Author's Note
Please forgive any spelling and/or grammar errors. I hope you enjoy it, please let me know what you think!
I'm not J. K. Rowling, so I don't own anything.
Ch 14: Connecting
The next few weeks passed quickly with Hermione spending at least an hour every night in Snape's rooms after curfew, though most nights they spent closer to three hours together. Conversation flowed freely, and Hermione almost ventured to consider they were becoming friends – though she'd never dare say so aloud to Snape. He'd deny it quicker than a niffler could steal a gold coin.
Sometimes they'd work on potions the entire time, while others she'd read up on the various uses of different ingredients while he graded papers. It was mind-boggling to her how much she looked forward to that part of the day, rushing through the rest as anticipation grew for the lively and engaging evenings.
The only downside was the missed sleep. She'd taken to napping during her first free period each day to catch up, and satisfied herself with merely completing assignments rather than including all of the extra she was known for since she didn't have time to comb the library for every bit of obscure knowledge she could find anymore. Several of her professors had commented on the abrupt change in her behavior, and Professor McGonagall had begun watching her speculatively at meals, but as far as Hermione was concerned, her work was still superior to that submitted by her classmates', so that was good enough for her.
It was amazing how fulfilling and well-rounded she felt about everything now that having something in her personal life was able to supplement her previous single-minded devotion to her studies. Balance. Her life felt far more balanced now and she was grateful for the change.
Perhaps even more surprising was the lack of tension in their nightly interactions. Snape listened to her thoughts or corrected her thinking when necessary, but without his usual condescension or snark. More than that, though, was how he willingly debated magical theories with her. She'd never been able to bounce ideas off her friends, they didn't understand the topics she was interested in enough to participate, nor did they have any inclination to. But Snape did.
Snape was more free with his praise and touches too, complimenting her preparations or adjusting her grip whenever necessary. The little touches lingered long after the physical contact ended. Each time her heart raced and Hermione had to fight to control her reactions, but it was completely worth it.
The new ease between them had even extended far enough to make her feel comfortable bringing up the subject of money earlier that week. She'd mentioned needing to pay for her Apparation license but not having access to any of her parents' money, and he'd retrieved a pouch full of Galleons from his room and handed it over without saying more than, "Let me know when you run out."
His casual response, as though it were expected and no big deal, relieved her more than she could have predicted. Being so dependent on another was miserable, but his handling of the situation made it infinitely less so.
As far as creating an effective potion, they'd had no luck, but they'd only tested four so far. There were at least another three that they had ready to go, and another they'd left close to completion the night before.
"Have you given up on potions?" Hermione asked, surprised to find him reading at his desk rather than finishing said potion when she arrived.
Carefully, she leaned over his shoulder to read what he was writing in the margin of the book he held. Variations of words were scrawled and crossed out with tiny, nearly illegible words beside them. Apparently they were revisions of some sort of spell.
There had been notes in the margins, as well as snarky little comments, in a few of the books she'd borrowed, but she'd never really paid them much heed. Seeing him add them in person was different. It was like watching him physically think.
"No," he said shortly, continuing to write hastily. Something about the way he was writing snagged her attention, and she only vaguely heard him say, "I already finished the potion from yesterday, and it's too late to start another tonight."
"What is all of this then?" she asked, scanning his notes and trying to find the logic or intention of what he was attempting.
"A possible alternative," he said, flexing his fingers as though they'd cramped while he was gripping his quill so tightly.
"Are you inventing a new spell?" she asked to verify her assumption.
"Yes," he said, turning his head to see her. She was so close that her lips brushed lightly across his cheek as he did. A barely detectable shiver ran through Snape at the contact.
Immediately, Hermione straightened, removing herself from his space. Clearing her throat, she asked, "How?"
Snape didn't comment, just reached for a thick book perched on the corner of his desk and thrust it towards her. Hermione chuckled to herself as she settled in on the sofa to skim through it, knowing he was too lost in thought at present to waste time explaining. Single-minded would be her go-to descriptor for him if ever asked.
The book's content was fascinating. There were chapters on pronunciation. Several devoted to intention behind spells. And still more on wand movements. It reminded her of a few of the other tombs Snape had that had caught her interest, but that she'd not yet had a chance to read.
But it was the messily handwritten words on the pages that called to her even more strongly than those methodically printed. For the first time she bothered to focus more on them than the book. There was something familiar about the words and the way they were written. The way they were organized. The slant of the fs and ts. The extra flourish in the ys. It was familiar. Too familiar. And not because of the feedback Snape had given her on her papers over the years. He'd never really bothered to give her any.
"Good night," she said abruptly, standing to go.
"Granger?" Snape asked, brow furrowing in concern as he watched her, but she was already out the door, book tucked securely under her arm.
The next morning, Hermione was waiting for Harry in the common room when he finally came down for breakfast, anxiously tapping her foot in time with the ticking clock by the fireplace. Of course he'd taken his time and the meal was already half over before he decided to show. She'd been so impatient that she'd nearly gone up to wake him.
"Harry, can I see your potions book for a moment?" she asked quickly, already reaching for his bag as he yawned widely. The dark shadows under his eyes made him resemble a zombie, and likely meant nightmares had kept him up late the night before. Or his latest obsession with Malfoy.
She resisted the urge to remind him that he was supposed to be blocking his mind and practicing Occlumency. Perhaps she should begin learning the subject. Wouldn't Snape be in for a surprise if he was suddenly unable to penetrate her mind at will. The idea made her smile privately.
"Why?" Harry asked suspiciously, clutching the strap to keep her from wrestling it away from him as he became more alert.
"Just let me, all right?" she huffed, rolling her eyes in annoyance that she wasn't already looking at the book to confirm her suspicions.
Did he really think she was going to do something drastic if he did hand it over? Turn it into Slughorn or McGonagall as she should have in the fall? To be fair, he did have reason to be reluctant. She had told on him during third year when she'd disagreed and thought receiving a Firebolt as a gift from someone unknown while a mass murderer was hunting him was cause for alarm. And she had accused him multiple times this year of using the book to cheat.
"What are you going to do with it?" he asked, suggesting, "Chuck it in the fire?"
"Oh, give over already," Hermione ordered bossily, insisting, "I just need to check something."
Reluctantly, and looking as though he was ready to snatch the precious book back in an instant if he felt it was being threatened, Harry did. Hermione hastily opened it to a random page. Then flipped to the next. And another. It was all the same. The handwriting was an exact match. Snape was the Half-Blood Prince.
But…
"The Prince hasn't written anything new in it," Ron said, coming over to join them.
His red hair was sticking up on one side and the buttons on his shirt didn't line up, but Hermione couldn't tell if it was because he'd already greeted Lavender that morning or if he'd still been half asleep when dressing. Either reason left her feeling faintly amused. Rather than her usual exasperation with him.
"I know that," she snapped, rolling her eyes at the very suggestion. Immediately she flinched, regretting her tone. She was just so thrown by the implications of her discovery. "Sorry," she muttered, returning the book to a very confused Harry.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked, tucking the coveted book into his bag.
"I guess…"
Should she tell Snape that she knew? Was he even aware of the reason Harry was doing so well in the subject this year? Would it matter if he knew? And which wizard would she be betraying if she kept the knowledge to herself?
The spells he'd invented were…dark. There was no other word for some of them. The intentions behind them were obviously malicious. Who had Snape been as a student? What role did his emotions play in his becoming a Death Eater? How much of that side of him still existed?
"Well? What were you looking for?" Ron demanded, snapping his fingers in front of her face to gain her attention.
"What?" she asked, blinking and looking between the two boys. She had a feeling he'd had to ask the question more than once. "Oh! The date it was published. 1946," she lied, having already checked the date before Christmas when she'd first decided to investigate who the previous owner was.
"You think the date will help you narrow down who the book belonged to?" Harry asked speculatively, doubt clearly reflected in his emerald eyes. His spectacles doing nothing to mask it.
"Of course it will. Now I can go through old articles, announcements, and awards from that time to find the former owner," Hermione said practically, having no actual intention of doing any such thing. Not now that she knew the identity. The book must have belonged to one of his family members or been bought second-hand.
Snape. Of course it was him. The notes clearly demonstrated that the owner had been a brilliant potioneer. And the book came from the classroom that had been his for the last fourteen years.
"Sounds like a lot of work for no reason to me," Ron said, adverse to doing anything strenuous without an obvious benefit to him.
"She just wants to be right that it was a witch and not a wizard," Harry said grinning and clutching his bag closely to keep her from trying to take the book again.
Oh, he was a wizard all right. But she still had no idea what she was supposed to do with this new information.
A bout of sudden pain woke Hermione from a sound sleep just after midnight part way through Easter Hols. The night black room and utter silence left her initially disoriented and confused as to what had woken her. Then her stomach knotted, a hook catching the tight ball and pulling insistently.
What…
Snape.
Something was wrong with him. She'd felt this before when he'd needed her. Yet somehow this felt even worse. This time the awareness of him held a touch of pain, but it was distant. Removed. Coming from outside of herself. More of an idea or hint than something she was actually experiencing.
Hermione untangled her legs from the jumbled pile of blankets and hastily made her way to his rooms, only pausing long enough to throw on jeans and a sweater. There was no sign of him. Worse, the uneasy clenching of her gut didn't let up. If anything, it worsened.
Two hours passed while she waited, pacing back and forth through his living room, imagining worst case scenarios and possibilities the whole time. Periodically her gut would clench and a new fear would claw at her psyche.
For the first time, she was grateful that she'd declined the offer to join Harry and Ron at the Burrow. It had been necessary since she wasn't sure she could be away from Snape for two whole weeks without the spell affecting one or both of them.
When the doors finally opened, it was to allow a bloody mess to stumble through the door. Hermione raced forward, catching Snape when he staggered.
"What happened?" she cried, alarmed at the sight of him.
"The Dark Lord is displeased with me," he grunted, instinctively shying away from her hand when it pressed on a tender spot.
"Obviously," she snarked, concern sharpening her tongue to a stiletto thin blade. "But why?"
"The usual," he sighed, stepping unsteadily forward.
"Here, let me," she insisted, readjusting her hold on him to help him into the loo. The acrid stench of sweat and metallic bite of copper hung about him like a thick shroud.
Immediately, she began to unfasten his robes. The fabric clung to him, sticking in places where the blood had dried and crusted over. As carefully as possible, Hermione peeled it off, wincing in sympathy each time she heard Snape's breath hiss through his clenched teeth or he flinched at her touch.
Bruises mottled his torso, blooming in large patches across his ribs and lower back, black in the middle and fading to a pale, rosy red on the edges. He was lucky not to have ruptured his kidneys, though she couldn't guarantee he hadn't. Then there were the three slashes that gaped open, stretching from his collarbone to just beneath his pectoral. Dried blood dripped from the gashes, dark as rust, though scabs were already forming to prevent further blood loss.
How long ago had he received the wounds?
When she shifted, needing to circle around him to finish tugging his shirt off, Hermione discovered more cuts. One along his right calf, and a much deeper one on the back of his left thigh. The latter was still bleeding steadily, the fresh blood brighter and thinner than the rest.
The urge to suggest he seek out Madam Pomfrey welled up in her throat, straining to escape, but she locked the words in, knowing he'd have done that himself if it really was essential. Attempting to boss him around would get her nowhere.
"And what are the usual reasons?" she asked, partly to distract him, though mostly to satisfy her own curiosity.
"I am not helping Draco progress fast enough for his liking," he answered succinctly.
The words had barely left his lips when he began to convulse and twist in her arms as though he were seizing. Hermione braced him as she bore more of his weight, heaving slightly and straining to do so.
"Vulnera Sanentur," Hermione sang, tracing the length of the uppermost wound on his chest with her wand. The flesh knitted together, leaving only a faint pink line.
Snape braced himself against the wall to allow Hermione more freedom to move around him, going from gash to gash and casting the Healing Charm he'd taught her over and over again.
"Did you tell him Malfoy is a stubborn git, and that it's not your fault he won't accept your help?" she asked angrily, furious to see the extent of the abuse he'd suffered.
The more she examined his pale skin, the more evidence she found of slight discoloration – places that had yet to bruise but would no doubt be blue and purple by morning. Nowhere on his person was spared some form of punishment.
A frown crossed Hermione's face as she realized she'd already tried to close the deepest wound on the back of his leg, and yet it was still oozing a trickle of renewed blood down the back of his thigh.
"No, Granger," Snape replied waspishly, not amused by her suggestion, "the thought never occurred to me while I was being tortured."
She ignored the verbal attack in favor of trying the charm for a third time, ignoring the sight of his bare bum as she focused on his injuries. Nothing. The sides of the wound stubbornly refused to close.
"The wound on your leg isn't closing. Do you have anything for it?"
"Later. I need to shower first," he said, body shaking violently as another round of convulsions wracked his body. Hastily, she shed her clothes.
"Here," she prompted once done, ducking under his arm, worried that he'd slip and fall if left on his own. He hesitated briefly, so she promised, "I've got you."
Snape gave a sharp nod and allowed her to lead him for the second time that night.
Gently, she ran a soapy cloth over him starting with his arms. Methodically, she removed all traces of dirt and dried blood. Each time he flinched or shuttered her face would pinch further, hating that she was the cause of any additional pain that he was suffering.
The entire process was very clinical, but Hermione was still amazed that Snape was willing to let her help him in such a way when he was so obviously vulnerable. Apparently they'd reached a new level of trust and intimacy between them.
"In the cabinet – third shelf," he directed when she shut the water off and wrapped a towel around each of them.
She found a small, silver tin of an oily paste. It was the only thing on the shelf besides a hand towel, so she didn't bother asking if that had been what he'd intended her to retrieve. Wordlessly, she applied a thin layer before conjuring a bandage to wrap securely around his thigh.
Afterwards, she helped him get into bed, not bothering to dress first.
"I will be ill tomorrow," he said faintly, exhaustion seizing him in an ironclad stranglehold.
Hermione made a split decision and climbed into bed beside him, promising, "I'll be here."
It was a testament to the severity of his injuries that a welcome flash of relief crossed his face at the news and not a single protest crossed his lips. Or perhaps that had been his way of asking her to stay when he wasn't comfortable coming right out and saying the words.
Several times throughout the remainder of the night and early morning Hermione found herself shaken roughly awake only to find Snape convulsing beside her. Each time she'd run a cool, damp cloth over his brow until he calmed and settled back into sleep.
"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked groggily when he finally woke around mid-morning.
"Water," he said hoarsely, his voice sounding far more strained than it had when he first arrived. If she had to guess the toll from screaming as he was tortured had had a delayed affect.
"Aguamenti," she murmured, filling a goblet that she had transfigured from a candlestick.
It felt almost natural when she looped her arm behind him to brace his shoulders as she helped him to drink the refreshing liquid once she'd noticed how shaky his grip was.
"Was last night an unusual occurrence?"
"For me, yes. He saves up his anger because he does not see me as frequently as the others. That often means I am in store for a special treat when I do," Snape confessed. "This instance was particularly brutal since he knew I had no upcoming commitments with the holiday beginning, so I'd have plenty of time to recuperate."
"Are you hungry?" she asked, not knowing what else to say aside from how monstrous and barbaric she found both the situation and the wizard responsible. Both of which Snape already knew her thoughts on and likely wouldn't appreciate hearing them repeated when they served no purpose other than as an outlet for her.
"No. Go eat. You must be starved," he said, closing his eyes again as though intending to fall back asleep once she'd gone.
"Not particularly," she admitted, having lost her appetite after seeing him this way.
Hermione settled back under the covers, rolling to her side and propping her head in her hand to watch Snape. Something about seeing him this way prompted her to ask the question that had been weighing on her for some time now.
"Snape, why did you become a Death Eater?"
Snape winced as he scooted back, moving to lean his back against the headboard and waving off her offer of help.
Then he was silent. Silent for so long that Hermione didn't believe he had any intention of answering her question.
Until he sighed and began to speak.
"My father abused my mother," he said slowly, deeply, the words a length of cool satin sliding along the back of her neck and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Or a ghost stalking her, considering the way they left her on edge. "He beat her. Assaulted her repeatedly. Raped her – yes, before you interrupt to ask – that is why I have such an aversion to such activities and do not participate…among other reasons. The Dark Lord recognized my talents, so he offered me revenge, and the means to be powerful enough that no one could ever bully me again."
Acceptance.
Voldemort had targeted Snape because he had no one else. He'd taken advantage of Snape, and used him.
Bully.
It was an interesting word choice. Definitely one more often associated with children than – oh. He was referring to the Marauders. Had they truly been that bad? Poor Harry. No wonder he had such a difficult time reconciling the different versions of his parents presented to him.
"Do you still hate James and Sirius and Remus?" There was no need to mention Pettigrew. If he hadn't hated the rodent before, he probably did now.
"Yes. They made my life hell for years. Hogwarts was meant to be my escape, but there were times when it was worse here than it was with my father, and that was entirely because of them," he stated harshly, gritting his teeth against some memory or another.
Hermione resisted asking if he'd given as good as he'd gotten, or suggesting that if he'd not retaliated that they'd have lost interest quickly enough and moved on to a new target. Neither thought would be welcomed or appreciated.
"Snape…"
"I don't want your pity," he said, scowling darkly.
"It's not pity," she insisted, reaching to rest her hand on his arm.
"Hmph."
"Can you ever forgive them? Two are dead. Can you let the past die with them?" she inquired, wondering if he could find any solace in letting go.
"I'm not the forgiving sort."
It was a blunt statement. Definitive and unyielding. With no room for compromise. Yet she had no doubt he meant it with every fiber of his being.
A sudden thought occurred to her, and it slipped out before she could stop herself. "Why are you answering my questions?"
His answer was quiet, but she heard him in the silence of the room. "You asked to be the person I don't lie to. Here it is – the unvarnished truth of me."
She heard the unspoken question as well – will you accept me, despite my flaws?
Once again she recognized that that was the reason he'd become a Death Eater. Because Voldemort had been willing to accept him when no one else would.
She could do the same now. It wouldn't even be difficult.
Part of her never actually expected him to take her up on the request to be open and honest. Yet here he was doing that very thing. Perhaps they truly could have a partnership of sorts. The likelihood was certainly higher now than it had been the first twenty-four hours of their binding.
A faint fluttering brushed her mind just as a look of relief swept across Snape's face.
Why?
Because she wasn't suddenly full of some fanciful notions that her love could fill him with light? She wasn't that naive. Logical and practical were often two of the most chosen adjectives to describe her – not romantic and foolish. She wasn't Lavender Brown.
Hermione barely smothered her amused snort at the thought that Snape might have ever feared such a thing.
"It wasn't that far of a stretch. I do recall a time when you fancied that imbecile Lockhart," Snape griped, giving away that he was still following her thoughts.
The reminder of her ridiculous feelings in her second year had her groaning and burying her face in her pillow to block out his mocking smile.
Wishing to banish all thoughts of taunting her further, Hermione dared to ask, "When did you realize you'd made a mistake?"
"Who says I have?" Snape countered, raising a single brow.
"You wouldn't be a spy if you didn't regret it," she replied knowingly, hoping he'd explain his decision to turn traitor and begin working for the Order instead.
"Ask me anything else," he requested, a pained look so raw that the word anguish didn't begin to describe it crossed his face and had Hermione immediately backpedaling. She had no wish to cause him further suffering after what he'd just endured the night before.
But one question flitted through her mind all the same – did it have to do with whomever had broken his heart before?
Determined to respect his wishes, Hermione asked instead, "What career would you have pursued if You-Know-Who hadn't wanted you at Hogwarts?"
"Unspeakable. I'd have liked to spend my time conducting experiments and researching," he answered slowly, considering various alternatives before making his selection.
"Inventing new spells?" she suggested, smiling slightly as she again thought of the Half-Blood Prince.
"Yes," he gasped, a shudder overtaking him suddenly.
Hermione waited, unsure if she should attempt anything to alleviate him, but after a few moments he sighed and relaxed again, his tense muscles slowly unclenching.
"I thought the Dark Arts were your primary interest when you were in school," she chimed in, hoping to distract him from any lingering pain.
"As I said before, I was driven by a need for revenge at the time. They were but a means to an end," he answered crisply, skin still tight around his eyes as he tried to mask the considerable pain he was still in.
"Did he kill your father for you?" Hermione dared to ask, uncertain if she actually wanted to know the answer.
"No. But he had another do it," Snape admitted. "I didn't object."
Hermione exhaled the breath she'd been holding, realizing she'd feared he'd done it himself. Would it have changed anything for her? She wasn't sure, but she was certain that the man he was now was worlds apart from who'd he'd been at her age.
"And your mum?"
"She is deceased as well. Shortly before my father," Snape said, a telling shadow passing across his face.
His father had gone too far. He'd killed his wife, Snape's mum. She knew it without needing to hear him say the horrible truth aloud.
"I'm so sorry," she said sincerely, heart going out to him.
Shaking fingers threaded through her hair, moving gently through her curls before his hand retreated and Snape gave her a single, brief nod of acknowledgement.
"Do you enjoy teaching at all?"
"Not particularly," he said, huffing at the obvious change of topic or the subject. She wasn't sure which.
"After the war I think you should try something new," Hermione suggested, hoping they could finally revisit his belief he wouldn't survive the end of the war. More like his desire to even try to.
She wasn't willing to write him off yet. He needed a reason to live. If it took her bringing it up and offering ideas a dozen, dozen times, she would. Hermione had no intention of giving up on him.
"Granger," Snape growled warningly.
The gruff response had her offering a disarming smile.
"Just something to consider," she said, shrugging casually and hopping out of bed. She glanced about for her clothes before she remembered they were still in the loo. "I'm going to get us something from the kitchens. I think eating might help you."
"Planning to make yourself at home then?"
"Yes. I have nothing more pressing to do this break, so I might as well look after you."
"Dry toast. Nothing heavier will stay down," Snape stated, gratitude underlying the words.
She'd grab a poached egg as well to try and tempt him with. It was the only way he'd eat his eggs. At least it was the only way she'd ever seen him take them in the Great Hall.
Hermione wasn't the least bit surprised when the Ministry official announced that she'd passed her Apparation test. Since Snape had told her what to do, she'd had no trouble with the magical means of traveling. She didn't particularly care for it much, but it was far superior to flying. Faster too.
Ron was supposed to be finishing up soon, they were going alphabetically, so he was last, but she'd decided to stick around and wait so that they could walk back to the castle together.
She'd just exited Flourish and Blotts, having hoped to find a book for Snape on spell creation as a thank you for including her lately while she waited when a nasally voice sounded behind her, and she spun to find a burly Slytherin eyeing her like his next meal after a month-long fast.
"Seems a waste that only Snape gets to enjoy you," Crabbe said, grunting slightly as he approached her. "Especially given how willing and eager to please you are."
Cautiously, Hermione backed up, retreating until her back made contact with the side of the building. Realizing she was caged in, and that Crabbe apparently had no intention of halting his advance, her heart began to race frantically.
"You're vile," she hissed, hurling the insult like a javelin.
"Don't pretend you don't want it. I saw you," he said, reaching out to place his palm flat against the center of her chest and invading her space.
Hermione swatted at his arm, shifting to duck underneath it and put some space between them, but he pressed harder, pinning her to the wall like a butterfly on display.
"You were all over him…couldn't get enough. Is he too old to satisfy your needs? I'm not," he grunted, breathing heavily. Hot, moist air suffocated her.
"Get away from me before I hex you," she growled, threatening him, but with the way he held her in place, she couldn't get to her wand. It was up the sleeve of her left arm, and his balk blocked her access to it.
He was so much stronger than her. Over a foot taller than her and more than double her weight. She was no match for him physically.
No, no, no. This could not be happening. No.
Hermione shoved at him harder, but he didn't budge. Well, no more than to shift his hand to cover her breast. He squeezed the mound experimentally, and she fought the urge to vomit all over him. She couldn't even get her leg up to try kneeing him in the bollocks.
Panic accelerated her breathing, but the pressure he placed on her kept her from inhaling fully.
She would not give him the satisfaction of begging. She wouldn't.
"Just a taste," he said, more to himself since her wishes obviously didn't matter, and his hand squeezed her again. Harder.
"Crabbe, I believe Professor Slughorn was waiting for you in front of the post office," Snape said so darkly that for a half a second Hermione expected the sun to vanish permanently.
Crabbe's head whipped around and his hand dropped instantly. Hermione didn't hesitate for even a moment. The very second his hand moved she slipped out from her pinned position and put several feet of distance between herself and the Slytherin, even going so far as to clutch her wand in her sweaty grip.
Then she saw Snape. He looked…enraged. A crackling ball of lighting sending dangerous sparks out at random. For the first time ever, Hermione was frightened of what he was capable of doing. Apparently so was Crabbe. Without another word the boy bolted, running so fast he slipped and stumbled on his way back to the main road leading back to the castle.
"Granger," Snape growled, her name little more than a tortured whisper.
She blinked up at him uncomprehendingly as he approached. She'd always known how protective he was over his students, but this was something else all together.
"He made a few repulsive suggestions, but I handled it," Hermione said, lying through her teeth. She'd had no idea how she'd have gotten herself out of that mess if he'd not come along, but she didn't wish to worry him further.
"I felt your distress," he admitted, face twisting into a grimace as his eyes closed and his hand pressed against his middle.
Oh.
She'd felt that herself when he'd needed her because of the binding spells. Dumbledore had implied the bond would grow stronger. And he'd be the one to know, considering it was part of the binding ceremony he'd performed. It seemed a natural progression for Snape to feel when she felt physically threatened.
"Nothing happened," she promised, attempting to reassure him. She didn't think he'd seen where Crabbe's hand had been.
Snape's eyes flew open at once, but she couldn't read the emotion he was concealing within the inky depths.
"Stay in sight of your friends or myself," he ordered. She bristled at the directive, having already planned to do so, but not appreciating the way he was dictating his wishes at her.
"Snape, you can't protect me every second of the day," she snapped, crossing her arms defiantly. The action caused his nostrils to flare visibly, and Hermione felt a sort of smug satisfaction at having riled him so easily. It was a very welcome distraction from the lingering fear Crabbe had incited in her, and the ghostly remnants of his unwelcome hand groping her.
"Don't argue with me over this," he insisted, stepping close enough to press his chest against her crossed arms and look down at her.
She craned her neck to meet his eyes as she replied, "Please keep in mind that I'm not a misbehaving student in this situation for you to order me about."
"No," he agreed, emphasizing, "you're my wife."
"Yes, I am," she confirmed, actually feeling like the statement was true for the first time. Even more than she had when he'd allowed her to look after him and spend nearly a week straight living with him and hearing his secrets.
When did things change?