Chapter 3
From the corner of his eyes, the silhouette in the doorway alerts him of a person before the sharp knock reaches his ears. Curious as to what could be so important that it couldn't wait ten more minutes for his class to come to an end, he duly turns towards the door, and then cannot, for the life of him, say why he stops breathing.
His breath catches midway, leaving him momentarily stiff with shock as his eyes recognise her in the doorway. He recovers nearly instantly, releasing the breath to its purpose, although the thick residue left behind by coming apart at the moment of seeing her standing there, sinks into his bones with a chill that makes him surreptitiously shiver.
This moment, he has been longing for, and though he would rather not, he turns back to his class to address them. They have less than ten minutes left in class, only, they no longer do.
'Pack your things and leave,' he coolly announces, adding a stern, 'Now!' to motivate them.
They need no more than two minutes to clear out of the class and absolutely no allowances will be made, otherwise detention will do nicely to teach them. While the students get up to clear their things away, he looks at her again, nodding for her to enter. His eyes make sure to follow her and not lose sight of her in the crowd of now leaving seventh years.
Before now, he never knew his palms to itch.
Not once in his life, has he ever felt the need to scratch the insides of his hands, and yet following her with his eyes, waiting for her to reach him, also wishing that the students would all be gone by the time that she reaches his desk, fills him with an overwhelming need to fold his fingers into his palms and use them to relieve the itch.
Lightly frowning to himself, he ignores the need, of course, because surely it's only a passing sensation, nothing important – and certainly not worthy of being heeded. It's just as well that she reaches his desk at the moment that the last of the students file out, giving him the perfect distraction away from his own body's misbehaviour.
'Miss Granger?' he wonders, directing his eyes to the rolls of parchment in her arms.
First placing the rolls on the desk, she then looks up at him to say, 'Your questions are all answered in those rolls, Professor.'
Surely, that cannot be the reason for her being here, he tells himself as he evaluates her face. Her class is next to come to him, and why she didn't couldn't come to his office, must be for another reason. Had he wanted those answers, he wouldn't have let an entire week pass by without harassing her for them.
'I see,' he quietly replies to her, his eyes watching her carefully.
In response, the immediate one, at least, she looks at him as though in wonder of what he just said, only for her expression to turn sour; provoked, if he can say.
'Everyone hates me because of you, Professor,' she sharply tells him. 'You had no right to plant that rumour in people's heads. I did nothing to you. And now that I've answered your questions, you have no reason to talk to or about me anymore.'
At first, he finds that he has no words to respond to her with. Instead, he takes the long way around the desk to come and lean the lower part of his body against it just a little to her right. His legs, he crosses at the ankles as his arms fold in front of him.
Looking at her from a closer perspective than before, and silently stunned though he is to hear her revelation, he can't believe the audacity. She cut his class short, when theirs is the following, only to say that one thing to him? He doesn't care that she politely just told him to leave her alone - polite language can go for a swim in the lake, for all he cares, however, she's in no position to require anything from him.
'Is that so?' he poses, feeling his temper rising.
'Yes,' she answers just as sharply as before.
For a short period, he searches his mind for the appropriate thing to say to her, but then apparently fed up with his lack of response, she steps away from him, her feet carrying her to the first desk and chair. He watches her pull out the chair, place her bag on its back and then take her seat, before he leaves the side of the desk to the longer front of the desk, taking up the exact same position as before, only this time, he's directly across of her.
'Miss Granger, you fail to understand,' he tells her from where he is. 'Your answers mean nothing to me.'
So fast that he wonders if she'd fully been seated to begin with, she jumps from her chair, immediately marching back to him. It's as though she's been waiting for this moment for the longest time, the way she's naturally falling into it, especially the new expression of rage on her face.
'You said nothing when I told you about taking Potions with Professor Slughorn,' angrily leaves her. 'You left and you said nothing.'
And what was he supposed to have said? She hadn't been asking for his permission, and so what?
'What did you want me to say?' he wonders, internally refusing to meet her anger with his own just yet. 'I will say it now.'
'You're not the Potions teacher anymore!' she cries and steps close to him. 'That's not my fault! You even went and gave Professor Slughorn your recommendation to allow me to brew.'
And what was he supposed to have done? Deny her?
'Again,' he evenly returns, his arms uncrossing, 'what did you want me to say? I will say it now.'
To that, she remains silent and he can't help but believe that while she came prepared and practiced to say specific things to him, she had not counted on him being collected with her. His response must be tearing her script to shreds, and no, he is not finding satisfaction in knowing that.
'You'll not respond?' he asks, drawing himself up to full height now. 'If you claim to now be hated by the entire school, and would like to sever all ties with me, tell me what I ought to say and I will say it.'
'You're not being fair!' she says as though she's about to cry. 'You haven't explained anything to me after not speaking to me for weeks.'
Unable to believe her, he wonders if she supposes that she is innocent? How irresponsible she is, to take no part of the blame – it disturbs him beyond all reason.
'What does that matter now?' he coldly asks. 'You accuse me of not speaking to you when you have done the same to me, Miss Granger? I don't recall you approaching me demanding an explanation! Stop with this at once! Simply tell me what you wanted me to say, and I will say it. It's that easy.'
It's not that easy, and he knows it. Were it, this wouldn't be going on between them. She would not be refusing to answer him in the way that he is seeking, and he would not be taking his part of indulgence in it. What they are doing is specific only to them, and as much it should not be like this, it is.
'I'm waiting,' he presses, but she only stares at him; now dissolved from the girl who came in here with her head held high and poised.
She's something, this girl.
How he's longed for the moment of confrontation between them. Day after day, he arose entertaining the idea that it'd be the day when she'd come to her senses and see him. Through a various number of unnamed feelings, he waited for her to approach him and talk to him, only, she never did - until today.
Today, he saw her in his doorway and some hope sparked in him. Something that had begun to gradually dwindle in the twenty-one days that passed, came back to him and he simply couldn't allow anything to get in the way of their meeting. Except, this is what it seems to be concluding to; nothing. He had hoped for better, for more, not this.
'I see,' he accepts her silence, but not without taking a blunt blow to some part of him.
He in no way truly accepts this, but even so, he sets himself correctly, walking back to his seat and for one last time he looks at her, needing for her to say something before her classmates begin to file in. She maintains the same expression, though; hard and unwilling. She will not bend, he notes, but in doing so, she's forcing him to surrender. Damn this, if she would just crack, even a little bit, and stop being so offensive, he would easily meld to her direction. Doesn't she know?
'Miss Granger,' he attempts one last time, because damn it.
Why does she always put him in this position?
The Dark Lord, he can answer without wavering, making it up as he is forced to go along. Albus, he can elude as he sees fit to as well, but this girl leaves him unable to recognise himself at times.
Still, she doesn't respond to him and by now the first two of the students are beginning to cross the door's threshold. Too sharply, he turns to them, silently cursing them for the undue interruption and coming face to face with him, both stop short, hesitant to proceed.
'Enter,' he says to them, it being his chosen distraction away from her.
From the corners of his eyes, he spies her moving from the place, going back to her seat. With strict determination, he dares himself not to fully look at her, and strangely, he notes how each and every student who steps into the class do it as if they're having second thoughts about entering.
Bloody brilliant!
The first two were enough, he is not going to hold all their hands and assure them that it's safe to come into his class. They either come in or they skip his class and then reap the corresponding benefits; it's all entirely up to them.
'You will read,' he announces to the ones in class as turns away from those hesitating at the door. 'No one will bother me.'
If they don't read, tomorrow's test will teach them to.
26Chapters
At the end of the class before the students leave, he carefully gets up from his seat, coming to stand in front of the desk with his hands inside his pockets. Almost immediately, they all turn their attention to him, not needing him to command it from them.
'A small word of caution to the one responsible for using my name in gossip…' he pauses to look around the class.
He knows very well that he never has to demand for attention unless he feels in the particular spirit to be dramatic. Even so, he makes sure to maintain the held attention by taking his time to settle his eyes on the Slytherin group.
'Put a swift end to what you have started,' he quietly warns, the two girls his specific target. 'If not, be prepared to serve detention in the Forbidden Forest for the remainder of the school year.'
One or two soft gasps sound in the room, and though he's certain that neither came from her, he still looks her way. It's only for a second, enough to meet her eyes and share in a fleeting moment with her. After this, she will never be able to say that he stood by and did nothing as her schoolmates hated her. Her eyes give nothing away - they shift away from his, in fact, and he, ready to leave this behind him, turns away from the lot them, already taking his first steps towards the door.
26Chapters
On top of the issue with Miss Granger, he does not appreciate Draco being distant from him. Of course, Draco cannot be compared to Miss Granger –in this life or the nearing next- but the ramification for his life, is the nearly the same.
As such, he's glad to have caught Draco alone tonight. He increases his pace to catch up with him, announcing himself just a few steps behind him, hoping to keep Draco from escaping.
'You've taken to being by yourself?'
Abruptly halting his steps and then turning around to face him, Draco eyes him with a most surprised expression now that he's caught up with the boy.
'I'm a prefect,' he quickly says. 'My friends can't always follow wherever I go.'
There's resistance in his tone, he observes. Concealment even. It's mildly cutting, that, although not to the degree that's painful. When considering that there used to be a time when Draco openly shared with him, it's somewhat an unpleasant prick to bear. He bears it, nonetheless, finding no other option.
'It's Wednesday. You're not on duty tonight, Draco,' he reminds him, taking the remaining step to bring them closer.
Closer, he can look at the boy from head to shoes, recognise the practiced facial composure, note the silvering complexion of skin and see beyond the fading light in his eyes. As of late, Draco's nearly always set on running away from him, if not avoiding him altogether, and now he can see why.
'I…' Draco starts only to pause.
'You're what, Draco?' he coolly pokes
'I'm out for some air.'
'Really?'
If only Draco would confide in him, he'd not be crippling from within. It's a pity that he was brought into this circumstance by way of bloodline, by family, but if he would only let him in.
'I'm not doing anything wrong,' Draco defends himself as though he was accused of something.
'And you should be careful not to, Draco,' he advises, stepping very close to him. 'This school has eyes.'
All of a sudden, firm hands push against his chest, not with adequate force, but still enough to press him backwards and away from the boy's intimate space.
'I know what I'm doing,' Draco half shouts to him. 'I don't need you telling me anything.'
And then just as suddenly as he placed his hands on him, Draco takes off running in the other direction, never knowing that he left his professor struck to the spot, unable to move for a moment.
He…
He is not the enemy, so why is he being treated as such? What has he done to them, all of them, that they are rewarding him with this treatment?
Draco is pushing him away, refusing anything to do with his assistance, Miss Granger continues to disrupt his days, and Albus is nowhere to be found these days, when he is the one to be blamed for all of this. Draco resisting him would not be a factor at all, if there was no death order in place, neither would he be as bothered with Miss Granger, if she didn't write him that letter when it arrived. He should hate Albus Dumbledore for having such a grip on his life to this extent.
But if he is to despise that man, who else will have left?
Albus remains all that he has left; for the worse for his life.
He cannot hate the man.
He will instead return to his quarters tonight and he swears, only for tonight more, all will be as it has been these three weeks. In solitude, he'll sit, feeling cast aside and alone. Alone is safe and he is accustomed to that sort of security – he needs to return to it. When concerned with himself only, he never loses.
Afterwards, he'll mourn his hope and then once it's buried deep and he's returned to the hard Severus, who had been before she started brewing, he'll mark her scrolls at last.
And then it will be all over.
26Chapters
'Professor?'
'Come in,' he invites without looking up and then gestures to the rolls on his office table. 'Those are yours.'
In the time that it takes her to reach his table, he rises from his chair, pushes it in and then takes his place himself behind it. He watches her reach for all three of them at once and then hastily stuff them into her bag, wondering if this is truly the end. He's made the decision, but surely… Would he be weak to change his mind?
'Thank you, Professor,' she says, looking at him from the side of the table.
'Also,' he begins after a steadying breath that he apparently needed to take, 'if you recall that when I agreed to allow you to brew potions as an extra non-curricular activity, it was under the term that you would be the one to end them. You have done no such thing, and I would appreciate it, if you do it now.'
He holds his breath then, despising that he doesn't have another method of waiting for her to respond to him, and she pulls a puzzled face.
'I told you that I would be brewing with Professor Slughorn,' she says. 'Besides, I ended the previous agreement.'
Resisting the urge to sigh, he narrows his eyes instead. It's the closest thing that he will get to closing his eyes and attempting to find calm behind them. It's that she insists on making this difficult for him.
Why must she be so? And why does he never fail to go along with it?
'Miss Granger, kindly say the words that you need to say,' he tells her, holding out his right hand for her to take, because the words are not enough.
Their very first agreement happened by way of handshake, and so should end. This piece of information hasn't been brought to her attention, but it doesn't matter in the slightest anymore. Although, her looking at his hand before bringing her eyes back to his face, has him wanting to urge her to take his hand already.
'But I'm telling you that I will be brewing with Professor Slughorn,' she cries.
She's desperate for him to understand him, and he finds that he cannot dismiss that. He would be in the right to upset her, yes, but when being begged this way, he's reminded of himself with Albus. Albus likes to play deaf to his cries, therefore, he knows what he could be inflicting on her, should he ignore her plea. It would be just to ignore her, only, this girl is after all, the one who sent him a letter that rescued him during a dark moment. That he cares not to do as she's doing to him also has a part in this.
'It's not the same thing,' he tells her, dropping his hand.
'How isn't it, Professor? Why can't you just accept it?'
'It simply isn't,' he insists. 'Were it, I wouldn't feel that simultaneously, you could take up Defence with me.'
Up until this moment, he hadn't even considered that as a possibility. At the very last second, hearing her sound desperate for him to release her made him want to reach for anything, whatever means he could, to keep her in some form. Up to what point will he continue being so easily disposable?
'I didn't know, Professor,' she timidly confesses, her rigid stance softening considerably.
Things are starting to fall apart for him, he realises as soon he finds himself drawn to her mild yield. It's no wonder, really, if he's being honest with himself, when he's only been fighting with his weaker hand. To put an end to this, all he needed to have done was to tell her to shake his hand and then be finished with it, but he chose not to.
'You are aware now,' he evenly delivers.
But then damn it, he's back to holding his breath again. There's a momentary quiet in which she looks at him and he waits, doing his best not to expect anything at all, no matter the itch to. Although, truthfully, the number of things that this girl can get away with in his presence, the Dark Lord would not be so trusting of him if he knew; they'd tarnish his reputation.
'Why didn't you just say that in the beginning then?' she wonders, looking thoroughly puzzled.
It's thick in the air surrounding him, that he has created a dent in the shielding armour that he wore before he sent for her to be called to his office. However, he had planned for this meeting to go, it has been disrupted. The moment that he allowed his emotions to dictate his reaction, quickly forcing him to find a way to keep her in some capacity and then spew it out of his mouth, he ruined his plan, and this is the course which his plan is taking. Well done to him.
'What would you have liked me to say to you exactly?' he wants to know.
'You should have said something, Professor,' she answers.
'What?' he presses.
It's an honest wonder of his, because he didn't know what to say to her then. She stunned him and angered him all at once when he remembered her ending her brewing specifically saying that she didn't want to brew anymore. Defence lessons with him never crossed his mind then.
'Just anything. Even what you just said,' she cries. 'All you did was keep quiet and I didn't know what you thought.'
He doesn't immediately answer her, because he cannot believe his ears. She means to tell him that up until that point, she could easily decipher what he meant and didn't mean with his silence, but not then?
'Miss Granger,' he slowly starts, 'how could you not know what I thought, when I repeatedly asked you why you wanted to end your brewing?'
To examine her properly from up close, he goes around the table to where she is. Her mouth opens once, ready to respond and then it closes. Now she has nothing to say?
'Tally up your own errors against me before you accuse me of anything else,' he coldly advises.
'But I haven't done anything to you!' she outrages.
Apparently, to her, breaking their resonance is nothing. Since she calls setting him aside ''nothing'', then he will also say nothing to her. Nothing in exchange for nothing, to see if her take of nothing is really that.
'You see?' she points a finger at him. 'You never say anything to me and then you get upset when I do anything.'
He gets upset, because she upsets him, not simply for the thrill of it.
'I don't even know why I care, if you don't,' crassly leaves her mouth.
Magic, demented in its use, it's her tone, it's her body language, it's her delusion and her dismissal that prick at him. For her to say such a thing... His fingers suddenly feel stiff and there's a need to flex and stretch them out. As he does that, he presses down on his teeth as well, tightly clenching his jaw. A mere breath is all he needs to comprehend that he's out of his mind insulted.
'Are you daft?' he fires at her, his eyes running all over her face, his hand concurrently shutting the door and silencing the entire room. 'Would you be here if your accusation were true?'
'Then tell me things properly!' she shrieks with all of her might, and then covers her ears as if to shut out her own noise.
There's suddenly a faint smell of burning material. Taking a small whiff, he recognises the cause as fire. Quickly, he looks around him to find the left sleeve of his cloak being apart by an orange flame. He quickly smothers it, doing nothing for the burnt material and then looks back at her, now breathing heavily. He doesn't think that she realises what she just did.
'I can't guess what you're thinking all the time,' she continues to shout. 'I don't want to. I want you to tell me. I don't like having doubts. If you don't want me to brew with Professor Slughorn, just say so. If you think you're the better Potions teacher, say so. If you want me to take up Defence with you, say so. If I do something wrong, just tell me. Don't ignore me and then go around punishing everyone and making a spectacle of me in class!'
Another smell of burning material fills his nostrils and looking down, the same part of his cloak caught fire again. With an irked sigh, he kills the flame, returning his attention to her in one combination of movement.
'I have feelings!' she carries on ranting, unaware of what she did again. 'I don't want to keep being humiliated. I don't want to be hated for nothing. I don't want to keep waiting for you to tell me anything. I can't keep wondering why you behave like you do. You can't confuse me like this. If you never want to see me outside of class, then just say so. You can't keep treating me like I don't matter, like I'm nothing. I may be nothing to you, but I'm not nothing!'
Breathing heavily, she stops to stare at him with an intensity that he can evenly, if not match more. What does she think, she's in the clear?
'I've treated you like nothing, have I?' he roars. 'Was it not I who answered your letters? Is it not my protection encasing you? Did I not acknowledge the achievement of leadership here at school? You talk to me about telling you things, as though you have made any effort. You've been the one to treat me as though I am nothing. You say nothing to me and yet entertained everyone else. You set me on fire and you accuse me of not having feelings. How unaware you are, Miss Granger. Fickle too, that you'd replace me at your earliest convenience.'
'I'm not fickle,' angrily leaves her mouth. 'You're not the Potions teacher anymore. I liked brewing and I wanted to keep doing it.'
'And so you prove your fickleness,' he snaps. 'You insisted that you wanted to end brewing, did you not?'
'I only did that because-'
'Did you not?' he sharply cuts her off, partly expecting for his entire sleeve to catch fire this time.
'I only did that because you didn't care if I brewed or not!'
'Will you stop accusing me of things!' he shouts, positively fed up now.
She might as well be calling him a worthless coward, incapable of doing anything right or making any friends!
'I wouldn't have to assume things, if you would just tell me things!' she responds, only a little bit calmer.
In part, he only takes a moment to take in what she just told him, because she didn't shout it to him. The other part is reluctantly acknowledging that he too made an error in not telling her anything. He would not like to admit his error to her, however, he can make a note to remember it for the following occasion.
'If you want to know things,' he decides to tell her, 'then you should ask to know them. You insistently ask, Miss Granger.'
It's an invitation and she should take it as such.
'I didn't want to ask,' she snivels. 'I wanted you to tell me.'
Very few times in his life, he's been dumbstruck into absolute silence. He cannot think of a single thing to say to her, when his mind is clouded by an uncanny tug of honour. To know that she's been waiting for him to lead, is something significant to him. All the while that he waited for her to come to him, she expected him to find her? The implication is that… No, he shouldn't dare think that way.
'I kept waiting for you, Professor,' she tells him, her voice now a meek plea. 'And you didn't look at me in class. Not once.'
But there again, she's implying… How can he not think that way?
'I didn't know what you wanted, Professor,' she softly shrugs. 'I didn't know what to do. It felt better to ignore everything than to fe-'
He nods then, respecting her cut off as well as accepting her position on the matter. It's all that he can do to keep himself rooted inside.
'Anyway, Professor…' she begins and then shakes her head. 'Did I hu-? Professor, when I told you about brewing with Professor Slughorn, did you not like that?'
'I assure you that to the contrary,' he answers after he's swallowed, 'I would have said something.'
She nods thoughtfully, and then looks down at something. He tries to follow her eyes, to see where they mean to be, but her hand distracts him as it begins to come towards his at his side, reaching out as if to touch him there. To him, the interesting thing about her reaching out is not that she's doing it to the hand with the burnt sleeve, it's that she doesn't step to him to. There's not much space between them, but if she'd taken even half a step, she would have reached his hand much sooner than she does.
He's intrigued, nonetheless, wanting to know if she'll do something about his burnt cloak. He doesn't require her to, however, if she's willing, he's not going to object. It doesn't appear that she has any interest in his cloak, when her fingers close around his wrist, her wand absent from being drawn. Automatically, as though he knew what she was going to do – he didn't - he moves his hand into a more accommodating position, and when he does, she keeps her hold on it firm, the majority of hers resting over the back of his.
Once she looks up at him, the soft expression on her face is mirrored in her eyes, and he can only wait - with his breath held - to hear what she might have to say to him.
'I'm really sorry then, Professor,' she soothingly says, all sincerity evident in her eyes. 'I didn't think that you would mind. I didn't think at all, to be honest.'
More than the slight nod that he shows her, following her words, he appreciates her apology, only to switch to being puzzled when she quickly drops his hand from her grasp.
And that?
Wondering if she made part of his cloak catch fire again, he looks down at the hand that she dropped, but he finds nothing on it. His eyes return to her and still in wonder, watches as hers dilate a little bit. What happens next is just as puzzling as when she dropped his hand, but she, without breaking eye contact, picks his hand up again, to hold it at the wrist again.
'Should I rather brew with you, Professor?' she asks.
Is she even vaguely even aware that one of her fingers is softly rubbing on his palm back and forth?
'Take up Defence with me and do not make me repeat myself, Miss Granger,' quickly comes out of his mouth in an even tone that even he isn't sure how he managed it to be. 'You have had your say. It's behind us now.'
At a later time, he will arrange this exchange in precise detail. He'll assign the corresponding feelings to it, but as for now, he's leaving it up to her to decide. If she wants him to take the lead on how they should be, this is him doing just that.
'Professor, after the Ministry, I believe that it will be a good idea to learn more about dark arts defence,' is her even response. 'But Professor, it would have to be actual defence,' she sets the condition in a serious tone. 'Something that I can use in the field practically. Harry taught us-'
She stops abruptly and knowing why she does, he adequately completes the sentence for her, saying, 'Nothing useful.'
'He was a good teacher,' she tells him through a small frown.
Although he makes the note to outdo Potter in her eyes, he refrains from commenting on it. The world in which Potter is deemed the better teacher between the two of them will never come to see the light of day.
'Very well,' he rather says. 'Practical knowledge on dark arts.'
Methods as well as means. But what has become of him, really, giving into her demands as though it would benefit him to teach her?
'We will have to work out a schedule,' she proposes, suddenly looking animated. 'Professor Slughorn already has six of my free periods during the week. I don't know how many of my available free periods will match with yours. I have a copy of my timetable, Professor, and you can look at it.'
No, there is no schedule to be worked out. It's decided.
'We will meet every evening,' he plainly states. 'Weekends included. Starting tonight.'
After the Ministry incident as she said, he has more reason to insist on every night with her. Also, after three weeks of the previous block between them, his reward should be immediate.
'Weekends too?'
'Are you objecting?' he challenges.
Shaking her head, she replies with, 'I'm not, Professor. Every evening then.'
She then adjusts their hands into a handshake, drawing his attention to the softness of her flesh. Despite the prolonged contact of her fingers over his hand, he lingers in the tactile agreement, refusing to loosen her hand now that he's got it. Holding her hand has a nice triumph to it, like he's achieved something grand. It's hardly believable that twenty-one days of… Disruption, he should say, would've easily been avoided had this happened then.
'Starting tonight,' he emphasises before instructing, 'Stay here.'
It's with a strong sense of distaste that he eases his hand from her grasp, but to get her something to prepare for the lessons, he has to. One he's let her go, he walks to the room where he keeps some of his books and stroking it for entrance, he waits for the door to swing back. He then summons the right book into his hands from the shelf and without bothering to close the door, makes his way back to her.
It's a heavy text, filled with heavy topics, but it would be a good reference for some of the things that he could teach her. When considering that she had to take many pain potions to heal from Antonin's curse, nothing should be off limits to her. A wise alternative would be to charm it to keep her from the more intricate arts, but he will not. He'll simply exercise some level of confidence with her.
'Read only the first chapter before you come tonight,' he says as he hands it to her.
Taking it, she wants to know, 'What time should I be here, Professor?'
'Eight o'clock is acceptable,' is his answer.
'I'll be here,' she promises with a nod and then takes her first steps away from him.
He isn't sure what makes him follow her to the door, though he does, falling in line behind her as she walks. Reaching the door, he's the one to open it, touched by something that he cannot understand yet and then watches her leave through it.
'See you later, Professor,' she bids with a small smile as he moves to close the door.
With the door now closed, momentarily, he is not in the present. He can hardly believe that he's been this easy to conciliate since the beginning of time. Perhaps he should conjure up a mirror and see if he's a Polyjuiced version of himself. What a wonder he is.
Looking down at nothing in particular, he fights a smile at the memory of her shouting at him, apologising to him and then touching him. She did all that and yet at the end of it all, she clung to his invitation as though nothing was ever amiss between them. It warms him, he won't even deny it, that coming to a resolution, reaching a branch of forgiveness, can be as easy as releasing a few needed shouts.
It's nearly unbelievable.
He looks down at his burnt cloak, remembering how she unintentionally set fire to his sleeve and still, he fights a smile. Is he happy? Well, he's not unhappy, that is certain. He's satisfied, perhaps - he doesn't know, really. All he can confirm is that he is doing his best not to smile.