A/N: This chapter was supposed to come out a while ago, but due to an unexpected death in the family, it was understandably put on the backburner. Life has settled now, and I have plenty of free time ahead of me, so I hope to be posting at a more rapid pace- but I do have a high expectation of myself, so my edits tend to take a while. Regardless, I have the next three and a half chapters written, if not edited, so those at least should be coming out relatively quickly. Anyway, enough about me. I hope you enjoy the chapter!
Chapter Nineteen
Severus packed the last of the vials into a long wooden crate and stood, cracking his back as he arched in opposition of his previous stance. It was late in the evening, which meant it was still early for a delivery, but given the soreness he was experiencing he decided to get it over with now so that he could take his own pain potion and sleep it off. Plus, he contemplated as he lifted the lid and secured it to the crate, it will be early enough to pester Minerva. It's been too long since I've bothered her face to face.
He wouldn't admit it to himself, but there was a part of him that was leaving early so that he could inquire after Hermione. Her short reply to his concerned missive did nothing but set him on edge. He had been writing to her frequently enough to know that something was wrong, and not knowing what that was bothered him more than he thought it had a right to. Perhaps Minerva knew what was troubling her. He just hoped it was nothing serious.
He lifted the crate gingerly and was silently thankful that while the potions themselves were unable to be spelled in any sort of way, the box they rested in was able to be charmed to weightlessness. He tucked it uncomfortably under an arm and began the long trek to the school. He may not wander the halls of a giant castle anymore, but Severus still walked just as much.
An uneventful trip led him through the gates of Hogwarts with ease, and he felt himself relax in the welcoming comfort of the wards around him. He may no longer reside in the school, but it would always feel like a home to him, as much as he was glad to be rid of it. The tension that had built in his neck and shoulders began to loosen as his heightened paranoia settled down to his usual level of hypervigilance in the familiar surroundings. As he stepped through the front doors, he felt a reprieve from the chill November wind, and he began his ascension through the castles careful to avoid any wandering masses, while also keeping an eye out for one wanderer in particular.
He had seen no one by the time he made it to the Hospital Wing, and easing through the heavy door he glanced around to assure himself that the beds were empty. "Poppy!" He called out, closing the door behind him and walking towards her office. The door opened quickly.
"Severus!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed. Poppy Pomfrey was rarely frazzled, but seeing him outside of his expected arrival time had clearly set her off guard. He was nothing if not punctual. "What are you doing here so early? I wasn't expecting you for a few hours yet."
He followed her into her office, large yet cramped with cabinets and various storage containers. Setting the crate on the cluttered desk in the middle of the room he replied, "I wouldn't exactly call this time of day early, Poppy."
"You know what I mean." She gestured to a seat across the desk as she began to fight with the crate lid. "You usually don't show up until the dead of night. I prefer this time, by the way; I may be always on call, but that only applies to staff and students, both of which you have ceased to be."
He sat, watching as she struggled to remove the stubborn lid and choosing, for his own amusement, not to offer his assistance. "You know I do not wish to be seen," he told her. "If the wrong student sends word to their parents-"
"You worry too much," she scolded as she struggled. "You aren't doing anything wrong by being here; you're simply doing your job as a potioneer. Aha!"
The lid finally popped off, and she set it aside as she continued, "Besides, I cannot imagine anyone complaining about your presence. Your true allegiance is well known by now and the public knows they have you to thank for their safety."
"There will always be doubters," he muttered, flicking a bit of lint off the armrest. "To answer your question, I am here at an earlier hour because I had planned to speak with Minerva before heading home."
"I'm sorry to say you've picked a bad day, then," she told him as she began to unload the potions into a tall nearby cabinet. "She isn't here."
Just my luck. "Where is she then, if not here?"
"Some Wizengamot business, I believe." She turned to him and frowned. "You look disappointed. Is there something I can help you with?"
He shifted, carefully recovering his mask of impartiality as he did so. He seemed to be losing his natural ability to maintain a blank face. "I was merely going to inquire after a... mutual acquaintance," he answered vaguely.
"Anyone I know?" she asked as she turned to put the last few potions away.
He debated on lying; did he want Poppy to know he was asking after Hermione? Minerva was a safe confidant, as she knew of his growing friendship with the young woman, but Poppy was as yet unaware and he couldn't imagine a situation in which it would be beneficial to inform her. The war may be over, but Severus Snape still remained a very private man, and he preferred his private life to stay just that- private.
However, she would know if Hermione had been ill. The Matron had been seeing to her occasionally as her need for dreamless sleep potions had become a necessity this year. And surely she knew about the attack; Minerva had assured him she briefed all her staff of the potential danger there. Maybe he could trust her. He trusted her with his secrets before, after all, on the occasions he found himself needing medical care as a spy.
He made his decision.
"I had wished to ask after Miss Hermione Granger," he confided, carefully monitoring every and any change in the mediwitch's expression. She turned back to him quickly.
"Why would you be inquiring after her?" she asked, clearly surprised, and he watched as her face became fearful. "Has something happened with her- your- those men that attacked you?"
"Nothing I am aware of," he replied, sitting straighter, "but Miss Granger and I have struck up a bit of a correspondence of late, and her letters- which were near daily occurrences- stopped rather suddenly. I was wondering if she had possibly been ill?"
Poppy shook her head. "If she has she hasn't been to see me," she told him, sitting behind the desk across from him. She leaned forward, her arms on the table. "The last I saw her was... oh when was it... Sunday? She had come in asking for some dreamless sleep potion." Her finger rested on her lips as she thought back. "Now that I think of it, she did seem different. She comes to me occasionally for that potion, and always looks quite tired and pale, but this time..."
He leaned forward in his seat. "This time... what?" he asked, urging her to continue.
She studied him a moment before putting her finger down, her hand wrapping around her bicep. "She looked as if she had been crying all night," she explained. "She doesn't usually look like that when she sees me. Tired, yes, and stressed, but never with eyes as red-rimmed and raw as those I saw that day. I had assumed it must have been a particularly bad nightmare." Narrowing her eyes in thought, she looked into his eyes and asked, "Do you think it was unrelated?"
"I don't know what to think," he admitted, his concern for Hermione growing into confusion and worry. "You haven't seen her since? Even in passing?"
Poppy shook her head. "I haven't; I rarely leave this wing, you know that. She would have had to come here again, and she hasn't been here for almost a week. What has you so concerned? Did she say something?"
Leaning back into his seat, Severus scratched his cheek and sighed. "Only that she was distracted," he admitted. "I had... inquired after her wellbeing, after my latest letter had gone unanswered for a prolonged period of time. Her reply was... short and unnerving."
Poppy sat across from him, head tilted in thought as she looked upon his person. "You said you've been writing to each other frequently?"
"Nearly every day." His face flushed as he confirmed her statement. It was still hard for him to believe that their friendship had grown that quickly.
"It's unusual for you to keep up correspondence with former students," she pried. He bristled.
"It's unheard of, you mean," he muttered sourly, looking over her shoulder so as not to meet her eye.
"How did this correspondence start?" she asked, and at his glare she added, "I'm only curious as to your level of concern for Miss Granger, Severus. If I need to bust her door down to assure you she lives, I'll do it, but only if you feel it's necessary."
"Of course that won't be necessary," he snapped, ignoring his unrepentant urge to do just that. He shifted again, adjusting his robes about him, and said monotonously, "This summer had Miss Granger and I crossing paths quite frequently. You know about our Occlumency lessons, of course, and we were also both recruited to the Ward Task Force. We worked well together, and Miss Granger wished to keep in contact."
"I must say I'm surprised you agreed to it," she told him, digging in her drawer and coming up with a small square of chocolate.
Refusing the piece offered to him, he simply replied, "Freelance potioneering is a dull, solitudinous career, and Miss Granger happens to be a surprisingly well-educated conversationalist. Her letters were an... academic stimulation."
"People don't inquire after a pen pal over a lack of academic stimulation, Severus."
"What are you implying?" he snapped once more, sitting straighter. She smiled in amusement.
"I'm not implying anything," she denied. "I'm simply pointing out the fact that there's something else about your correspondence that concerns you, something deeper than an intellectual bond. And don't you lie to me- I didn't patch you up countless times as a child to not learn when you were lying to me about the source of your injuries. I know your tells, Master Spy; I always have, and I always will."
"It's your Mother Hen persona," he retorted. "You ooze comfort and lure people in with your implied security. The Ministry could use someone like you."
"The Ministry couldn't handle me," she smiled as she popped another square of chocolate onto her tongue. "Now are you going to tell me what makes Miss Granger special, or am I going to have to come to my own conclusions?"
"Speculate away," he told her as he stood abruptly, growing more and more uncomfortable at the conversation. "I was merely concerned about an acquaintance's wellbeing."
"Oh, don't be like that," she tutted, gesturing to his vacated seat. "Sit down and talk with me."
Replacing the lid on the crate, he shrunk it and stuck it in his pocket. "As much as I enjoy feeding you gossip," he answered, "I fear I've grown quite tired. May I have access to your floo?"
Rolling her eyes, she stood and retrieved the floo powder. "You are impossible, you know that? Would you like me to inquire after Miss Granger on your behalf, Severus? I'm sure I'll see her soon enough; she rarely goes a full two weeks without needing a dose of dreamless sleep."
He took a pinch of the powder and held it in his palm, considering her offer. "Don't go out of your way to seek her out," he answered, slowly, "but if you do see her, and she looks to have... not improved..."
Her hand patted his arm in a motherly show of affection. "I will write to you the next time I see her. I'm sure she's fine, and just overwhelmed with schoolwork. You know how she can be."
Pushing his doubts down, he nodded. "Thank you," he said sincerely, as he made his way to the fireplace behind her. Without another word he threw the powder in the flames and stepped through, in a hurry to return to his home, away from the prying attention of Poppy Pomfrey.
Harry Potter sat in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, a steaming mug of tea in front of him and Daily Prophet in hand. Scattered across the table before him lay a variety of other news sources, including the latest edition of the Quibbler and the muggle paper The Daily Mirror. He had made a habit of comparing the different prints for any possible connections, and this morning was no different. He was so focused on his reading that he didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until the kitchen door was pushed open.
He looked up as Ron walked in, froze, and stepped back towards the door with a mumbled apology. "Ron, wait!" he called, standing. "I need to talk to you."
His friend didn't turn around, but kept his hand on the door as he quietly asked, "is it work related?"
As hard as his career had been on Ron, it was still something he took seriously enough to temporarily set aside his obvious desire to flee, a fact Harry was very thankful for.
"It's Hermione related," he answered, stepping forward and grabbing Ron's shoulder to prevent him from leaving. "And I'm not letting you run away again. Sit down."
Reluctantly, Ron sank into the chair opposite Harry's, glowering at the tabletop, poised as if ready to run at any sign of danger.
Harry returned to his seat, folding the papers and setting them aside in a neat stack before facing his friend. "I saw Hermione yesterday," he began.
Ron rubbed his neck and looked at the wall. "I'm sure she told you how terrible I was," he muttered. "How she wants nothing to do with me anymore."
"She blames herself." His words had been unexpected, if Ron's instant tension and stare were any indication. "She's afraid you'll never talk to her again."
"That's ridiculous," he argued. "She's the one that said-"
"I don't care what she said," Harry interrupted. "What are your feelings about it all?"
"About what?" he asked, confused. "The break-up?" When Harry nodded, he sighed. "I don't know how to feel about it, Harry. I know we weren't happy. We're both struggling, and I was hoping she would... but she doesn't have it in her to care right now." Where Harry was about to disagree, Ron shook his hand dismissively. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant, I was hoping we could work on it all together."
Harry accepted that, and he continued, "I've been expecting a break-up letter for a while now, honestly. I'm surprised it took this long." Flipping absentmindedly through a muggle paper, he mumbled, "and I've ruined any chance of trying again."
"Do you still love her?" he asked cautiously. Ron simply shook his head.
"I don't know. I know I did, but... I hurt her, Harry, but she hurt me, too."
"Your biggest issue with each other seemed to stem from her friendship with Snape." Harry grew bold in the conversation, and while Ron flinched, he pursued his point. "You do realize that, don't you? That if you could have just accepted her friendship, she would probably still be your girlfriend?"
Ron's face furrowed into a scowl. "It wasn't her friendship," he snapped, "it was her prioritizing him over me. It was always more important to her to see him. Even now, it's more important to write to him than it was to write to me. And heaven forbid I remind her of his awful past-"
"You weren't reminding her, Ron, you were jumping on any opportunity to bad-mouth the man."
"So what if I was?!" he yelled, slamming his palms against the table as he stood. "So what if I'm the only one that remembers the awful things he's done?"
"Calm down, Ron, I'm just talking to you." Harry put a hand on his friend's shoulder, easing him back into his seat. "You aren't the only one that remembers. I sure as hell can't say I like him all that much. I'm glad for his role in the war, for the help he's still giving the Order and Ministry, and I'm thankful he was able to help Hermione when she needed it, but I don't see myself inviting him around for a spot of tea."
Ron put his head down and dug his nails into his scalp. "What could she possibly like about him?" he muttered, and Harry could tell he had likely been asking himself this quietly for months.
"Probably the fact that she can talk to him about academics and not Quidditch," he quipped. Ron glared at the tabletop. "Or maybe it's appreciation, for teaching her Occlumency and guiding her back to her magic. Either way, it isn't up to us to speculate. It's up to us to be supportive of her decisions."
Staring at the wood grain a bit longer, Ron finally met Harry's eyes, a scowl across his face. "I can't support this," he growled. "I can't forget... I won't forget everything he's done. He took her from me."
Harry rolled his eyes. "He did not, you overdramatic loon. Your refusal to accept a decision she made- a decision she has every right to make- is what separated you two in the end. And don't look at me like that, you know I'm right." He stood, looking down at Ron, before saying, "If you could have just dealt with the fact that Hermione wanted to be friends with someone you didn't like, she would probably still be putting up with you."
"It's not just someone I don't like," Ron yelled as he stood as well, "It's Snape. Snape!"
"I know it's bloody Snape!" he yelled back, growing frustrated at the circles this conversation was taking. "And if you ever want Hermione back in your life in any way, you're going to have to get the hell over it, Ron!"
Ron's chair hit the ground with a crash as he flung himself away from the table and stormed through the kitchen door, slamming it behind him. Harry fell back into his seat, face in his hands as he attempted to calm himself. "Well, that could have gone better," he mumbled into his palms.
Hermione spent the next week regaining her equilibrium. Ginny grounded her, rarely leaving her side, giving her the strength to face each day as if nothing had changed. As if she wasn't once again harboring an empty hole in her heart. Every day that passed seemed to dull the pain bit by tiny bit, allowing time to flow normally and letting her mind get swept up in academic contemplations once again, instead of cycling over that day, that moment, on repeat. Her appetite returned, and as if she were making up for all the lost opportunities, she filled her plate at every meal.
She slipped into the comfortable and familiar role of dutiful student and friend, pouring herself both into her studies and her guidance in the Defense club. She only returned to Madame Pomfrey once more for a potion, on a particularly bad night in the club where a group of fourth years discovered a boggart in one of the cabinets and had trouble dispelling it. Between her, Ginny, and Luna, the boggart was eventually defeated, but the things it had become in front of them had all but ensured her need for a dreamless sleep.
Madame Pomfrey had asked her quite a few questions regarding the incident, before inviting her in for a cup of tea to calm her nerves. It was the most welcoming she had been towards Hermione, and while she appreciated the kindness, their conversation over teacups and biscuits confused her.
"How are your studies, my dear?" the matron had asked her. "Not too stressful, are they?"
"No, madame," she replied, "I'm actually quite enjoying the challenge of the seventh year curriculum."
"Well, that's good to hear. I was afraid the pressure might be getting to you. I've seen a fair number of your classmates of late in desperate need of a calming draught, after all." The older woman took a bite of biscuit before asking her, "What of your Defense practice? I've seen to a few of your club members lately as well. I hope it isn't getting out of hand."
"Quite the opposite, really," she countered, wondering why Madame Pomfrey seemed to think something was overwhelming her. "The Defense club is one of the things I'm most proud of this year. It's been great for bridging the gaps between not only years, but houses as well."
"I can see that it's a passion of yours," Pomfrey replied. "So all in all, everything is well with you then?"
Hermione agreed, knowing it was a lie but not caring to elaborate on the one topic she was determined to avoid. Shortly after, she returned to her rooms.
By the end of the week, she felt almost normal. She was participating in classes, enjoying her time with friends, and sleeping through the night once again. The only thing she couldn't bring herself to resume was her correspondences. She tried, every night, to compose a letter to her friends, assuring them that she was all right, but every time she put quill to parchment, her words failed her. She couldn't shake the guilt that her letters were a major contributor to the break-up, and the idea of penning any sort of note caused the tightness in her chest to return.
"It's not like I have a whole lot of friends to write to," she muttered one night as she stood from her desk, tossing her quill into its stand. She could only think of two people who wanted to hear from her on a regular basis- and only one of whom she wanted to write to, despite having no words for him.
The longer she thought about Ron's accusations, the more she realized he may have been right. No matter how she looked at it, she always ended up at the same conclusion: whatever relationship she had had with Snape prior to writing to him, whatever sort of attachment she had felt for him before, had amplified with each letter he had written. The excitement she experienced when she received a letter of his- something she had initially attributed to her pleasure in convincing him to write to her in the first place- had unbeknownst to her become something deeper. Even the way she kept his prior correspondence differed from the letters from her other friends, tucking them away into a sturdy box at the bottom of her trunk as opposed to keeping them in a desk drawer like the others until the end of term. She had rationalized this decision as a way of ensuring his privacy from wandering eyes, but why didn't she do that with all of her letters? Why was she giving his privacy preferential treatment?
She knelt in front of her trunk, opening it and carefully sliding the box out from under her cauldron. Carrying it into bed, she laid it out in front of her and lifted the black lid, setting it carefully aside.
Next to the pile of letters sat the book on arithmancy- his book- that she had also stored away for safekeeping. She grazed her fingers over the cover affectionately before pulling the letters out. At the bottom of the stack was the letter that had started their correspondences, so short yet at the time feeling like more than enough. The most recent letter that had inquired after her health rested on top of the pile, shorter even than the first, and she allowed a wave of guilt to wash over her as she remembered the terse missive she had returned, all but ensuring his continuing worry with her vague and succinct reply. When had she ever been vague and succinct? He hadn't written her back, and she almost wished he would, if only so that she wouldn't have to be the first to reconnect.
Why was it so hard for her to write to him? To assure him that she was fine, to tell him what she had gone through? Surely he would understand needing to take time to process a break-up.
Or would he find it childish, a teenager's drama, proof that they were ill-suited to be friends and that he should cease contact immediately? Tears welled in her eyes as she considered that possibility- of losing this connection to him once and for all, over the same thing to which she had lost Ron. It hurt her just as much.
Which, she considered, was part of the problem. How could this man- her former professor, who up until a few months ago didn't give her a passing thought unless it was to snarl at her- become so important to her that the loss of him would equal the pain of losing a close friend that she had so recently loved?
She began to pull letters out at random, reviewing the words on the page, a habit she had been guilty of this past week as she tried to build up the courage to write to him. She missed their near-daily correspondence, with the witty banter and the backhanded compliments; she longed for their full-fledged debates on topics as varied as the library had tomes. The Defense Club was suffering without his assistance, and she felt completely out of the loop without his case updates, something he provided her amongst his constant need of assurances that she was remaining vigilant at all times. He showed her in each letter he wrote to her that he clearly cared for her wellbeing, and she desperately needed that in her life right now.
She was startled when a tear dripped onto the parchment in her hands- when had she started crying? And what had brought her to it? Did she miss him that much? Was she so despondent of their lack of communication that she was brought to such an emotional state? How, after so short a time, could this man have brought her to tears just with the thought of losing his friendship, as if she were a lovestruck schoolgirl?
The letter crumpled in her fist as her entire body tensed, then froze in place. She took in a shaky breath as she stared at the paper, now clutched so tightly in her fingers that the creases marred the writing. "Oh no," she whispered, shaking her head as if to dislodge the thought from her mind. "I do not."
I do NOT have a crush on Severus Snape!
Moaning, she collapsed onto her pillow, clutching the parchment tighter still in her palm. She refused to accept this. She refused to even acknowledge this.
But she knew it was true.
How am I ever going to write to him now?
The night was frigid, and his breath froze in the air before him. Fallen leaves and branches crunched under his feet as he walked while the light emanating from his wand cast the forest into shadow, giving the trees the illusion of movement. A chill wind shook the branches above, and he paused, unable to hear the world around him over the noise of it all. He didn't step forward again until the trees were still.
There- ahead- he could see a glow. A fire, lit in a circle of small boulders. Across the fire, sitting on a fallen log, a man wrapped in a black cloak sat warming his hands. At his approach, the man stood in alarm, wand raised.
"It's me," he said as he held up his empty hands, and the man lowered his wand with an acknowledging grunt.
"Took you long enough." The man- Walden MacNair- sat once more, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Gurth fell asleep. How he managed in this forest is beyond me."
"Did you run into any trouble?" He perched on a boulder to MacNair's left, looking over his shoulder at the youngest of the group.
"Nah," he grunted. "I'm surprised we haven't, though. It's only a matter of time, I'm sure. Did you get the supplies?"
Antonin Dolohov shrugged a large sack off his shoulder, tossing it to his companion. "Invisibility cloak, two way mirror, and a portkey, as well as dinner and sleeping rolls."
"And some Ogden's, I see," MacNair commented as he dug through the bag, pulling out the bottle.
"I thought you'd share a toast with me," he said, summoning some glasses out of the sack as well. "For a successful mission."
"We haven't completed it yet."
"That's why we save the rest of the bottle for tomorrow," he grinned.
MacNair laughed, and uncorked the bottle. After filling their cups and clinking them together, they sipped the harsh drink in silence.
"All right," he said, staring into the fire. "Let's go over the plan once more time..."
A/N 2: I know this was a slower chapter but as you can guess, more action will be coming soon! Please leave a review and know that I will respond if I have the ability to. I love talking to you all! If you leave me guest reviews, know that while I cannot respond to you personally, I deeply appreciate your feedback and thank you for the time spent writing to me. It means so much!
