Disclaimer: All rights to Rowling and Gato Azul.
36. The Solar Eyes
She fixes her scarf and watches the pavement again with a thick smile and big eyes; she has always liked to stop and watch street art, she always liked to think that they can open windows to other dimensions, portals on the city's simple cobblestones, in old London's grey fences. She walks to put some coins in the cartoonist's beret that waits on the floor, then she goes back to the nest that Snape's arms created. She looks at him, raises her face and finds his big nose, his thin face and that defenceless gaze so unusual of him; it seems like she's the only one he watches that way.
They keep on walking to a hidden coffee shop, where they'll say some thick, scarce words and then they'll kiss to shorten silence, time and distance. She has the theory that there is no better way to make him tell the truth than to take it directly from his mouth, with sips and intuition. Snape seems like a different man when he kissed; Granger supposes it's the same as when he prepares a potion. He does it very slowly, probing around. To kiss makes him cautious, his lip's corners curving in welcoming, continuous folds.
Snape talks little, despite the fact he's been Jean's biggest subject of analysis. She asks him anything: she asks him if he's tired, if he likes his job; she once asked him about Eileen. Hermione looks for him in the details, in his books on the shelves, in the way he drinks coffee, in the texture of the palm of his hand. Sometimes he feels overwhelmed by that inquisitive exploration, sometimes he believes and waits for her to take his loneliness by the hair and burn it to the root. Sometimes Hermione asks about things he doesn't want to hear, much less mention, and suddenly they seemed thrown into the sterility of an unavoidable silence. She becomes sad when that happens, her eyes age a bit and she caresses the half-blood, reproaching herself for not having done something for him in the past.
Severus, I like so much to watch you snooze on the couch, always with a book on your legs. I also like to see you when you eat, I like to imagine how your laugh would sound, even if you've never let me hear it. Severus, I know you're not handsome, maybe you're not even young, but you know? I don't care in the slightest; there's something in your face, in the infinite noise of your voice in my memory, that makes me think you're beautiful in some silent, imperceptible way.
Since when do I like you? I could say that ever since we were together in the house arrest, maybe it was that "thank you" you whispered in that cupboard where we hid. Sometimes I think I've loved you since a long time ago, but I can't lie to me; if that was the case, I wouldn't have taken in stride the fact that Voldemort's snake had bit your neck. For a long time, I didn't want to believe you were guilty, I wish I had never stopped believing in you. I feel that I should apologise to you, but anyway; in reality, you and I didn't know each other, maybe we were in the same place, maybe we saw each other daily, but we were complete strangers; sometimes I suspected you were different from what you seemed, that you were more than your funeral robes and your faithless grimace. Some of us should have tried to help you, I'm sorry it wasn't me.
I wish I could explain to you that there's something in me that grows and squeeze when I see you, like that day when we had to take a bus and you moved forward before I could to make the bus stop; I'll always remember you under the rain, with your eternal cloak, with your nose that stands out wherever you go. Now your image lightens up again, my eyes almost reach it… Downstairs my dad is talking on the phone; I think about the fact that he doesn't know about any of this, that he doesn't know what you are to me now; I'm afraid that everyone says you have deceived me, that you gave me a potion so I could fall in love with you. I'm afraid they call this slow process madness. It was hard for me to love you, Severus; how hard was it for us to get close and learn to care for each other, maybe, in fact, we have been too sane, but they probably won't see it like that.
Did you imagine something like this could happen, Albus? There are certain situations one discards as a possibility in life, there are people one stain with a blur of oblivion and indifference, she was one of those people. Not even you could've seen that coming.
I had the certainty I wasn't going to be able to reproduce my feelings for Lily; in some way that's true, Granger and Lily are not the same, but it's something similar, made of the same stuff. It has the same strength from twenty-three years ago, a strength I thought didn't exist anymore.
At the beginning I was only worried about being rejected by her, to not let her touch me; now that she doesn't run away, now that she's there and that I see her gaze shift, that she kiss me with her eyes, now what, Albus? Normally I don't care about ethics, you know I've always despised that rules dictated by a bunch of hypocritical, decrepit elders. Yes, I'm not twenty years old, yes, I'm not what a young girl hopes for, but you and I know she's not an average girl, you and I know nothing is stopping me, I have nothing to hide anymore. Potter already showed my naked life to the whole magical community, another scandal doesn't worry me too much, but I fear that Granger's resolve isn't actually to stay with me; I fear that, when people criticise her, she'll decide she'd rather leave. I know she'll eventually go; what can I do with that knowledge that embitters everything? That leaves everything with a resentful, frustrated taste.
The half-blood was standing in front of a bookshelf, touching the books. His long finger walked on the encyclopaedias' spines, his eyes half-closed as he read the titles and murmured; the girl, standing on a ladder, was sweeping the dust off the bookshelves and sticking her hands on the manuscript collection Snape kept in the highest part of his shelves; in her search, she also found small jars with extravagant bugs floating inside; she grimaced with distaste and kept on looking. A small, blue book ended up in her hands. She browsed through it without much interest. She recognized Prince's small and tight handwriting; she flipped the pages, full of entries in Latin, name of substances and modified Potion formulas. Between two yellowish pages, there was a photo; the boy in it was quiet, just blinking, with a glimpse of nervousness. Hermione watched the picture's old ink; it took her a few moments to recognise the person. She turned around to watch Snape, still bent on the bookcase's second shelf, focused in the encyclopaedias' rows he still hadn't checked. Granger turned her attention back to the photo, to the boy's thin, long face, to his murky eyes, to the creamy sharpness of his colours; he was looking at her, the same man that was checking the shelves was looking at her from a grey past. Young Severus' eyes were glassy, preceded by long musings and conflicted voices behind them; the boy seemed to be thinking about something very far away from the camera that was portraying him. He had this way of looking full of craving, of blind, vague anguish, of a precocious severity and, right in the middle, some hostile vulnerability. Back then, his eyes seemed more like greyish windows than two pits of armoured depths. Hermione smiled, despite the sadness and the compassion she felt when she watched the passing of time in her professor's expression.
She climbed down some steps and showed the picture to the man.
"This is you."
He averted his eyes from the book opened in his hands to look at what the girl was offering him.
"Yes," he answered curtly and went back to his reading.
"When did they take this photo?"
"I was in my last year of Hogwarts," he answered again with the least possible number of words.
"You've changed."
Snape didn't say anything; he put the book on the shelf and kept on browsing through the titles. Granger walked down the stairs and followed the Potioneer.
"Did you find something useful?"
The girl gave him the small blue notebook where she had found the photo. "Here I found some stuff related to the subject, they may be useful."
He nodded without removing his gaze from the shelves.
"Can you give me the photo?"
For the first time in a long time, he seemed clouded by a question; his eyes wandered on Hermione's face.
"Your face has hardened; I like the expression you have here, it's easier for me to see you."
The prince's eyes were widened and fixed with a confused gleam.
"Can I take it?"
"I don't see the reason for your interest, but if that's what you want…"
For Hermione, the way he turned around to continue his search was the equivalent of a shrug.
"You seemed as if you were worried about something."
The man faced her again, without having much desire to continue that conversation.
"In the picture, you seem worried," she clarified. "How was Hogwarts for you, Professor Snape?" Sometimes she forgot to call him by his given name; she reproached herself for having called him professor, because something made her think that fact made him uncomfortable.
"It doesn't matter, Miss Granger; it was a long time ago."
His silence was like a passive reproach; she looked at him for some moments, he seemed somehow evasive, distant. She was starting to see some kind of fear under so much impassivity, an old scepticism that didn't let him believe she truly loved him.
She never thought she'd feel so much compassion precisely for him; once she had heard that nothing moves a woman more than the possibility of saving a man, maybe it was true.
She walked forward and hugged his back. She held on tight to the black clothes, opened her hand in the middle of the half-blood's chest and felt him breathe; black hair brushed her face; cold, rough hands extended over hers; the blue notebook fell to the floor. Hermione buried her face in a polite shoulder. She breathed in strongly and squeezed more tightly the thin body she was holding in her hug.
"Severus, I love you, talk to me."
Over her hands, his grip turned stronger, so much that she already felt Snape's lungs expanding and contracting.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I thought you considered me obnoxious, insufferable in your own words. What changed? What is going to happen now between us? What am I to you? What do you truly think—?"
"You always demand so many explanations," Snape whispered as his hands caressed Hermione's wrists. "I realized you weren't what I thought when you decided to stay with me despite the fact the Death Eaters could kill you."
Granger sunk her chin in the professor's collarbone, snuggling her head in his neck.
"You're much more than Gryffindor's typical hypocrisy," and again his long hands interlinked with hers. "You're more than what I—"
Wet lips travelled on Snape's neck, kissing his scars, making him shiver with half pleasure, half pain.
Hermione was surprised when she noticed how he turned towards her without letting her hands go; his magnetic, voracious eyes searched for her in the dim light. He smashed against her clumsily, half knocking her down, half holding her, infesting with kisses, aggressive and tender, her face, her hair, everything that appeared in front of his eager, helpless mouth.
Hermione groped without managing to hold him, it was like kissing with fire tongues, with the pillar of a formless bonfire, burning and with six arms. Snape was breathing deeply, dampening her cheek with his warm, quick breath. His arms tangled and untangled in constant flopping, in a loving battle to hold one another. Finally, firmly attached to him, she caressed him with concentration, with persistence, she kissed his neck's bite, thinking she somehow was erasing it a bit, she was erasing the fear and pain it must've meant. There were no more snake's unholy jaws, only his deep lips, looking for the exposed length of her skin and her marks. She heard him exhale a hoarse moan, sinking her even more in his body; he pushed her head and her indomitable hair against him, so she kissed more, so he wouldn't stop. He appeared to want and destroy his long loneliness, he seemed to think it was possible if only she stood tangled with him. Hermione didn't hesitate, she just caressed the tearing with the tip of her fingers and the edge of his benevolent lips, she heard him exhale loudly again. Snape threw his head backwards and admitted defeat until he was almost crouched. Jean leaned back to watch his face; no one before had seen in his eyes that greedy fire with that kneeled, eager adoration; Hermione shivered by the fixed gaze, transparent and terribly naked, that Snape was smearing on her. How could the cold, sterile Potion Master be capable of looking with the eyes of a warm storm and implacable bolts? She knew she was seeing him as he truly was for the first time, and she wanted to cry, because she understood what his constant silence and strides of a proud soldier meant; she understood that none of that was authentic, that Snape's only truth was that solar gaze, absolute and vulnerable.
She caressed his cheek and he thrust forward to kiss her, but before he could reach her one of the table's candles lightened spontaneously. Both looked at it, kiss half-undone between them, to the place where the light had appeared.
"What's that?"
"It means I'm being called from the chimney. Wait here, it may be an emergency."
The girl remained still as the climbed the stairs, but she finally felt she had to follow him; she reached him on the second floor and waited for him, standing on the door threshold, avoiding the face on the chimney's fire.
"What is it, Niepce?"
Snape's arms were crossed, head bent downwards, trying to understand the man's intention.
"Death Eaters attacked again, it was now Potter, Zubiri and Dennis. They went hard on Potter, as it was expected."
A tense pause extended in the room, the fire's crackle was a constant, slow murmur, similar to the voice talking in the ashes.
"Where is he?"
"St. Mungo, and he wants to see you; actually, we all want to see you, sir; this strategy is not working, we have to—"
"I'm on my way, Niepce; meanwhile, take the statements."
The fire dampened, the room was grey and Snape was a tall, black cluster in the middle of emptiness. She was looking at him from the door, eyes always big and always watchful, fixed on him with anguished expectation.
"Potter is hurt, apparently."
Molly Weasley was sitting on one of the hospital's benches, twisting a handkerchief, looking around in an uneasy gesture. When she saw them appear in the hallway she got up, like pulled by hurried strings, and walked to them determined; she hugged Hermione and told her Harry and Ginny were going to be happy to see her, then she turned to Snape and looked at him hard, about to let out a reproach.
"Severus, I thought you'll take better care of the Aurors. How many had gotten hurt until now?"
The man grimaced, annoyed.
"The Auror's job implies these situations; apparently some have the idea that it's my duty to protect them as if they were Hogwarts' brats. If Potter wants to ensure his safety, it's for the best he finds himself some bodyguards and devotes to something more… appropriate for him, maybe giving interviews."
Molly's face reddened until it seemed like a tomato.
"You're supposed to be their leader, they're your responsibility!"
"My responsibility is to catch Death Eaters, not be the babysitter of a bunch of reckless brats."
Hermione stayed hidden in prudent silence, just watching the mouths open and spit reproaches from one side to the other.
"And how many have you caught so far?"
"Thirty-six in two months, more than what the last Head did in a year. Of course they're furious, of course they want to kill us; if Potter doesn't agree then he should leave my ranks."
The woman turned her red head to Hermione as if asking for support, but the girl bit her lips and shrugged.
"The professor isn't omnipotent; I think he does what he can, and I don't think Harry is even thinking of quitting, this is our war, after all."
Molly calmed down a bit after a few moments of silence, she even gave the man a conciliatory glance he didn't take into account. The three of them walked to the young Auror's room.
"I thought you wouldn't find out soon, Hermione. Minerva sent you an owl, but we didn't think you'd arrive so fast."
"The professor told me; just today I had some Potion classes with him."
Thorny, awkward mutism unleashed between the three.
They reached the room; a strong smell of antiseptics came from it, several nurses were leaving the place, greeting them with a slight nod before continuing their path through the long, white corridor.
The Auror Niepce "match-head" greeted Snape with a pile of documents and an uninterrupted monologue about the three attacks. Harry was waiting on his bed with some impatience; the two other wounded had already fallen asleep. Granger walked to her friend; she was a bit surprised when she noticed Ginny half hiding behind a curtain. The redhead hugged her with something in her eyes close to tears.
Harry smiled at the vision of the two girls standing in front of his bed.
"What happened, Harry?"
"I had planned to meet Ginny in a park, they attacked me on my way there."
The mentioned girl fisted her hands and wrinkled her nose. "Three against one, they're all cowards."
"And what did you do?"
"To be honest, I was about to lose, but a bunch of muggles appeared, and they had to let me go."
Ginevra glanced at Jean. They could still hear the redhead's rough voice on the other side of the room. Molly joined the small meeting and dragged the girls to a place far away from the stretchers, arguing that Harry needed to sleep for a bit and that it'd be for the best to let him talk to Snape.
The three women started a long chatter in a corner.
"Harry has fought enough; maybe it'd be good for him to stay away from this for a while."
"I think they'll still see him as a target, they won't forget who he is," Granger whispered to Molly. Ginny was quiet and looked fixedly the boy's quiet face, laying in the distance. "Maybe they should give him some protection; in fact, the bodyguard thing wasn't so crazy, it may be a good option."
Molly tightened her lips, pensive. Both Granger and Weasley turned to Ginevra, surprised by the thoughtful silence, so unusual in her.
"What do you think, love?" Her mum put a hand on her shoulder as if looking for her in the middle of her pallor.
"I want to marry Harry."