary creature like your master."
Tonatiuh hooted softly and nibbled a frizzy tendril of hair which had escaped Hermione's ponytail.
"Oh, go on," she said quietly to the bird. "I'll come and visit you when I can."
She reached her hand up to stroke its silky feathers for a moment, before it took flight, disappearing into the gloom above her. A scuffle and twitter followed by a few tawny feathers floating to the ground told Hermione the black owl had found – or perhaps stolen – a place to roost.
One night, just over a week after his confinement had begun, Hermione went down to his quarters after a two day absence. There had been a sudden outbreak of arguments amongst some of the younger Gryffindors, and Professor McGonagall had asked for her help to resolve them. Snape was standing at the small sink in the corner of the lab when she arrived just after dinner, a crate of dirty jars and phials beside him. Shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he was cleaning them with a washcloth and sink-full of murky water.
"What are you doing?" she asked quietly from the doorway.
"What does it look like?" he replied shortly, the crease between his brows deepening.
"Cleaning," she said evenly. "But why are you doing it that way?"
"Why not?"
She sighed. "Do you have to answer every question with another one?"
"Do you have to ask so many bloody questions?" The bite in his tone was unmistakeable, and she stepped over to the crate and flicked her wand at its content. The jars and phials were suddenly sparkling clean.
Snape glared at her. She stared back passively and he flung down the rag, dropped the jar in his hands into the sink of water and stalked from the room.
She cleaned the final jar, the sink and the cloth, and peered through the doorway into the sitting room to see him in an armchair, staring moodily into the empty hearth.
It was cold in the room. She crossed in front of him and lit the fireplace with a murmured, "Incendio." He blinked in the sudden brightness of the flames.
Unless he felt the need to voice his frustrations to her, she thought it best to leave him to his thoughts, however depressing and morose they might be. He didn't take well to being forced into anything, but especially anything personal. Putting her hand lightly on his shoulder for a moment as she passed him, she made her way back into the lab to brew a flask of Invigoration Draught for Madam Pomfrey.
In the flurry of activities requiring her attention in the last few days, she'd neglected to consider how much her presence had become a constant for him, especially now, when almost all other constants in his life had suddenly been turned upside-down. He hadn't been far from her thoughts at any time – he hardly ever was these days, actually – but she just hadn't found the time to visit him... until now.
Some time later, when the potion was almost complete, Hermione heard a noise and looked up to see him across the room, leaning comfortably against the doorframe with his arms folded.
"I had plenty of time to spare," he said by way of explanation for his manual labour. "It felt good to be doing something."
"There are a lot of things you could be doing without resorting to cleaning jars," she said, sprinkling a carefully measured ounce of ground billywig wings into the cauldron. "I could have done that – with or without magic."
"You weren't here."
She sighed. The potion had turned a deep shade of golden yellow and was complete but for cooling. She capped the jar of billywig wings and turned from his gaze to replace it on the shelf and close the cabinet.
"I know I haven't seen you for a few days, and I'm sorry for that," she said with a touch of remorse. "It's not that I didn't want to be here. Time just got away from me."
He shook his head. "I didn't mean it like that," he said. "I'm not selfish enough to expect to see you every day, especially with your NEWTs approaching and your other friends' looming troubles. It was just... strange. I couldn't concentrate on practical experiments, and my research has reached a block I can't seem to get past. At least, washing jars, my hands were busy and I didn't have to think too much."
"I never thought you'd be one to be bothered by silence," she commented.
"Neither did I," he sighed. "For all I bemoan constant distractions when I'm trying to work, I've realised in the last week that some distractions are preferable to none at all."
"Well, in that case, I'll try to find time to come down and distract you more often," she said with a soft laugh, setting the scales she had been using back in their place on the shelf next to the mortar and pestles.
He didn't respond immediately, and she didn't hear him approach, so she almost shrieked in surprise when she felt an arm suddenly snake around her waist from behind.
"And what a pleasant distraction it will be," he murmured, his breath hot on her ear.
She twisted around to face him, and her breath caught in her throat at the suppressed fire in his dark eyes. She had never imagined him as the type of man to display affection on random occasions, if at all, and therefore on the occasions he did it always sent a pleasant jolt through the lower regions of her stomach.
She tilted her head back as he lowered his, and his lips deviated from their original target of her mouth to brush along her neck, instead. She gasped, a shiver running through her body at the feather-light caress and the soft whisper of his breath on her skin.
Encircling his waist with her arms, she arched her back and pulled him closer so they were touching from shoulder to hip. She was glad for the hard, wooden shelves behind her, grounding her, as a wave of giddy pleasure swept through her body. If he could render her weak at the knees with barely a kiss, what would it be like if they ever...
"What are you doing to me?" he murmured, a rough edge to his normally silken tone.
"Well," she began impertinently.
She stopped as a warning growl of, "Hermione," rumbled through his chest.
Biting back a laugh, she dropped her arms to her sides, allowing him to move away if he wished. He pulled his body back from hers slightly, enough so that they were still touching without actually pressing into one another, but didn't move any further than that for some time.
The thing that eventually drew him away was the whoosh of the Floo activating in the sitting room. An uttered curse spilt from his mouth and he left the room quickly. When she heard Dumbledore's voice floating in from the other room, she bit back a howl of frustration. Did the old man always have such impeccable timing?
The next month passed in a blur of classes, homework, meetings and, of course, time spent with Snape. Though winter has given way to the intermittent sunshine and frequent showers of February, Hermione had little opportunity to spend time out of doors.
Ron had snidely mentioned as much, noting she looked almost as pale as the former Potions master. Her red-haired friend was still annoyed at her easy friendship with the outed spy and the amount of time she spent with him. Sick of Ron's petty jealousy and uncomfortable leaving Snape to his own devices for too long at a time, Hermione began to spend more and more time in his quarters, rather than endure her other friend's snide remarks and huffing whenever she returned to the Gryffindor common room.
In addition to brewing the Hospital Wing supplies and occasionally helping the former Potions teacher with whatever he was working on, Hermione did most of her other homework in his quarters, too, at his desk while he was brewing, or on the coffee table in front of the fireplace if he was in the room with her. His book collection was small compared to the Hogwarts library, but more than adequate, especially when it came to writing her Defence Against the Dark Arts essays.
On the seldom occasions she didn't have any work that needed immediate attention, she preferred the stillness of Snape's rooms to the rowdy common room.
The quietness of the room was getting to him, though, and he'd gone so far as to say he welcomed her idle chatter when they worked, as long as he wasn't experimenting with a new potion. She talked about everything from classes to the latest rumour of Voldemort's activities in the Daily Prophet, from her frustration with Ron to Harry's frustration with the Headmaster's reluctance to make the first move in the war.
Dumbledore, McGonagall and Lupin had been attending Order meetings at number twelve, Grimmauld Place almost every other night. With the discovery of Pettigrew's infiltration of both Hogwarts and the former House of Black, the Headmaster had seen fit to release the Order members from their mandatory house arrest, which had been in place since before Christmas. The danger hadn't passed by any stretch of the imagination, but with Snape's inside information no longer available, the need for knowledge of Death Eater activities outweighed the danger to the Order members, who were eager to be active again.
Dumbledore still had no clue as to how Pettigrew had gained access to the Order Headquarters with the Fidelius Charm still in place. It was worrisome, but additional charms now on the house meant no one could enter for the first time without Dumbledore's invitation. After initial entry was approved by the head of the Order, the individual could come and go at will.
The charm was sound, and the Order had tested it against a validated member entering Headquarters with a spy such as Pettigrew concealed upon them – knowingly or otherwise - in Animagus form. Professor Lupin, approved entry by the Headmaster, tested the wards by trying to pass through carrying a basket containing a familiar looking tabby cat who had not yet been allowed to re-enter the former House of Black. The experiment ended up with Lupin inside the house, but a very disgruntled McGonagall regaining her human form after climbing out of the basket, which had been torn from Lupin's grasp and flung clean across the road by the powerful wards.
Dumbledore was also convinced Pettigrew – or any other spies, for that matter - would no longer be able to penetrate the castle walls. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief at that news; she'd only just stopped jumping each time a sound reached her ears in the silence of Snape's lab.
The Death Eaters had been strangely quiet since the supposed death of their traitor. While rumours of various isolated disappearances and deaths reached their ears, it was precious little compared to the large-scale attacks that had looked destined to continue before Snape's final summons. The Cruciatus potion hadn't made an appearance, either, for which Hermione was doubly glad; Snape took each death that had been reported since his discovery as a personal failure, and the last thing he needed on his conscience was another successful delivery of the potion he had created.
Whether the respite in attacks was purposeful or a result of the Order being active in the community again, no one knew. The lack of Death Eater activity comforted the general public, but the Headmaster wasn't so optimistic about it, and nor was Snape.
"The calm before the storm," Hermione suggested one night in Snape's sitting room. The Headmaster, along with McGonagall and Lupin, had just returned from another meeting at Grimmauld Place. They had taken to coming down to Snape's quarters after such meetings, rather than Hermione or Dumbledore having to pass on news to Snape later.
Much to Snape's chagrin, that also meant Harry was a regular visitor to his sitting room. They ignored each other for the most part, except for the occasional snide remark, mostly from Snape. Harry seemed to have developed an acceptance of, if not appreciation for, the Potions master's predicament, and it was a mark of how much the younger boy had matured that he didn't bring up the similarities between Snape's situation and Sirius', two years prior, about which, at the time, the Potions master had wasted no opportunity in mocking the other man.
If Ron had been cool towards Hermione before, he was downright cold when he learned of the 'secret meetings' both she and Harry were allowed to attend. Hermione was having nothing of his frustration at being kept in the dark, and his constant complaining ended in her snapping that until he started acting like an adult, he had no place at the meetings, anyway.
She hadn't spoken to him since.
That wasn't the only tension evident between friends, either. Hermione had noticed the shortness with which Snape addressed the Headmaster. It occurred to Hermione that he was not only furious with Dumbledore over his confinement, but also the incident with the moonfilly blood which the Headmaster had told him about. Snape hadn't mentioned it to Hermione, and she wasn't fool enough to broach the subject. She assumed Dumbledore hadn't let on the truth of the matter – that it was she who had taken the blood and delivered it to him – though she still didn't fully understand why Snape would be so angry about it, as Dumbledore had implied.
He hadn't broken his promise to the creature, from her point of view, and the moonfilly had seemed to understand his predicament and be eager assist. She had been meaning to read the chapter on blood in the Moonfillies book again, but hadn't found the time. She'd only skimmed over it before the incident, his promise never to ask for the gift rendering any information within that chapter useless, anyway.
Malfoy was keeping a close watch on her as the weeks went by, too close a watch. Everywhere she went in the castle, he seemed to appear from a hidden door or shadowy alcove. Sometimes she couldn't see anything, but still had the distinct impression she was being followed. Once, when she emerged from the first floor corridor in the early hours of the morning after losing track of time reading in Snape's sitting room, she passed one such alcove and caught a hint of the distinctive, expensive cologne the Head Boy always wore.
She turned the corner at the end of the corridor and stood in the shadows herself for some time, but no one passed by, and she wondered if she was becoming paranoid.
Still, she was forced to enter Snape's quarters via the Floo in Dumbledore's office more often than not. She tried not to leave that way, though, for it was often late at night and, on occasion, the flush on her cheeks would have all but given away at least some of the night's activities. The Headmaster might be old, but he was also observant, and hadn't expressly given either Hermione or the former Potions master leave to continue what had begun between them that night back in January.
She had to give Snape credit; he was taking his confinement well… mostly. It probably helped that he had rarely sought the company of others when he was able. A more sociable person would have gone mad after a week alone in three rooms, even with Hermione now visiting him almost every night and often in her free lessons during the day. He still rubbed his arm absently when he was thinking or reading, but he'd stopped rolling the sleeve up for visual confirmation his Mark was gone. She had seen him scratching at the knife scar through his shirt on one occasion, but had said nothing.
Snape did have his moments, though, but she had learnt the best way to abate his temper was to go about her work or study as usual, rather than convince him to talk it through. He spoke of some of his frustrations to her, but if she tried to force it from him it only ended in an argument.
The more time Hermione spent in Snape's quarters, the more she enjoyed being there. He knew the value of silence, and didn't pester her like her fellow students, who were constantly coming to her for help with everything from homework to personal problems. She was Head Girl and had a duty to assist them where possible, but it did become tiresome listening to the petty whining of adolescents, particularly with her knowledge of the more serious problems facing the wizarding world.
Snape was content to sit in silence for hours, if that was what she needed, but he also seemed to know instinctively when she needed cheering up, her mind taken off whatever seemed to be bothering her with his dark, sarcastic sense of humour... or other forms of distraction.
New topics in Hermione's classes had given way to seven years' worth of revision in preparation for the NEWTs, even though the exams were still almost four months away. Her organisation in past years was paying off now, and she suddenly found her workload considerably lightened, research assignments being replaced with simply reading over her parchment-books full of notes and practicing the practical charms, spells and potions.
She did her reading, more often than not, in the quiet of Snape's sitting room, curled up in a corner of the couch. He joined her on most nights when he finished whatever he'd been working on in the lab or at his desk, selecting a book from his vast collection and settling next to her.
She would lean into his shoulder after some time, and then he would shift so his arm could come around her and she could lean against him more fully. His fingers would idly twist a curly strand of her hair around them as he read. Anyone else playing with her bushy hair would have earned a swift rebuke – it was a pet hate of hers – but with him, she allowed it… enjoyed it, even. They would talk quietly sometimes, about what they were reading or how the day had gone, but other than that the only sound would be the crackle of the flames in the fireplace and the soft whisper of pages turning.
Hermione's eyes became scratchy sometimes, after a particularly tiring day, and she would set her book aside, lean back and close her eyes, waiting until he finished his chapter or journal article before leaving for the night.
On one occasion, she fell asleep while he was still reading and woke in the heavy darkness before the dawn to find herself in his bed – alone – the silky comforter tucked around her fully-clothed body.
Slipping back out into the sitting room, she found Snape asleep on the couch, lying on his back, his bare feet hanging over the edge of one armrest. The book he'd been reading earlier was resting face-down on his stomach, and she crept back into his bedroom to retrieved a blanket she had spotted draped over the back of a chair. Returning to his prone form, she carefully removed the book from beneath his hands and draped the blanket over his form.
Stealing quietly from the room so as not to wake him, she made her way back up the Gryffindor tower just as the first hint of grey was appearing on the far horizon.
In the weeks following, she woke in the darkness to find herself in his bed on three more occasions, creeping past the sleeping figure on the couch and back to her own room before first light. It puzzled her... he would bail her up and kiss her senseless when the rare mood took him, and he would allow her to sleep in his bed, but it seemed to Hermione that he wouldn't allow himself to remain there with her, wouldn't trust himself to stay there.
Did he really doubt his self-control that much, or hers, for that matter?
She wondered if he was waiting for her to ask him to stay, but she wouldn't know how to broach the subject. Her vaunted Gryffindor courage seemed to vanish when it came to initiating anything between them. She loved the shiver of pleasure that ran down her spine when he suddenly appeared behind her, his breath warm on her neck. Whenever she made an attempt to instigate something between them, though, it came off awkward in her eyes.
He seemed to enjoy it, nevertheless, but she found herself wishing on more than one occasion that she had paid attention to her Gryffindor dorm-mates when they had discussed such things. Lavender and Parvati had driven Hermione up the wall during the six years she had shared a room with them, their ceaseless gossiping, scheming and match-making constant getting in her nerves. She would never ask them for advice now, of course. For one, her pride wouldn't allow her to admit she was all but clueless and, for another, they wouldn't rest until they had discovered who she wanted to use their advice on.
You're not completely clueless, she allowed herself. She'd seen Victor Krum a few times since meeting him in her fourth year, and then there had been a few Hogsmeade trips with a seventh-year Gryffindor during her sixth year. And then there was... No, she thought with a groan. That's it.
Who was she kidding, trying to compare Snape to any of her past experiences? He was a man, not some equally inexperienced boy her own age, and she cared more about him - and his opinion of her - than she ever had anyone else. She was clueless, and suddenly all too aware of it.
On a Wednesday night in early March, they were both in the lab; Hermione was restocking the infirmary supplies again in one corner, and Snape was testing yet more alterations to the Wolfsbane Potion. He had spent the past month trying to increase the potency of the brew so it would only need to be taken once a month, instead of every night of the week before the full moon. If he was successful, it was the first step towards a permanent cure for lycanthropy, and all but an assurance the Order would have support from most werewolves in the final stages of the war.
Her potions completed for the night, and his own simmering for twenty-four hours, they retired to the sitting room for a well-earned pot of tea. Sitting close on the couch, as had become their habit, Snape balanced his teacup on one knee, idly flipping through the latest European Potions Federation Journal. Hermione was content with the warmth of her cup clasped in both hands.
She noticed, though, glancing at Snape out of the corner of her eye a few times, that he wasn't actually reading. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the page, unmoving, lost in thought.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly after some time.
He blinked and looked at her, then closed the journal and set it aside with a sigh, placing his empty teacup on the table, too.
She knew something had been bothering him over the last few days; he'd been more short-tempered than usual. He made an effort not to take it out on her, and for that she was grateful, but his dark mood was getting her down, too.
He didn't speak for a moment, and she set her own cup down, prompting, "What is it?"
"I wonder," he said slowly, "if you might tell me what happened when… after I returned from... Voldemort the last time."
She watched his face carefully. She knew he was serious; it was only the second time he'd referred to Voldemort by his name, and it still took some effort on his part. Old habits die hard, she thought.
"Hasn't Professor Dumbledore spoken to you about it?" she asked, confused.
"He has," Snape said evenly. "Very briefly, though. He didn't really explain much at all, considering I was unconscious for the better part of a week."
Hermione looked down at her hands, twined together in her lap.
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, Hermione," he said. "Albus mentioned some anomaly when Potter removed the dagger, but he wouldn't go into it any further than that, other than to say whatever it was caused the Mark to disappear."
She looked up sharply. "He didn't tell you how it came to vanish?"
He shook his head and she frowned. The Headmaster hadn't spoken to her at all about what he had discussed with Snape regarding the events of that week. Snape hadn't mentioned it either, but she assumed Dumbledore had told him most of what had occurred, and at the very least the circumstances under which his Mark was eradicated.
She wondered if the Headmaster had kept other important facts from him, like the moonfilly blood. Hermione had assumed Snape hadn't spoken of it to her because he was angry over her involvement. Was that the truth, or hadn't he mentioned it because he still didn't know?
She daren't broach the subject now, but she resolved to ask the Headmaster about it as soon as possible. Shaking herself from her reverie, she realised Snape was watching her expectantly, and she sighed.
"It's hard..." she began hesitantly. "I don't... I don't know where to begin."
The truth was, she didn't know how she could begin to explain what had happened in his bedroom that night, the terror of the strange magic and the relief that he survived, followed by a week of waiting and hoping. She didn't think she could detach the facts from the feelings well enough to simply give him the former, and she still hesitated to let him know how deeply the whole ordeal had affected her.
"If you don't want to-" he started to say, his tone clipped, but she cut him off.
"No, I do," she said firmly, turning to face him on the couch and tucking her feet up underneath her. "I would have told you sooner if I'd realised you didn't already know. I'm sorry. I just... I don't know how to put it into words."
He frowned, and she tried to elaborate.
"So much happened so quickly, I just don't know that words would do it justice. Does that make sense?"
He sighed, disappointed, turning his head away from her. She watched his profile with a thoughtful expression, and then an idea came to her.
"I might not be able to tell you," she said slowly, "but I could show you."
He turned to look at her again.
"A Pensieve, you mean?"
She shook her head. Extracting memories into a Pensieve had been distinctly uncomfortable the last time she had tried it, and she would prefer not to have to do it again. There were other ways someone such as Snape could see her thoughts, her memories.
"Can't you just... look?" she asked hopefully.
"Legilimency?"
She nodded, and he looked surprised.
"Are you sure?"
"I trust you," she said simply.
"I keep forgetting that part," he murmured, but he turned on the couch a little, folding one long leg up so he could sit facing her.
"Are you absolutely sure about this, Hermione?" he asked again.
She nodded, her throat suddenly feeling dry. He needed to know what had happened that night, if only for his own peace of mind, and she wouldn't deny him that knowledge... and she did trust him.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up into his eyes.
He seemed not to utter a word and his wand was nowhere to be seen, but suddenly she felt that strange prickling at the front of her mind, and knew he was inside her head. She knew nothing of the practical aspects of Legilimency, but she made an effort to focus on the events of that day in late January.
The memory came forward and she felt him take control, moving quickly past the part of the morning he did remember, through her conversation in his sitting room with Harry and back to the bedroom. She could still see his dark eyes in front of her, staring intently into her own, but she could also see the memory playing out before her, as large as life and as vivid as her dreams... her nightmares.
She felt his shock meld with her fear at his first incoherent scream of pain as Harry tried to remove the dagger and the confusion when it didn't come out cleanly. He probed further, watching the rest of the scene, and Hermione could feel her terror as though it was all happening again. A sob escaped her throat as the image momentarily blacked out when the magical shockwave hit her, and she felt Snape reach and grasp her hands, unclenching her fists and allowing them to intertwine with his own fingers instead.
Was it his relief or hers she could feel when she approached the bed and pronounced him alive? She couldn't tell. As she watched herself straighten the bedclothes and wipe the perspiration from his damp forehead as he lay unconscious, mixed feelings of compassion and despair spread throughout her, and she became confused.
Shocked surprise accompanied her discovery that his Dark Mark was gone, and she felt Snape grip her hands more tightly. An inexplicable feeling of yearning that she knew wasn't her own brought tears back to her eyes as she watched Dumbledore re-entered the room, the old man finally breaking down.
The scene changed, then, and random images of the days following spilled forth; her hours of research, sitting beside his bed as he ailed more each day, and the Headmaster's frown as he laid the back of his hand on Snape's head. She thought he would draw away, then, content with knowing what had happened that first night, but he persisted. She felt a flicker of fear as an image of the edge of the Forbidden Forest at sundown came to the forefront of her mind. She tried to draw her eyes away, but found herself pinned by his sharp gaze as he probed further, feeling her fear and seeking its source.
When the moonfilly came into view, she felt his confusion and realised with a sudden start of horror that he was unaware of the scene he was about to witness. He hadn't been angry with her because he hadn't known. Dumbledore had never told him.
Suddenly frightened of what his reaction might be, thinking she had purposely kept it from him, she focused all her strength on breaking the connection between them. The sudden mental struggle distracted him, and the last image that crossed her mind before she was able to tear her eyes away from his was that of the moonfilly's blood trickling into the small phial in her hands. With a soft gasp, she pulled her hands from his and stood up, backing a few steps away from the couch, refusing to meet his gaze again.
"Hermione?" His voice was tight and shaking with rage.
She raised her eyes as far as his chest, rising and falling quickly with his short, angry breaths.
"I thought you knew," she said softly, realising how thoroughly lame it sounded even before the snarl of disgust broke from him.
"If you thought I knew," he hissed, "why are you so intent on keeping me from seeing it?"
She shrank back from him as he rose from the couch, backing until she felt the hard, cold stone of the wall behind her.
"Show me the rest," he demanded, advancing towards her.
She shook her head, not trusting her voice to utter anything more than a whispered, "No."
"I am not asking," he snarled. "So help me, Hermione, if you've done what I think you've done."
He stepped closer and she tried to move away, but he grabbed her arm roughly, clasping it in a bruising grip as he forced her to remain where she was.
"Show me," he demanded again.
"You're hurting me, Severus. Let go," she pleaded, tears of fright welling in her eyes.
Her pleas fell on deaf ears, though. She pushed at him with her hands, but in one swift movement he grabbed both her wrists, pinning them to the wall above her head and pushing his body against hers to foil any attempt at escape. With his free hand, he grabbed her chin, forcing it upwards so she would meet his eyes.
"Severus, stop," she sobbed. Her vision was swimming with the tears that were spilling down her cheeks, and he was so close she couldn't look anywhere but into his eyes. She felt the prickling invasion again and tried to push him out. This time, though, he was ready. She gasped as a sudden stab of pain accompanied his forceful entry into her mind, and she felt her memories swirling through her consciousness as he sought what she had denied him before.
She struggled against him, but he was pinning her firmly to the wall, and he tightened his grip painfully on her wrists and chin.
Her vocal pleas choked on her sobs as he followed the memory from the edge of the Forest back to his quarters. When he saw her tipping the phial of blood down his throat, he tore himself from her mind and released her, pushing himself away from her with a snarl of anger.
Her knees refused to hold her and she slid down the rough wall, sinking onto the cold, hard stone of the floor. She wiped her eyes, her mind still spinning from the brutal invasion, and looked up at him.
He was facing away from her, a short distance across the room, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. He hadn't given her a chance to explain, and now he thought she had betrayed his trust. You have, a small voice said in the back of her head, and she bit back a sob. She had.
She squeaked in muted terror as, in one swift movement, he sent the teapot hurling into the fireplace, the two cups following shortly afterwards.
He had every right to be angry, but not like this... this vicious, terrifying rage. He had never turned on her like that, never frightened her, never physically hurt her. She had never imagined he would, either.
She could still feel his fingers digging into her chin and she realised, looking down at them, her wrists were bruised from his fierce grip.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" His voice was low, but the anger radiating from him was so palpable that she flinched when he turned back to face her.
"I..." Words failed her. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" he spat. "Do you think you can just apologise and everything will be all right? You deliberately and knowingly disobeyed my wishes!"
"I'm sorry that you didn't know; I thought Professor Dumbledore had told you already," she said. "I'm not sorry for what I did."
"What you did?" His voice rose with every syllable. "You mean, taking advantage of the dumb, instinctive wisdom of an innocent creature? Breaking my promise, my promise, to the creature and using it to your own ends?"
"My own ends? What was I supposed to do?" she shouted, anger flaring within her at his lack of gratitude. "You were dying!"
"Then you should have let me die!" he roared. "Who are you to judge my life more worthy than the lives of others?"
"What do you mean, lives of others?" she asked in confusion.
He stared at her in disbelief.
"You really have no idea what you've done, do you?"
She stared back at him and he huffed out an angry breath, striding across the room to the bookshelves. Rising hesitantly from her place on the floor, she followed him, flinching again as he spun back to her and shoved his copy of Moonfillies into her hands.
"Page two-seventy-four," he hissed, brushing past her and striding into the lab.
Still shaking, she opened the book to the right page. She hadn't read this far into the chapter on blood before, and upon reading it she realised exactly why he was so angry.
"The blood of the moonfilly can only be taken with the creature's consent, and then only once in a lifetime. Once a moonfilly has given its most potent gift, the magical properties of its blood, hair and excrement vanish for the remainder of its life."
She closed the book, set it aside and made her way into the next room. He was sitting at the small, cramped desk, staring at the moon chart on the wall.
"I'm so sorry," she said, and this time the sincerity was clear in her voice. "I truly had no idea."
"That much is evident," he said tightly, not looking at her. "Nevertheless, that old fool knew damn well what the consequences were. He should have told you."
She, too, was angry with Dumbledore, but the damage had already been done by the time he was aware of it; the blood had already been taken. She said as much to Snape, and he scowled deeply.
"Don't tell me you would still have taken it had you known," he scorned.
"Yes, I would have," she said evenly. "It wasn't taken; it was offered. Who am I to deny such a gift?"
"It wasn't your place to accept it."
"Perhaps not," she agreed softly. "But what's done is done. Do you really think I – or the Headmaster – would have let you die when there was a chance to save you?"
He snorted.
"Albus will keep me alive only so long as it suits his plans."
She shook her head. "He cares about you," she insisted. "Can't you see that from what you saw tonight?"
He didn't answer and she reached out for him, resting her hand on his arm.
"Please, Severus," she said. "Don't be like this. I didn't knowingly keep this from you. Professor Dumbledore said he would tell you in good time, and I just assumed you didn't want to discuss it with me."
His eyes flickered briefly in her direction, but he didn't turn his head. She watched him, and though his face remained stoic she could see a myriad of emotions passing behind his dark eyes. Eventually, he stood up, moving past her to the door. He stopped then, and seemed to square his shoulders and take a breath as he turned back to face her.
"We can't do this, Hermione," he said.
"Do what?"
"This," he said, gesturing between them. "Us. It won't work."
"What?" she said. Where had this come from? She stared at him, and she could feel tears of confusion and hurt welling in her eyes. Was he truly so angry that he was going to turn her away?
"I realised tonight how much distress I caused you," he explained. "It's not going to become any easier, in the long run, and I... it's not fair on you."
"I think that should be my decision, not yours," she said waspishly. "What sort of Gryffindor would I be if I abandoned my friends in difficult times?"
Despite all the times he'd playfully mocked her Gryffindor qualities, the joke fell flat, and he merely scowled at her.
"You're free from him, anyway," she continued. "The worst part is over."
"Oh, gods, Hermione, wake up," he snapped. "Have you not considered why Albus insists on keeping me hidden, what part I'm going to play when Potter finally faces Voldemort?"
"What do you mean?" She crossed the space between them to stand in front of him, looking up. His dark eyes regarded her, and this time she felt no fear of him invading her mind. He looked defeated.
"Potter may not be strong enough to overcome the Dark Lord outright. He may need a... diversion... to garner the Dark Lord's attention, to cause him to lower his defences."
She watched him, fear crawling into the pit of her stomach.
"It seems I am to be that diversion."
His words hung in the air as her eyes widened in disbelief. After a moment, he looked away and continued.
"The shock of my being alive – wondering how it is possible – may distract the Dark Lord long enough for Potter to kill him. If it doesn't, the Dark Lord won't leave me alive a second time, and he won't take any chances. When he casts the Killing Curse it will give Potter an opening to cast his own when the Dark Lord's back is turned."
"I-" Hermione was dumbfounded. She had truly come to believe that the Headmaster honestly cared about Snape – as a colleague, a friend, almost an adopted son – and she had tried only moments before to convince Snape of it… but Dumbledore didn't care. He was still using Snape purely to his own ends; he'd been happy for his spy to survive because it suited his plans for the future. nothing more.
"Now do you understand?" he said quietly, watching the flood of different emotions cross her face.
"Understand?" she repeated.
"Why we can't-" he began, faltering. "Why I won't allow this to continue between us."
"No! I don't understand!" she exclaimed, then took a deep breath, saying more quietly, "I thought we were in this together."
His face was expressionless as he said, "Whatever you thought, it was wrong."
"Wait, you don't mean that," she pleaded, grabbing his arm as he made to turn away from her.
"Yes, I do," he countered firmly, his eyes fixed on a spot over her head. "You said it yourself – you're a distraction, nothing more."
She saw the pained expression on his face, but somehow the words hurt even more knowing he didn't truly mean them.
"It's for the best," he added quietly, pushing her hand away and folding his arms across his chest.
"Bugger what's best!" she exclaimed angrily. "It's not what you want and it most certainly isn't what I want."
"Don't presume to tell me what I want," he hissed, but the fight seemed to be going out of his voice, so she persisted. He watched her warily as she stepped forward, laying her hand on his folded arms.
"I don't know why you feel you have to do this, Severus, but please don't," she said softly. "You couldn't push me away before – when I barely knew you – and I won't allow you to do it now, not for my sake, not for anything, not now that I... I..."
"You what, Hermione? You love me?" he sneered, the endearment sounding harsh and cruel on his lips. "Is that what you were going to say? How perfectly Gryffindor of you, not to mention naïve. Do you really imagine there to be such a thing as happily ever after where I'm concerned?"
She stepped back and pulled her hand away, stung by his words.
"I don't know if it's love," she said quietly, staring at the rough stones below their feet. "It's certainly not something I've felt before, and I can't just... just turn it off. I might be young, but I'm not stupid enough to think both of us – either of us – will survive this war unscathed. Ever after isn't anyone's concern in these times; we only have here and now."
She could feel him staring at the top of her head, and when he didn't say anything for a minute she looked up hopefully, only to see his face twist in a cruel smirk.
"So," he said softly, "only concerned with here and now, are we?"
He took half a step towards her so she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze.
"Do you want me, Hermione?" he said in a low voice. "All of me?"
He pulled him against her, hard, but it wasn't exciting as it had been the previous times he'd done so. After his actions in the other room, she felt a flicker of fear in her chest. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the firmness of his chest pressed against her, and...
She gasped in a mixture of surprise and fear as his erection dug into her stomach.
"Yes," he whispered, his breath hot in her ear and he leaned down. "We both want it, so consequences be damned."
Her eyes had inadvertently slipped shut, but they snapped open at his last words and she tried to draw back to look at him but he held her fast, his arm clamped around her waist.
"What…?"
"You talk about here and now," he hissed in her ear. "Have you even considered the consequences for you, should anyone find out?"
"If you're talking about Dumbledore," she tried to reason, shifting uncomfortably against him, "the only issue he had was you being a teacher, and that is no longer a problem."
"No, I'm talking about you," he replied, loosening his grip just enough that she could lean back and see his face. His eyes were dark fire, a mixture of anger and lust that frightened her. "You know what part I'm going to play in the rest of the war now, and yet you still persist. You know what the outcome is more than likely to be. What will you do then?"
"I'll worry about that if – not when – it comes to pass," she insisted, her voice shaking. "We have time. We can find another way to distract Voldemort... and if we can't..." She took a deep breath. "Don't you want to make the most of the time we have?"
"Yes, let's," he leered, pulling her close again despite her reluctance. "Will you let me take you to bed now, Hermione, or can't you even wait that long? How about right here? Isn't that what you want?"
She struggled from his grasp, placing her hands on his chest and pushing him away, tears welling in her eyes again.
"No... not like this," she said, shaken by his aggressiveness. "Why are you being like this?"
"Because it's pointless, Hermione!" he exploded. "Pointless tying yourself to a man who may as well already be dead."
"I refuse to believe that," she countered, struggling to keep her voice even. "We'll find another way."
"There is no other way," he spat. "Go back to your friends, find someone with a better life expectancy to attached yourself to – Potter or Weasley, if you feel you must. Live your life, have a houseful of Gryffindors-to-be, if that's what you want."
"Harry and Ron are like brothers to be," she retorted, her own voice now tight and angry at his insinuation. "And if I ever decided to have children – note I said if, not when – there is only one man who I'd want to father them."
Her voice softened as she left little doubt she was talking about him, but instead of it abating his temper, as she had hoped, it only made it worse.
"Oh, would you like something to remember me by? Is that it?" he sneered. "Something to show the world as proof not everything in my pathetic existence ended in ruin?"
"No, I-" she cried, but he cut her off.
"Having my child would be no bed of roses, Hermione," he continued, his face contorting in a mixture of rage and pain. "It would be condemned if it bore my name, and you would be ridiculed if it didn't. Will your friends stand by you when I no longer can? Are you willing to give up the prime of your life to raise the bastard son of a dead traitor?"
SMACK!She slapped him with everything she had in her; her anger gave her strength, and the blow sent him reeling, his head snapping to the side as he grasped at the doorframe to stop himself from falling completely.
Mortified by his cruel words and her uncharacteristic reaction, she backed away from him. He regained his composure and stared at her, her handprint bright red on his pale skin, the look in his eyes feral. Terrified he would retaliate, she fled. He was blocking the sitting room door, so she used the only other means of escape available to her: the dark passage and stairwell leading to the Potions classroom and the dungeons.
To be continued
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