Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the immeasurable genius of JK Rowling; I just like to borrow them and play with them.
Chapter 32
In the days that followed the incident in the dungeons, Hermione was putting on a brave face in front of the teachers, her friends and even him, but Snape knew what had happened was never far from her mind.
She had been exempted from classes on Friday morning and, after staying with him Thursday night, he found himself watching her as she stirred from sleep. It had taken her a moment to realise where she was, curled up against his side, and he'd unthinkingly reached out to brush her hair back from her eyes. She had shied away from him violently at the sudden movement, letting out a small cry of fright. He had withdrawn quickly, horrified at the notion she thought he was going to hit her. She had blushed and stammered an apology about still being half-asleep, and therefore startled.
It wasn't the last time she'd flinched like that, though. That afternoon, Dumbledore and McGonagall had joined them in his rooms for a discussion on numerous things, including what had become of the two young Slytherins who had set upon her. Hermione's Head of House hadn't seen her flinch when she placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Snape, sitting opposite, had.
Her castle patrols had been cancelled; Dumbledore truly believed the threat to have been nullified, but McGonagall, unwilling to take chances, had argued with him, saving Snape the trouble himself. Her duties had been distributed amongst the fifth-year Gryffindor prefects, who were more than willing to take on the extra duties. The Headmaster had announced at breakfast on Friday morning that two students had been expelled after a callous attack on another, stating firmly that such behaviour would be dealt with swiftly and harshly. It hadn't taken long for the students to deduce who was missing, and rumours of what might have happened were flying thick and fast around the castle, only compounded by the fact no one, save Harry, seemed to have seen Hermione since the incident.
Snape couldn't say he was displeased to learn Crabbe and Goyle were being held in a temporary prison at the Ministry of Magic while the Aurors finished their questioning. He hoped with savage pleasure that Mad-Eye Moody was one of their interrogators; they would both be a snivelling mess once he'd finished with them. Snape couldn't admit he would be disappointed if they ended up in Azkaban, either. He had tried to give all his Slytherins, even the sons of known Death Eaters, the benefit of the doubt in the hope at least one of them would refuse the path their parents wished for them to take. He held nothing but contempt for Hermione's two attackers, though, whom he couldn't recall having had a thought for themselves in the entire seven years he'd taught them. It was a wonder they had the nerve to carry out the attack.
One thing that was puzzling Hermione – she'd mentioned it to him the previous night, and brought it up again with Dumbledore and McGonagall present – was why she had been their target.
"I know, I'm friends with Harry," she said, "but did they honestly think they could lure him into a trap using me as bait?"
Snape opened his mouth to say that was exactly what they thought, given Potter's bungled mercy-dash to the Ministry of Magic, two years ago, but Hermione saw him move to speak and cut him off before he could begin.
"He wouldn't run off to save me like he tried to do with Sirius," she said waspishly, "even if there was proof they actually had me. He learnt his lesson last time."
"So he'd just leave you to their mercy?" Snape sneered. "I hardly think so."
She glowered at him.
"For what it's worth," he continued, ignoring her look, "I don't think they wanted you because of Potter."
"I don't see what else it could be," McGonagall said, refilling her empty teacup and offering to do the same for him. He shook his head, and she added, "But, then again, I can't fathom their reasoning for this at all."
"What are you thinking, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, watching him curiously. Hermione, too, was looking confused.
He stood up, pacing a path in front of the fireplace. He'd been thinking on this much of last night, lying awake next to Hermione, and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
"Just think," he began. "You escaped Crabbe and Goyle once before, which was enough provocation for them to try to hurt you again, but their orders came from the Dark Lord himself, this time. Have you noticed anything… unusual… about the Death Eaters' activities lately?"
He looked at the other three occupants of the room. McGonagall shook her head and Hermione frowned, but there was a thinking look on the Headmaster's face.
"Your potion," Dumbledore said eventually, and Snape nodded.
"Exactly. Despite the Dark Lord now having the instructions and ingredients for making the potion, there hasn't been sight or sound of it since my discovery. Why?"
"Wait," Hermione interjected. "You mean, he wanted me to brew the potion for him? Why would he need me to make it? I don't even know how!"
"But he doesn't know that," Snape continued. "He is aware you were working closely with me, and I believe he assumed I had taught you to brew the Cruciatus potion. I also believe that whoever he assigned to brew the potion for him failed and told him the method or ingredients were incomplete."
"But they weren't-" she started to say, and he held up his hand to be allowed to continue.
"It was complete and accurate," he confirmed, "but perhaps not detailed enough for an amateur potions brewer. There are things I omitted from the instructions because they're second nature to me; I've mentioned many of them in passing to you, too, but not needed to note them down because, unlike most of your classmates, you actually pay attention. A silver knife used to chop ingredients will contaminate the Wolfsbane potion, proving fatal to the drinker; a metal stirring rod in an iron cauldron must never touch the bottom or sides, else a spark between the two could cause an explosion; the magnetic properties of hematite will react differently in an iron cauldron than a brass one, so when brewing the Cruciatus – which must be made in iron - it needs to be added in an infusion of mugwort to ensure it is properly distributed throughout the potion. These are things casual potion-makers won't consider because the brews they are used to preparing don't require such precision."
"The Cruciatus, though," he continued, trying to keep the lecturing tone from his voice for the benefit of the other teachers, "must be exact in preparation and brewing. An ingredient sliced a quarter of an inch too thick, the smallest speck of dust in the cauldron, could be disastrous. You saw how many failures I had with the antidote; the original was even more complex. Pettigrew, when spying on us, must have mistakenly told the Dark Lord you were helping me brew it, and they were planning to have you make it for them."
"He was wasting his time," she said fiercely. "I wouldn't have done it."
"Yes, you would have," he replied darkly. When she opened her mouth to argue, he added quietly, "He can be very persuasive. Your defiance wouldn't have lasted a day."
She closed her mouth, the frightened look on her face conveying her comprehension of what sort of persuasion he was referring to.
"Yes, well," said McGonagall, looking vaguely disturbed herself, "we can thank Merlin it didn't come to that."
Dumbledore and McGonagall left shortly afterwards, suggesting, if Hermione was feeling up to it, she might come down to the Great Hall for dinner. It would dispel some of the rumours about her absence, and her other friends were anxious to see her, at any rate. She agreed, but hung back when they took the Floo back to the Headmaster's office.
"Perhaps you might also return Potter's cloak to him tonight?" Snape asked. She nodded, and he retrieved the cloak from the chair tucked under his desk, where he'd hastily shoved it out of the view of the Headmaster. He held it out to her, and she folded it over one arm.
"Thank you for letting me stay," she said, a light blush creeping over her cheeks. "I don't think I can... sleep alone… yet."
"See how you go tonight," he said, turning from her to clear the plates and cups from the coffee table with a wave of his wand.
"Tonight?" He heard the slight note of panic in her voice, and turned back to see it reflected in her eyes, too.
"You shouldn't stay here again," he said. As much as the idea of sharing his bed with her every night was appealing – even if it was merely because she didn't want to be alone – it wouldn't help her in the long run. She needed to face her fear and realise she was safe in her own room, and the sooner she did so, the better for her it would be.
"Professor Dumbledore said-"
"It's not about that, Hermione." He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. "I know what you're trying to do, but the longer you leave it to be alone again, the harder it will be. You'll be perfectly safe in your room. Your friends are nearby if you need them, and I'm only a Floo call away."
She looked at him, twisting her fingers nervously in the folds of the cloak, trepidation still written clearly on her face.
He sighed, stepped forwards, and placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning down so his face was level with hers.
"You'll be fine," he said firmly.
She held his gaze for a beat longer, but then nodded, dropping her eyes and stepping back towards the fireplace to leave.
She glanced over her shoulder once more as she tossed down the Floo powder and called out to be taken to her room. He tried to fixed what he hoped was a reassuring smile rather than a grimace on his face.
A few days later, Snape was wondering if he had indeed made the right decision in forcing her to confront her fears so quickly.
She said she was fine when he enquired, but he knew her well enough by now to recognise she wasn't being entirely truthful with him. He could tell from the darkening circles under her eyes that she wasn't sleeping well, if at all.
When Dumbledore had connected the Floo network from his sitting room to her room in Gryffindor Tower, it was to avoid any more thoughtless ventures into the dungeons and to avert suspicion from anyone wondering why she was always disappearing into both his office and that first-floor door. The Headmaster had sternly told him it was for Hermione's use only and Snape had tried to appear galled at the insinuation.
Still, it was tempting to use it, even just to make sure she was all right. Pacing his bedroom in the early hours of Monday morning, he couldn't help but think of her; was she wide awake, too? The more tired she looked each day, the harder it was each night for him to resist going to her, Dumbledore's warning be damned. She seemed to have had no trouble falling asleep in his presence that first night, and it had probably been foolish of him to force her to return to her own room after that, when what she needed most was to feel safe and to be able to sleep without fear. If his presence could give her the rest she needed, especially with her NEWTs fast approaching, how could Dumbledore really disapprove?
He had spoken to Dumbledore about the Unbreakable Vow, too. For some reason, he found himself telling the old man he had gone to the Hospital Wing to visit Hermione. The Headmaster seemed surprised and disappointed, but not particularly angry. He admitted, even before Albus had a chance to berate him, that it had been a rather inane thing to do.
The main problem, though, was the danger of someone managing to enter his rooms; it was clear, when he explained Hermione's fear to the Headmaster, that the possibility hadn't occurred to the him, either. Realising the danger, he rescinded his words, restating Snape was not to leave his own rooms without his consent, except in peril of his life.
He supposed the last part was a concession of sorts... although it put paid to the idea of Flooing to Hermione's room to check on her.
Just fleetingly, it occurred to him that it would be nice to be free from the Vow altogether. He wondered at its continued existence; trust wasn't an issue anymore – of that he was sure – and he would never refuse Dumbledore anything he asked of him, Vow or no.
Still, it would be nice to show his loyalty out of only his own free will, and not a mixture of that and a two-decade-old magical binding.
He sighed. The Headmaster wouldn't start taking chances now.
Hermione saw Malfoy on Friday night, during her first appearance in the Great Hall since the incident. She spent much of the meal brushing off questions from all her classmates - she had no desire to tell anyone what had really happened – but she caught Malfoy watching her on numerous occasions.
Monday was her first opportunity to talk to him alone. She arrived early for Potions that morning in the hope that he would be there, too. The classroom door was open, oddly, and she peered in to see the Slytherin lounging at his desk near the front of the room.
She made her way to her own desk, just across the aisle, and he glanced up as she drew level with him.
"Granger," he said, looking behind him to make sure the classroom was empty but for the two of them. "Good to see you're back."
There was no malice in his tone; he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
"Thanks," she said, then looked away, unnecessarily taking some parchment from her bookbag and laying it out on her desk. "I guess, I, uh, should be thanking you, from what I've been told."
"Yeah, well, being Head Boy isn't just a prestige symbol, you know. I have responsibilities to a lot of people."
There was something in his tone that made her look at him again, and she met his silver-grey eyes for a moment before he turned away to stare straight ahead at the blank blackboard. She wondered whether he was referring just to his responsibilities as a student leader of the school, or of those charged to him by his family or... others.
"To the other students?" she said, trying to sound casual.
He glanced at her again. "Amongst others."
There was no doubt in her mind now that he wasn't speaking of the school, and so, taking a chance, she commented, "I would think your actions on Wednesday night were as much a hindrance to some of your responsibilities as a help to others."
He looked startled, then almost angry, and finally a determined look came over him as he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could say a word, though, the door to the classroom swung open fully and Dumbledore entered.
"Ah, the two best students in the class, eager as always," he said with a smile.
Malfoy turned back to face the blackboard, his mouth fixed in a tight line, and Dumbledore winked at Hermione as he strode to the front. She growled under her breath, frustrated at the Headmaster's timing. If she'd had just a few more minutes, she might have been able to discover what Malfoy was really up to. As it was, the other students began to filter in, including Harry, who gave her a curious look. She shook her head, but resolved to tell both him and Ron what had happened later, and Severus as well.
She had finally made peace with Ron on Friday night, during a long conversation with her two best friends in the Room of Requirement; the common room was too noisy, and the other students were so curious about what had happened to her that she could hardly get a word in to her friends without someone else coming up to enquire about her wellbeing.
Hermione wondered whether Harry had persuaded Ron to make up with her, or whether it was the shock of what had happened that had made him realise how ridiculous he had been acting. Whatever the reason, he had apologised profusely for his idiocy, blaming his actions on jealousy at her spending so much time with Snape and so little with him.
"I felt like I'd lost a friend," he had explained. "You were hardly around anymore, and when you were you had so much homework to do that we hardly spoke anyway."
He was right, Hermione had conceded. It hadn't occurred to her earlier, but her sudden absence from the common room, the Great Hall, and during most other times in between classes must have been hard on both of her friends. They were all used to doing everything as a trio, and suddenly she disappeared for hours at a time. On occasion, particularly the week following Severus' discovery by Voldemort, she had barely seen Harry or Ron outside class at all.
Now, Hermione made an effort to spend more time with both of them. They sat in the common room long after curfew, talking or revising her class notes, since the other two hardly bothered to take any themselves. The conversation on Monday night, once the common room had cleared of other students, centred on Malfoy. Hermione told both of them what had happened before Potions that morning, and filled Ron in on the other strange conversation she'd had with Malfoy, the day she had taken Snape's owl up to its new home.
Harry and Ron were as confused as she was about the Slytherin's strange behaviour. None of them could deny he'd been different this year; he'd hardly spoken a word to Ron, whom he usually wasted no opportunity in ridiculing. None of them, though, were willing to bet on his motives, and the only way the situation would be resolved was if Malfoy or Dumbledore made a move.
Hermione had a slightly ulterior motive to the time she was spending with her friends. She was still reluctant to return to the solitude of her own room; sleep, tired as she was, seemed more elusive than ever.
As a child, Hermione had never been afraid of the dark. Moths and thunderstorms had frightened her, and she had been more scared of the cyclone than the witch in The Wizard of Oz, but the darkness had never bothered her at all.
Now, though, in the days since the attack in the dungeons, she was dreading the hours of darkness spent alone in her room. Thursday night in Snape's quarters was the only night she'd slept soundly since, and the lack of sleep was starting to wear her down.
Each night when her Harry and Ron yawned and decided to head up to their dormitory for bed, the unease of retreating to her own room crept up on her again. She knew she was perfectly safe in her room, but she couldn't help but check the wardrobe, under the bed and in the other numerous dark corners of the room, just to reassure herself she was alone.
Crookshanks slept in her room, of course, and that should have allayed her fears, too. After all, it was he who had first realised there was something unusual about Ron's rat, Scabbers, back in their third year. The first time after the attack that she woke to his rustling in the corner of the room, though, she snatched her wand from the bedside table and sent a blinding Lumos out across the room, illuminating every dark crevice and corner. She supposed, in hindsight, it was lucky for her half-Kneazle that a Stunning Spell hadn't been the first thing to come into her mind.
She had no doubt Snape had been serious about her coming to him if she needed to, but she was reluctant to confess her weakness, even to him. She knew it was silly of her to be so afraid, but the rational side of her brain just didn't seem to be able to convey that to the emotional side, or to the rest of her body. More than once, she woke shaking, covered in a cold sweat, phantom hands still pinning her to a hard, cold floor even though she lay in her soft, warm bed.
Tuesday night, after four previous nights of restless, nightmare-filled sleep and long hours spent staring into the dark, afraid to go back to sleep, she was so tired she thought nothing could keep her awake. She left the common room early, trying to pre-empt the nervousness she had previously felt by being the first to leave. She forced herself not to check her room for unknown occupants; instead, she changed into her pyjamas and quickly climbed into bed. Crookshanks jumped up and settled down near her feet, and she glanced around the room once more before murmuring, "Nox," and setting her wand on the bedside table.
Lying back and staring into the darkness, she concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. There's no one else here but Crooks, she told herself firmly, the silence of the room confirming her thoughts. There's no one else here, she kept repeating, and the mantra lulled her into relaxation, and finally, sleep.
The floor was hard and cold beneath her, roughly scraping her hands where they were pinned above her head. Somewhere in the back of her mind, something was telling her she was asleep, dreaming, and if she opened her eyes she would wake up.
She did, only to see the dark bulk of those two leering Slytherins looming over her; one above her head, holding her hands tightly, and the other coming towards her from the other direction.
No, she thought. I'm still asleep. It's not happening again. Wake up, Hermione!
But she couldn't wake up. Suddenly, a heavy weight was pinning her chest as her second attacker knelt over her. She struggled, trying to push him away, but she couldn't move.
A hand brushed her throat and she panicked, twisting underneath the body pinning hers in a vain attempt to escape. As she twisted, she caught a glimpse of the corridor beyond and a shadowy figure leaning against the wall a short distance away. Was it Draco? He was going to help her, wasn't he?
As she struggled more desperately, the figure came into view again, and she realised with a start it was Snape; he was wearing his teaching robes and watching the scene dispassionately, his arms folded across his chest.
"Severus!" She suddenly found her voice, calling out to him even as the hands around her neck tightened their grip.
"Help me, Severus! Please!"
He didn't move, didn't even blink, and she felt other cold hands fumbling with her clothing, pushing it out of the way.
"Severus, what is wrong with you? Why won't you help me?" she screamed, tears pouring down her face as she fought against her assailants as hard as she could.
He still didn't answer, and she suddenly realised the two Slytherins hadn't made a sound, either. What was going on?
She tried to move her hands again, realising they were no longer pinned above her head, but tangled in fabric of some sort at her sides. It wasn't her robes... she wasn't wearing her robes. Choking back a sob, she raised her hands to push at the weight on her chest again and came into contact with… fur?
She really woke this time, bolting upright and sending Crookshanks flying from where he had curled up on her chest some time during the night. Tears still pouring down her face, she stumbled out of bed, almost tripping on the covers that had twisted around her. In her panicked flight, she didn't even stop to grab her wand from the bedside table. The only thought in her mind was that she couldn't spend another moment alone; she had to get to someone - to safety - and the closest person was Severus.
She ran blindly the half-dozen steps across her room to the fireplace, fumbled for the Floo powder and gasped out her destination as she stepped into the fire.
Snape slept lightly, and so when the whoosh of the Floo echoed through his chambers in the early hours of the morning, he was instantly alert, reaching for his wand on the bedside cabinet.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up as the soft sound of bare feet reached his ears; a moment later, the bedroom door was pushed open and a figure came rushing towards him.
A defensive hex died on his lips as he realised it was Hermione, but he barely had time to lower his wand before she reached him, throwing her arms around his bare torso and sending him off-balance, forcing him to half-sit, half-fall back onto the edge of the bed.
He snapped a spell to bring some light into the room, and then managed to set his wand back where it had been. Putting his hands on her shoulders, bare but for the thin straps of her singlet, he pushed her gently back from where she was clinging to him, shaking, so he could see her face. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she was wild-eyed and terrified as she stared at him.
"What is it? What's wrong?" A flood of ideas as to what had her so distraught crossed his mind, from the terrifying thought someone else had tried to attack her to the completely ridiculous thought that she'd taken her NEWTs early, without telling anyone, and had failed them.
She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut against the flood of tears, her whole body shaking in an effort to suppress her sobs. "I- I can't-" she managed to gasp out before her breath caught in her throat again.
He was silent, still gripping her shoulders in what he hoped was a steadying grasp. He normally loathed dealing with emotional people. His Slytherins had received nothing more than a scathing remark unless they had an exceptionally good reason for coming to him in emotional distress, but Hermione was different. For some inexplicable reason, seeing her in such a state tugged at heartstrings he hadn't realised he still possessed until recently. These near-hysterics were disturbing him to the point where he had to stop himself from shaking her to calm her down.
Her shoulders were cold to the touch. The constant temperature charms on all the students' sleeping quarters had its disadvantages; summer was still along way off and, in her panic, she had come to him without a thought for herself, her thin pyjamas inadequate in the cooler air of his quarters.
"Aren't you cold?" he said, rubbing his hands up and down her bare upper arms. She nodded mutely and he sighed, pulling her closer and trying to transfers some of his own warmth to her. She clung to him again, still shaking.
After a few minutes, though, he realised she was still standing on the cold floor and cursed himself for not noticing earlier. She made a small cry of protest as he pulled back from her again, but he shifted back on the bed and pulled her up next to him, drawing the warm comforter up over her as she lay against him.
Her panicked, choking sobs gave way to hiccupping breaths, but she still didn't speak. She quieted further as he held her, and when she had been silent for some time, he cleared his throat quietly and said, "Are you all right?"
He felt her nod against his shoulder.
"Are you going to tell me what has you so upset as to come down here in the middle of the night?"
"Idadrm," she murmured unintelligibly.
"Pardon?"
"I had a dream," she said more clearly, raising her head a little to look up at him.
"About the… dungeons?" he asked, the pieces suddenly falling into place. If this was what happened when she dreamed, no wonder she'd been looking so tired each day.
She nodded again, and then whispered, "You were there this time."
His eyes snapped back to her, but she was looking away from him, her own eyes brimming again in the soft light.
"It's just that I'm so tired," she whispered, her voice catching on a sob. "Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is those two advancing on me, like it's all happening again. And this time you were there, you were just standing there, watching. You wouldn't do anything, and I couldn't understand why. I was screaming, and it was like you couldn't even hear me."
His chest tightened painfully at the vivid description, and he pulled her against him more securely. "You know that would never happen, Hermione," he said gently, but with a firmness in his tone that brooked no argument. "You know I would never just... just stand there and let anything like that happen."
He pushed aside his ever-present guilt over the incident being his fault in the first place. She'd forgiven him for that, at least, even if he couldn't yet forgive himself.
"I know that," she said tearfully, "just like I know my room is safe. I know it but I just can't bring myself to believe it… it was just so real."
"I would imagine your dream was all the more vivid due to your lack of sleep these past days." Her hand, which had been absently tracing the line of his collarbone, stopped. "You haven't been sleeping at all, have you?"
She shook her head. "Not since I stayed here," she whispered. "I just can't... I can't bring myself to let my guard down. Do you know what I mean?"
He couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle at that, and a faint smile came onto her face as she realised the irony of her words, too. She seemed glad he wasn't mocking her for her weakness, but it was the farthest thing from his mind.
"Yes, I do," he said after a moment, "and I owe you an apology. I underestimated the effect everything has had on you. If I'd known, I wouldn't have-"
A finger on his mouth silenced him as she sat up, turning to face him. Her eyes were still red, but there was a determination in them as she spoke. "None of this is your fault, Severus," she said. "You did what you thought was best, and it would have been if I was a stronger person."
"Stronger?" he echoed in disbelief. "Hermione, you have handled this better than anyone could be expected to. This past week – no, this whole year – you've been through more than anyone your age should be expected to handle, and you've taken it all in your stride with dignity and grace. I forget sometimes, in your maturity, how young you are to be dealing with all of this. You should have come to me; I wouldn't have thought any less of you for being frightened."
"I know," she replied with a sigh, turning and leaning back against the pillows again. "I would have thought less of myself, though. I'm usually so rational about everything but this just... threw me. I think I'll at least be able to think straight after I get a decent night of sleep."
"Starting with tonight," he affirmed. "Or, at least, what's left of the night. Are you comfortable enough here?"
She looked sideways at him.
"You'll let me stay?"
He rolled his eyes. "No, Hermione, I'm going to kick you out of my bed and make you sleep on the floor."
She let out a soft snort of amusement, and it pleased him that he could still make her laugh under the circumstances.
"You're not the only one who's been woken in the middle of the night," he added, reaching across her for his wand and extinguishing the light. "I would imagine we could both use some sleep."
He heard rather than saw her yawn in the sudden darkness, and then felt her shift down to lie with her head on the pillow. He lay back, too, pulling the comforter up but leaving his arms free. Lying on his back, he could sense she was facing him; each exhalation of her breath was warming the exposed skin of his shoulder.
"Are you still awake?" came her whisper in the darkness; it could have been minutes or hours after he had extinguished the lights.
"Hmm."
She didn't say anything else, but instead shifted closer to him. He felt her icy toes brush his bare feet at she stretched her legs out beside his, and one of her small hands came to rest on his stomach. He moved his arm almost automatically, placing it around her shoulders as she shifted closer still.
The thin cotton of her singlet was useless in blocking out the warmth now emanating from her skin, or the steady thud of her heartbeat beneath that. Had it not been so dark, he was sure he would have been able to see the slight swell of her breasts, rising and falling with each breath at the low neckline of her top.
As it was, he could feel the warm, bare skin against his own.
He swallowed thickly, feigning finding a more comfortable position in order to shift his lower body away from her a bit. A week ago, she would probably have been delighted in his reaction to her closeness. Now, though... he didn't know. If she was still having nightmares of what the two Slytherins had almost done to her, the last thing she needed was to feel the same reaction from him, even if his intentions were completely different.
"Is this all right?" she murmured, sleep already starting to cloud her speech.
More than all right, he found himself thinking. Aloud, he merely said, "It's fine."
She fell asleep shortly afterwards. He listened to her soft, even breathing for a while, but when no outwards signs of the nightmare that had plagued her earlier appeared, he found himself growing drowsy, too.
His last coherent thought before he succumbed to sleep was that he had better awaken before her the next morning, lest his body betray him and give away exactly how all right the situation was.
Over the next week and a half, the lingering fear of what had happened to Hermione in the dungeons wore off, and she found herself again able to sleep alone without being plagued by horrible dreams.
That wasn't to say she did sleep alone, though. Not every night, at least.
Snape never asked her to stay, but when she yawned and tentatively suggested it the night after her terrified flight to his rooms, he simply nodded, stood up from where he was sitting at his desk, walked over to where she was seated on the couch and held out his hand to her.
She stayed away the night after that, just to prove to herself that she could. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Snape was, as he had said, only a Floo call away that enabled her to go to bed calmly and without fear that night. Whatever it was, she slept soundly and didn't awaken until the magical clock above her desk started whining, its single hand – her own face, wearing an exasperated expression – pointing to 'Late!'
She went down to Snape's quarters on Friday afternoon feeling exceptionally pleased with herself. Her mood dissipated quickly, though, when he didn't seem to share her happiness at such success.
It was probably a silly thing for her to be so excited about, anyway, but she was proud of herself.
Snape was in the lab experimenting again – another variation of the Wolfsbane that he hoped Lupin would consent to test this month. Perhaps he's just distracted, she thought, as she set about brewing in her own corner of the workroom.
Stirring the simple Calming Draught a short while later, she allowed her mind to wander and came back to the topic again. She watched him across the room as he added a sprinkling of a fine powder to the steaming glass cauldron, watched for the mixture's reaction, and then scribbled another line of notes on the nearby parchment, indecipherable to all but the writer. His face was fixed in a frown, a deep line between his brows.
She finished her brewing a short time later and bottled the potion to take to the Hospital Wing. It was still before curfew, so she stacked the bottles in a small crate and then walked over to the bench where Snape was still working.
"I'll take these up to Madam Pomfrey," she said, "and then I thought I might have an early night. If Gryffindor wins Quidditch tomorrow, I doubt I'll get much sleep."
He spared her a quick glance over the top of the phial into which he was measuring a silvery liquid, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"Sleep well," was all he said.
He must just be distracted, she thought again, confused and a little hurt, as she walked up to the Hospital Wing and then on to Gryffindor Tower.
Later that night, though, she thought on what he'd said again, and it occurred to her that maybe he wasn't distracted; he was without distraction.
She developed a pleasantly warm feeling in her stomach every time he called her a distraction; the term was used between them in good humour, and she sometimes found her thoughts wandering, in class or during a meal in the Great Hall when her friends were talking amongst themselves, thinking of new ways to distract him... not that she would ever have the courage to try half of them, but it was pleasant to think about, nevertheless.
Perhaps he was disappointed that, although she was finally recovered from the altercation in the dungeons, she would no longer be coming to him at night. He still seemed uneasy about their relationship going any further, despite the Headmaster more or less giving his consent, and so she had assumed Snape only meant for her to come to him as long as she needed another presence to be able to sleep.
Had she been mistaken? Had it really been an open offer for her to come to him without such a reason?
Both curious and confused, she decided to test her theory the following night.
Gryffindor narrowly beat Hufflepuff on Saturday afternoon and, predictably, the celebrations went late into the night. With the help of the Gryffindor prefects and Professor McGonagall, Hermione finally managed to convince the last of the revellers to head up to their dormitories just before midnight.
A short while later, in her own room, Hermione tossed her open robe over her pyjamas and took a pinch of Floo powder, calling out to be taken to Snape's quarters.
He came out of the lab just as she emerged from the fireplace, and she saw him frown as he took in her attire.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
She shook her head, and he looked confused.
"Are you still brewing?"
"No, I'm just cleaning up," he said. "Will you wait a moment?"
She nodded and stood nervously as he disappeared back into the lab, uncertainly suddenly creeping back into her mind. What if she'd mistaken his discontent for something it wasn't. What if he sent her back to her room, shame-faced, after berating her for her presumptuousness?
He came back into the sitting room before she had a chance to wonder any further, closing the lab door behind him. Seeing her still standing where he'd left her, he folded his arms, giving her a curious look.
"So…?"
The open-ended question wasn't what she'd expected, and she stumbled over her words, a flush suddenly rising in her cheeks at the idea of... well, she wasn't really propositioning him, so to speak... was she?
"I, um... everyone's finally stopped celebrating," she said hesitantly. "They've all gone to sleep... and I thought I might... well, I thought I could stay… I mean, if it's all right with you, of course, because it's your bed, but I thought you might like-"
She broke off when the twitching of his upper lip suddenly turned into a smirk, and then a deep chuckle broke forth from his throat.
She stared at him, unsure whether he was laughing at her offer or just at her nervousness.
"Hermione," he said, shaking his head in bemusement, "I've told you before, you don't need an invitation. You're welcome here any time."
"Here, yes," she said, "but-"
"Anywhere here," he emphasised. "I would have brought it up myself, but I thought you were content, now that you're sleeping well enough again."
"Well, I am," she said. "I mean, it's good that I'm not frightened, but I wasn't only here because I was scared. It's strange... I was here for two nights, and now every time I wake up keep expecting to turn over and find you there. I became used to it rather quickly, really."
He stared at her for a moment and then his face softened. Stepping closer, he took her chin in one hand and tilted it up. He lowered his own head, and she could hardly stop herself licking her lips in anticipation.
"You're most welcome to become used to it again," he murmured silkily, and then brushed his lips across hers, along her jaw and down onto that sensitive patch of skin just below her ear.
She tilted her head back, gripping the fabric of his shirt to ground herself as his actions sent a tingle of pleasure down her spine.
"I could definitely become used to this," she breathed, and his low chuckled vibrated deliciously on her skin as he continued his path from her neck to her shoulder, pushing just the edge of her robe aside.
He stopped there, though, much to her frustration. He straightened, stepping back from her a fraction and confirming, "You're staying, then?"
She didn't seem to be able to find her voice, so she simply nodded.
"Come, then," he said, dousing the lit torches with a word, leaving only the glow of the dying fire to light the room. Hermione followed him through to the bedroom; it, too, was almost completely dark, lit only by the white light of the quarter moon filtering in through the window.
"I won't be a moment. Make yourself comfortable," he said, picking up something from a chair and disappearing into the bathroom.
She stood, undecided, for a moment, before shrugging out of her robe and draping it over the back of the chair. She withdrew her wand from one of the pockets and approached the bed, setting it on the side table.
As she pulled back the corner of the comforter and climbed in beneath it, nervousness overcame her again. His earlier actions had set a slow fire burning somewhere below the pit of her stomach, but now she was suddenly uncertain of what was going to happen.
She lay down, twisted her fingers nervously in the edge of the comforter, and waited.
If Snape sensed her renewed nervousness when he re-emerged from the bathroom dressed in only his sleep pants, he didn't say anything. He climbed in beside her and lay down on his side, facing her with his head propped up on one arm.
She didn't want him to see the tension on her face in case he took it the wrong way, so instead of turning to face him, she turned away and then shifted backwards until her back came into contact with his chest.
She sighed softly as his arm came to rest on her waist.
"Tired?" he asked after a moment.
"A little," she admitted. "It's been a busy day."
"Yes," he agreed. "I hear Slytherin will be beating Gryffindor this year to win the Cup."
"Whatever you say, Severus," she snorted, but she was glad he didn't seem disappointed she merely wanted to sleep… tonight, anyway. She was grateful that he was being so patient with her. He wasn't a patient man by anyone's standards, particularly when it came to something he wanted.
It both flattered and frightened her a little that he so clearly wanted her, but she knew he was holding back, waiting for her to do something, or say something, to encourage him to continue. Without the incident in the dungeons the previous week, her apprehension would probably have been overshadowed by her own desire for him. Even now, though, and even with Snape, who she trusted implicitly, she still experienced the odd moment of claustrophobia, a fear of being confined or smothered. It had never been a problem for her prior to last week, and she only hoped it wouldn't linger for long.
It didn't, and Hermione made a point of staying with him the next Saturday night, too, as well as a few nights in between. Weekend nights were better, she concluded; she had no desire to get up in time for her first class when she could sleep in, but Snape always seemed to be up before she awoke, anyway.
It puzzled her until, on the Sunday morning of the next weekend, she discovered why. Yawning, she stretched a little, pressing back into the warm body behind her. As she moved, her body came into contact with the hardness of his morning erection, warm against the back of her thigh, even through his pants.
She froze, her face flushing, but then she realised from his even breathing that he was still asleep. No wonder he's been getting up before I'm awake, she thought, smiling to herself.
He shifted in his sleep, flexing his hips towards her, and his arm tightened around her waist. She was definitely over her claustrophobia, she decided. The only thing she could think about in that moment was being smothered, pinned down and thoroughly ravished by him. She leant back into him, shifting down a little, and warmth flooded the lower regions of her abdomen as the tented cotton of his pants pressed against her bottom.
He moved again, and she heard his breathing hitch as he struggled from sleep to wakefulness.
Something told her he would be mortified if he knew she was awake, and so she feigned sleep, turning her head so her hair obscured the hot flush of her face.
A moment later, he woke up properly, and she heard him curse softly and roll away from her.
There was the rustle of the comforter, and then the bed moved as he stood up. Soft footfalls signalled his retreat across the room, and a moment later Hermione heard the bathroom door close quietly.
She rolled into her back, wondering even then why she hadn't just turned around when he awoke and... and what? She sighed. Spontaneity just wasn't her strong point.
To be continued
Author's Notes:
Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, as always. Comments and suggestions are always welcome. It's getting a little warm down here at this time of year for flames, but I could use them to burn all my uni notes, I suppose. :P
Sorry if anyone got the feeling something else wink wink was going to happen in this chapter. It will happen eventually, if that's any consolation, and my disclaimer does say I like to play with them...
Yes, I know the windstorm in The Wizard of Oz is actually a tornado, but it's called a cyclone in my version of the book, and in the movie, too, I think. Considering what Hermione has grown up to be, I thought it would be fitting for her to be more afraid of the storm than the witch.
Thanks to Potion Mistress (rather appropriately) for her help with potions ingredients in this chapter.
