The Houses Competition (or THC)
House: Slytherin
Class : Charms
Category (Drabble/Standard): Drabble
Prompt(s) chosen: [Theme] War,
Bonus Prompt: [Trope] Mutual Pining
Word Count: 1000
Disclaimers/triggers: Post-War AU, The War Didn't End in Book Seven, Hogwarts Fell.
Betas: TheFrenchPress, CorvusDraconis, The Slytherin Team
Blind & Numb
It was foolish for Hermione to have gone on her own to Diagon Alley when the Ministry wanted her.
So many things could have gone wrong.
Fortunately, she had encountered the Lestrange Twins, who favored brute violence over magic, rather than someone who might have killed her on the spot. The fact that she had escaped with only a gash on her face was another miracle, although Severus would not say so. He'd already loudly questioned her sanity as he gathered what was needed to tend to her wound.
They sat in the dining room facing each other so he could carefully extract the glass from her cheek, and Hermione made no sounds other than the occasional sharp inhale from pain.
"You nearly lost an eye," he commented, noting how the edge of the cut ended above her eyelash.
Hermione sighed. "I did not intend on getting thrown through a window."
"Intentions mean nothing during war. You should know that by now," he chastised, his gaze darting from the torn jagged skin to her eyes.
Severus would never tell her, but he was fond of their whisky colour. His fondness was cultivated over their time fighting Potter's War together since the Fall of Hogwarts. Even with the horrors of war all around them, the vibrance and life in Hermione's eyes had never seemed to dim.
When light hit her eyes in the right way, Severus thought looking at her was like seeing into another world, one filled with warmth and hope—a world devoid of the cold tinge of war that had permeated their everyday life. It gave him hope when there was no other source for it. What Severus saw in Hermione's eyes was someplace that in his most private thoughts, he wished he could bask in with her. He blinked, shunting those thoughts away.
Right now, all he could see in her eyes was pain, and Severus chastised himself for his idle ruminations. Hermione would never see him beyond a comrade in arms—someone she could depend on. There would never be a world where her smile and warm gaze would be meant for him.
She noticed his lingering stare, and her gaze darted away, shifting her focus to his hands. "I suppose I should," she whispered.
"Yes, you should know that." He cleared his throat, returning to the task and ignoring the war in his mind.
Tiny pricks of pain lanced through her with each shard of glass he removed from the cut. She regretted getting caught, and all she could think about was the look of horror on Severus' face when she returned to the safehouse covered in blood.
Hermione had meant to get supplies they were running precariously low on, specifically ingredients for the brews Severus made to keep the rebellion alive. That is what Dumbledore's Army had been reduced to: a rebel force, struggling against a government which had deemed all Muggleborns to be put to death, along with anyone who tried to defend them.
She gritted her teeth as he plucked another shard of glass out.
When he commented that she nearly lost her eye, Hermione resisted telling him that all she wanted was to reduce the burden he carried. Her entire reasoning for going was to buy (or steal) a month's worth of supplies for them. It was far too dangerous for anything to be sent to them from the other safehouses, which meant Severus had to source all of the reagents himself.
She'd watched him toil to the point of exhaustion in the small pocket of dirt they had in the back to try to grow his own ingredients. Even then, what he managed to grow was never enough. All she intended was to give him a moment of respite.
"Intentions mean nothing during war." Severus' words cut through her.
He was right. She should have known that her intentions meant nothing. To him, they would never mean enough or convey the message she wanted him to see. Severus would always see her as a foolish girl whom he was obligated to protect and care for. Under no circumstances would he ever see her as anything more, and he would definitely not see her as an adult witch who had inadvertently fallen for him despite having plenty of reason not to.
She felt him staring at her, his black eyes penetrating hers as if he was looking into her soul, and she wondered if he was reading her thoughts. Reflexively, she looked away, her gaze falling on his hands.
Severus had hands that looked like they should have belonged to a pianist. She often admired his hands when he wasn't looking, noting how his long fingers were strong but did not lack finesse as he brewed.
There was even something sure and comforting about the way his hand held her face in place as he returned to pulling the last bits of glass from it. With him, she knew everything would be okay. She felt safe with Severus in a way she'd never felt safe with anyone else.
Deep down, she wanted to experience that comfort and safety in his embrace, to know what it felt like to not have to think about the fighting outside while being held close to him, but she was no fool to act on such dreams.
"Hermione?" Severus whispered in a tone she wasn't familiar with.
Looking back into his eyes, she smiled curiously. "Yes?"
"I—" There was softness in those dark eyes for a moment, but it disappeared almost instantly. "It's been a long day. We should both get some sleep."
"Of course." Hermione nodded. "Thank you for—" she gestured to her healing face, "—this."
"You are welcome. Goodnight," Severus said curtly before turning and moving toward his bedroom.
Hermione let out a deep sigh, struggling with her own internal conflict as she watched him walk away.
Even if the war ended tomorrow, Hermione knew that nothing would ever sway him to feel anything for her.