A/N: Okay, I missed my deadline by... a bit. I apologize. Not only was I quite busy for a while, I also had to fight to make this chapter make a lick of sense. It is one of my longest chapters, though, so I hope that makes up for it! I did write a bit beyond this while I was stuck, so the next chapter should be up next week. As always, reviews are welcome, and I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Twenty-Four
Over the next several days, Hermione and Severus quickly fell into a comfortable routine. Every morning began the same, with them at the small kitchen table sharing tea and breakfast in relative silence, after which Severus would excuse himself to his laboratory, and Hermione would set up her lessons for the day. Like when she studied at Hogwarts, she never just chose one place to set up camp; sometimes she would prefer the energetic ambiance of the common room, while other times her four poster bed provided her the privacy and comfort she needed to focus effectively- but oftentimes her preference was to spread out across a large table in the library, reference books and notes surrounding her in seemingly every direction. Similarly in the cottage, she bounced around depending on her mood, either stretched across her thin bed with a textbook, writing essays at the kitchen table, or surrounded by her research on the living room floor.
The first time Severus had found her sprawled out on the floor amongst her notes and books, he rolled his eyes and asked if she was in need of a dog bed upon which to sprawl. It had since become her favorite place to study, and she silently enjoyed his huffs of frustration as he attempted to step through her landmine of papers in order to retrieve a particular book from the shelves.
"You could just summon it," she told him during one such attempt as she flipped through her notes on Runes.
"You could use a desk or table like an actual human being," he grumbled in response as he located the book and stormed out of the room, causing the stacks nearest him to shuffle in the breeze of his departure.
Neither of them could be bothered to stop their efforts for a proper lunch, and oftentimes would run into each other around two or three in the afternoon as they leaned against the counter with a bit of fruit or pastry to quiet their stomachs. Occasionally she would ask after his potions, and he would indulge her on his latest brews, or he would inquire after her lessons, and she would garner his opinion on a specific topic she was studying. As soon as their impromptu snack was finished, however, they both retreated back to their own projects, and would not emerge from their efforts for quite some time.
Dinner was a different story. Hermione was fascinated to learn that Severus was a decent cook, and had offered her assistance in the kitchen a few times before he banished her to her studies until the meal was ready. After listening to Harry and Ron complain about her cooking for months, it didn't bother her, and she had to admit that the food tasted far better if left to him.
"We have a limited supply of food to get us through to Minerva's next visit," he sighed as she scraped a spatula across the pan, dumping the burned vegetables into the bin. "In the interest of keeping us fed, I'm going to have to insist that you leave the cooking to me."
"Can I at least help you with the clean-up?" she asked with a disappointed pout, and he nodded towards the pan she held with raised eyebrows. Snickering, she carried it over to the sink to soak while she set the table.
The evenings, though, Hermione enjoyed the most. Severus had transfigured a spare dining chair into a proper lounge seat and shoved it into the living room next to the tea service. Every evening, she would sprawl out on the couch and he would sit in the tall wingback chair, and they would just... talk.
It was everything she had wished could happen every time she had written to him; the excitement she felt with each of his letters paled in comparison to the satisfaction of an immediate back and forth conversation. Often, their talks directly related to something one of the two had been working on that day, and while she did like when they agreed, she enjoyed their debates far more- even if they rarely ended in her favor. On the off chance he did concede her point, she would go to bed full of pride and gratification.
One such evening had Hermione launched up off the couch in aggravation, pulling at her hair as she argued her point once more.
"Okay," she started, gesturing sharply. "So you have an equation with an equal balance of values-"
"Once again you're forgetting about the ex-"
"I don't care about the exchange rates!" she spat in a rush, waving her hands in front of her face. Severus, smirking, leaned against his armrest and waved her on. "So they're balanced, right? Exchange rates be damned, because you can factor that in at the end and still obtain the same Absolute Value. What I'm going for in using this particular equation is specifics in the dates, not the events themselves, in order to maintain that balance. If we want to get a clear image of time, we need to focus on the flow of time itself!"
Crossing his arms, Severus eyed her with disdain as he answered, "You think too rigidly; you always have. Time is not the issue here. Time is subjective. The events themselves are what moves a prediction forward, and that is what will upset your precious balance.
"And," he added loudly as she was about to interject, "your theory is inherently flawed because the exchange rates-" he stared pointedly at her as she glared- "need to be added as you go along in this instance because each transference you use is going to change your prediction map by at least a few digits."
"That's only if I'm looking for the What, Severus. I'm looking for the When!"
"My point still stands."
Letting out a guttural growl of frustration, Hermione clapped her hands over her face and said, "No, it doesn't, because again, I'm using Miranda's Theory of Transference to set up the initial equation!"
"I fail to see how that would-"
"Because it means it generalizes everything from the get go!" she shouted, throwing her hands in the air and looking at him in exasperation.
Severus sat back in his chair, a finger rubbing across his bottom lip in contemplation. After Hermione fell back down onto the couch and blew an errant curl from her face in annoyance, he looked over at her and dipped his head. "I can see how that would be efficient."
"Oh can you?" she sneered, rolling her eyes.
Their debates would rarely get quite so heated, but when they did, it was always Hermione that seemed to lose control of her rationality. Severus called it her "aggressively Gryffindor temperament" rearing up, and she dismissed his taunting by remarking upon his consistently cold-blooded facade. The few times he had gotten fed up with an argument, he had simply stormed over to a bookshelf, silently found what he was looking for, and shoved the information under her nose, where he would then stand before her with a smug look on his face while she read.
During the day, it was easy for Hermione to forget why she was currently living with Severus. If she so chose, she could imagine that they had decided to do this of their own free will, and not out of desperation. He distracted her, most days. Whenever she caught a glimpse of him in the hall, or heard him mutter from the other room, her mind would wander and she would wonder what he was doing- and what she wished he was doing instead.
She watched him, sometimes, while he cooked. She missed the way his expert hands would prepare ingredients, and was partial to the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing even more of his body to her. His careful perfection in the art of potions making seemed to translate well to the kitchen, and the intense concentration he gave to one, he gave to the other; it made it easy for Hermione's attentions to go unnoticed for quite some time.
Often the two of them would stay up into the early hours of the night, and while Hermione knew that she was simply and purposely putting off sleep, Severus seemed to enjoy the peace the night brought. She was envious of his tranquility, as she knew that as soon as she retired to her room, her peace would end. Every night was the same; she would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and relive the many experiences that had threatened her life on repeat. Sometimes it was just the recent attacks, or maybe the torture she experienced in Malfoy Manor. Other nights, her mind would give her a play-by-play of all the terrible decisions she had made over the course of her Hogwarts years and remind her of all the consequences that had come from her mistakes.
Sleep would come to her eventually, and thanks to her blanket her dreams did not reach a point where her sleep would be interrupted, but she would by no means call it restful.
As the words blurred in front of him once again, Severus leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He had been fighting to finish this chapter for a while now, but if his vision couldn't stay focused, there really was no point in struggling any longer. He glanced up at the mantle and saw the clock had nearly struck three in the morning; Hermione would be up in four or so hours, and so then would he. With a sigh, he marked his place and stood, carrying the book with him as he retreated to his room.
It had been a week of co-existence between the two of them, and he had to say he was pleasantly surprised by how well things were going. He attributed it largely on the fact that they were both incredibly independent people, and had no qualms over spending most of the day devoted to their own focuses, but even when they had spent time together, it had been rather enjoyable. He hadn't expected just how easily it would be to find a natural flow with her, or to rekindle the connection they had developed during their letters.
Setting his book on his nightstand, he sat on the bed and rested his chin on his hands as he was lost to his ponderings. It wasn't just easy to connect with her; he found himself doing it without thought, as if she had always been there. He had feared having her in the house would be a strain on his life, but it wasn't. If anything, her presence had only heightened the enjoyment of his being here. He hadn't had intellectually stimulating conversations such as the ones she had shared with him since... he honestly could not remember the last time he felt so challenged by anyone. Perhaps if he had been able to be more open with his peers, he would have had more opportunity, but as it stood...
It was like their letters had come to life, and Severus could not imagine a better outcome of their situation.
He kicked off his shoes and removed his socks before reclining on his bed, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. If he were to be completely honest with himself, their evening discussions were not the only things he found himself enjoying. He hadn't smiled so much since his early friendship with Lily. Even when she was frustrating, she managed to do it in a way that was more amusing than annoying. He even found some of it to be... endearing.
He had watched her, a few times, as she studied. Leaning against the doorjamb, he took in her frowns of concentration, her trademark bit lip, and the quill she kept in her pulled back hair in between note-taking. Something about her captivated him, and had done so since that first morning they had shared together. He told himself it was the fact that in his eyes, she had finally stopped looking like his student and had started looking like an equal. Only, no other equal had ever fascinated him the way Hermione did.
His feelings for her had morphed quite rapidly from the onset, in seemingly very little time. At the beginning of the year, all that came to mind when he thought of her was her role in the war, and her history as his most annoying student. But from the moment he woke up in St Mungo's and saw her face, she had become a driving force in his life. With that one kindness, she had undone everything he had done to protect himself.
He didn't need friends. He was fine alone. He always had been, and he always would be. If he were alone, he couldn't get hurt; if he were alone, he couldn't cause hurt. Because she cared, she grew closer to him. Because she cared, he opened up.
And because she cared, she suffered for his mistakes.
Just like Lily.
With an angry groan, he rolled onto his side and shoved his face in his pillow. Hermione was nothing like Lily, so why did he keep comparing them? They were both fierce, yes, and kinder than they had a right to be, but while Lily was intently focused on what was right, Hermione wasn't afraid to view the world in shades of grey. Where Lily had compassion for her friends, Hermione showed love for all. And while Lily was intelligent, Hermione had an innate curiosity that sparked brightly behind her eyes, drawing someone in with her own burning excitement.
Most importantly, while Lily could not face watching her friend spiral down a bad path, Hermione saw his mistakes and accepted them as a part of who he was. Lily never really knew him past what he wanted her to see, while Hermione forced him to open up, to be his true self at all times. Lily had, in effect, abandoned him; Hermione wouldn't let him get away.
Flipping onto his back once more, Severus rubbed his eyes with one long-fingered hand. There was a reason he had been thinking of Lily more often, and not in a positive light. He knew he was becoming way too attached to Hermione, and the more he compared the two, the more attached he grew. It wasn't healthy; what did he want to happen? She was nineteen, for merlin's sake. It wasn't like he was-
A distressed cry sounded from outside his room, breaking through his internal conflictions like a battering ram, and he was on his feet in an instant. Wand drawn, he approached the bedroom door, listening intently for any indication of what the source had been.
When no sound followed, he quickly checked the wards. They were all in place, and a Hominem Revelio proved that it was just him and Hermione in the home. Had he imagined the noise? Unlikely. But what had it been?
When another cry followed his thoughts, he threw open the door and lit his wand. The hallway was empty, but he saw a flicker of movement on the stairs. When he directed the light there, two glowing orbs blinked down at him before disappearing upstairs.
Upstairs. He could hear it now; distressed whimpers and moans. He hurried to the foot of the stairs and aimed his wandlight up. "Hermione?"
When his only answer was a loud cry, he rushed up the stairs two at a time.
Stopping at the top of the steps with his hand on the banister, his wandlight spanned the length of the space before landing on Hermione's distressed form on the bed, tangled in the covers. Her cat sat protectively against her hip, kneading the blanket and purring- a clear sign of attempted comfort. He extinguished the bright wand light and instead lit a single candle on the nightstand before approaching the bed. "Hermione?" he whispered, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Hermi-Ack!"
With a hiss, he pulled back his hand and nursed his bleeding knuckle. Glaring at the cat, he lowered himself into a crouched position next to the bed. "Blasted beast," he muttered, reaching out to instead touch her hand as she tossed and cried out again. "Hermione, wake up."
She woke with a shriek, sitting up and pulling her wand out from under her pillow in the same move, startling the cat off the bed. Before he knew it, Severus had a wand pointed between his eyes. "S-Severus?!" she croaked, panicked. "Oh gods, what's happened?"
Gently pushing her wand tip away from his face with two fingers, he shook his head. "Nothing's happened," he told her softly. "You were crying out in your sleep. I thought you were distressed."
The candlelight was just strong enough to illuminate the redness in her cheeks before she buried her face in her hands, her wand tumbling forgotten onto her bedspread. "Oh god," she moaned. "You weren't- you weren't supposed to-"
Her words cut off as a sob overtook her. As her shoulders shook, Severus swallowed and sat on the edge of the bed. "You don't have to hide your nightmares," he spoke gently. "It isn't anything to be ashamed of." When she continued to cry, he hesitantly reached out his hand, but pulled it back when she flinched. "Would you prefer I left?" he whispered, feeling well out of his element.
"No!" Wiping at her tears, she shook her head emphatically. "No, don't leave. I'm sorry."
"An apology is not necessary." When she hid her face again, he scratched his forehead uncertainly and asked, "Would it help to talk about it?"
"I doubt it." Her words were muffled by her hands, but she soon dropped them to her lap and sighed. Looking up at the ceiling, she took a deep breath and said, "It's always the same idea, just different executions." Snorting, she added, "'Executions,' now that's an appropriate word choice."
Eyes wide, he coughed. "You dream of your execution?"
When she shook her head, he let out a calming breath. "Not directly, no. Just..." Wiping the tears from her eyes, she shrugged. "I dream of any time my life was in danger up until this point, and my death was a possibility." Picking at a thread on her blanket, she elaborated, "I've had dreams about the recent attacks, or about the Final Battle. I've had dreams of being interrogated, or being pursued through the Department of Mysteries. I've even had dreams I've faced off a bloody troll in a school bathroom." When she chuckled at her own expense, Severus gave her a halfhearted smile. "Tonight was just..."
When she took a deep breath and fought back the tears, he reached out and pushed her hair away from her face, relieved when she didn't recoil. "You don't have to tell me. I understand well enough." When she nodded and gripped her blanket in her fists, he summoned a handkerchief and handed it to her.
She whispered a thanks before wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I really did not mean to wake you. I just... I don't know why I'm so affected by all this and no one else around me seems to be."
A moment of silence passed between them as Severus contemplated exactly what she had said. "You don't think people are affected?"
"Well," she mumbled, "I'm sure they are, but... I mean, look at you, for instance."
"You don't think I'm affected?" A sharp laugh of disbelief escaped him, and he gestured to himself. "It's three in the morning. I'm not exactly dressed for sleep, am I?"
When she frowned in confusion, he shifted to better face her. "Hermione, I promise you, every single person involved in this war is bearing their own burdens. It just manifests differently for everyone. Minerva uses a teacup as a security blanket. Albus would pace incessantly like a caged beast. Molly Weasley won't rest until every person in her presence has a full plate in front of them. And I-" He shrugged, pausing. "You had asked me once why I agreed to teach you Occlumency. It was for the same reason I agreed to help Filius with the wards; a busy mind doesn't have time to think.
"Truth be told," he added, looking down at her twisting fingers and holding back the urge to still them, "it was one of the reasons I first wrote to you. My life had slowed down, and I needed a... pleasant distraction."
If he were completely honest with himself, he didn't know how much those letters had come to mean to him until they were gone. While initially he had written to her as a means of filling in the spare time, it wasn't long before he was using every other one of his duties to distract himself until her response arrived. He wasn't sure when the flip happened, but when the letters stopped coming, he felt a loss in his life.
Shaking himself out of his contemplations, he met her eyes and continued. "What you're going through is normal. You are not weak. You are not sensitive. You're manifesting your anxiety in a way that works for you. I promise you, Hermione, you will be fine. And until you are, there are things we can work on to mitigate the dreams."
"There are?" Her voice was cracked from her tears and fatigue, but her wet eyes shone with something other than tears- something like hope. His lips quirked into a half smile.
"Occlumency is a fine tool. If you are comfortable enough with breaking down the memories- and allowing me access to them- I can help you blur the finer details. The more blurred a memory is, the less likely it will come to interfere with your subconscious." He leaned back against the wall, and she pulled her legs up to give him more room, wrapping her arms around her knees as she listened intently. "Usually, time will blur a memory. But there are ways of speeding up the process."
"If time blurs a memory, why do I have nightmares of events that happened in my first year?" His handkerchief was still clutched in her hand, and she dabbed the last of the wetness from her cheeks. He was momentarily distracted by the movement, by the soft fabric moving across her skin, and didn't register her question right away.
"Because," he finally answered, moving his attention from the cloth to her eyes, "your traumatic memories are acting as if connected. They're feeding off the same emotions- panic, desperation, pain- and the clarity from the most recent events are sharpening what your mind has dulled, filling in the blanks in a way."
She twisted the handkerchief in her hands as she considered his words. "The mind is so complex," she muttered. "How did you learn all this?"
"It's a natural gift of mine. Like yours for compartmentalization, or Potter's for being an arrogant pain in the-"
"Hey now!" Swatting him with his own handkerchief, she pointed a finger at him while fighting a smile. "Be nice."
Not bothering to hide his smirk, he pinched the tip of her finger and pushed it back towards her. "My apologies. But as I was saying, I've been Occluding since I was a boy. I just didn't realize it at the time."
"You Occluded without realizing it?" Sitting up on her knees, she leaned closer to him in excitement and asked, "How is that possible?"
He put his hand on her shoulder, steadying her. "As much as I enjoy our discussions, Hermione, daybreak is only a few hours away by now. If you were planning on sleeping any more, we should save the rest for the morning."
She shook her head. "I won't be able to sleep." Sitting back, she leaned against the headboard and held her pillow close. "I'm used to this, though. I'll be fine."
He took in her appearance- dark circles under heavy lidded eyes, a poorly concealed yawn- and stood. "Let me get you a dreamless sleep."
"No!"
"No?" He turned back towards her with a raised eyebrow. "Why on earth not?"
She wasn't looking at him, focusing on the bedspread instead. "Because," she muttered, "when I take that potion, it's hard for me to erect my shields in the morning." Glancing at him, she continued, "I know I'm not supposed to be occluding so much, but it's the only way I can focus on my lessons. I just thought- well, lessons are almost done... I could process things more afterwards."
He watched her, watched as she ran her fingers across her knitted blanket. The knitted blanket spelled for sleep. If the blanket wasn't dulling these nightmares, she was in dire need of some coaching. He reached out a hand.
"Come, then. Let's return to the living room."
"Wha- now?" She reached hesitantly for his hand, as if expecting him to pull it back. Leaning forward, he grasped her solidly and helped her from the bed.
"Yes," he answered her. "Now." Grabbing her knitted blanket and pillow, he led the way down the stairs, turning back at the bottom to make sure she had followed. He wasn't surprised to see her shivering as she trailed behind him; she wore a simple cap-sleeved nightgown that ended just above the knee, and shifted up and down her thigh with each step. Gods, even in this the curve of her waist was readily apparent. And the soft, pale blue cotton looked incredibly thin, as evidenced by-
He forced himself to walk into the living room and light a fire.
He had set her pillow and blanket on the sofa and was crouched in front of the fire when she entered the living room. She watched him curiously for a moment as he tended the flames, before sitting and covering her lap with the blanket, pulling her feet up under her. When the fire was sorted, he focused his attentions immediately on the tea service. Instead of turning around with the kettle, however, he held a bottle of Ogden's and two tumblers.
He sat in his chair, leaning forward to set the glasses on the coffee table. Pouring a few fingers in each, he handed her one, saying, "Tea didn't seem appropriate."
Head still catching up to what they were doing, she took the glass hesitantly and stared at its contents. "I've never had this stuff before," she admitted.
Taking a sip, Severus looked her way and smirked. "There's a first time for everything." When she sniffed the liquor and grimaced, he chuckled. "You don't have to indulge with me, Hermione. I'm not used to company that doesn't partake, is all."
"I've partaken in other things," she mumbled, slowly raising the glass to her lips. As the first sip of whiskey slid down her throat, she coughed loudly, almost spilling the rest of it. A heat spread from her chest to her head, and she felt oddly invigorated as she struggled to regain her breath.
Long fingers took the tumbler from her and set it on the coffee table. When she looked up in surprise, Severus was smiling amusedly at her. "The first sip is the harshest," he assured her. "Take a minute to catch your breath."
"Some warning would have been nice," she snapped, rubbing her sternum.
"Now where's the fun in that?" He sat back, sipping his own drink. At her glare, his eyes crinkled in mirth.
Staring at the tumbler, Hermione eyed it dubiously. "It isn't like that every time?"
"Only one way to find out."
She rolled her eyes as she reached for the drink. "You could tell me," she argued as she raised the glass to her mouth again, knowing he wouldn't.
As promised, the second sip was easier, but her eyes watered and she shook her head sharply. "How can you stand this stuff?" she asked, wiping her mouth and setting the glass down again.
"You don't drink it for the taste."
"No, I can't imagine you do." At his soft laugh, she felt her lips quirk.
A brief silence passed between them as they sat, Severus sipping his drink and Hermione staring into the fire. The liquor was warming her pleasantly, and she reached forward to take another sip.
"So what have you partaken in?" he asked her, watching as she shivered from the harshness of the whiskey.
"I've had my share of wine," she responded, frowning at her glass. "This is growing on me. Why is it growing on me?"
He chuckled as she took another drink. "You'll want to slow down. Firewhisky is quite a bit stronger than the average glass of wine." He leaned forward and took the glass from her once more, setting it down next to his.
After another brief pause in which Hermione found herself enjoying the fuzzy warmth brought on by the liquor, the fireplace, and her knitted blanket, she turned to him and asked, "Why are we back down here?"
"You said you wouldn't be able to sleep."
"That doesn't mean you have to stay up with me. I'm used to long, sleepless nights alone. I always make do."
"Would you prefer I leave you alone?"
"Well... no, but-"
He interrupted her opposition. "Then trust me when I say I'm not doing anything I don't wish to do."
"And what is it that you wish to do tonight?" she asked, smirking. "Besides liquoring me up, that is."
He laughed sharply and replied, "If my intentions were to simply get you pissed, I would give you something less expensive then Ogden's. No, I merely thought you would fancy a chat."
"What about?"
"Whatever you'd like."
She thought about that. Whatever she'd like? She briefly considered asking him about the Occlumency techniques he had mentioned earlier, but dismissed that idea as not being distracting enough. The whiskey was giving her a newfound confidence, and she wanted to use this opportunity to get to know him a bit more. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
He blinked at her. "You can certainly ask."
Pausing to pick up her drink- she felt like she might need it- she asked, "I've wondered this for a while, and you don't have to answer it if you don't want to, but... why a Potions mastery? You're an ingenious spell creator, you have a plethora of knowledge on the dark arts and its defenses, and your passion for arithmancy rivals my own. Yes, you're a brilliant Potioneer, but why did you pursue that route when you seem to enjoy other subjects more?"
His eyebrows raised, he shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "You certainly aren't the 'what's your favorite color' type, are you?"
"That was my next question."
"I'm sure," he smirked. Then, frowning into his glass, he answered, "I didn't decide on potioneering; the Dark Lord did. I was a half-blood with no monetary backing, and the only thing I could offer that he couldn't get elsewhere was my skillset behind a cauldron. He funded me, found me a Master to train under. It didn't take long."
"That makes sense," she nodded, wiping away a bit of drink that had dampened her lips. "What would you have chosen had you had a choice?"
He looked up at her sharply, eyebrows furrowing. "Hermione, that was my choice." Tapping his fingers agitatedly against the arm of his chair, he rose quickly and retrieved the bottle of Firewhisky. "I didn't go to Voldemort to be a spy for Dumbledore outright," he explained as he topped off his glass. "I chose to follow him. I wanted it. I was happy to do whatever he bade me to do- I literally begged him to guide me."
"I know that." Sinking further into the couch, she frowned and continued, "I just meant-"
"I know what you meant." Leaning against the drinks cart, his back to her and head hung low, he said, "I don't know what I would have chosen. Probably whatever had gotten me into the best position." Raising his glass, he took a large gulp before turning and leaning against the mantle. "I wasn't after fame, or notoriety, or satisfaction in a job well done. I just wanted to survive, to support myself, to prove to myself that I-"
When he stopped and studied his drink, she asked, "That you... what? That you could do it?"
He shook his head. "That I wasn't my father," he whispered, before draining his drink. He pushed away from the mantle, all but dropping his cup on the coffee table as he threw himself back into his chair and rubbed his hands up and down his face. "I didn't have what you would call a... 'happy' childhood," he told her, dropping his hands into his lap. "In everything I did, I wanted to prove to myself that I was not my father's child. That I was better than him."
"He's why you joined the Death Eaters."
He nodded. "Partially. He was a driving force behind my ill-formed opinions on muggleborns." He glanced guiltily at her. "It took teaching you lot for me to notice how annoyingly magically talented you all could be. It really undermines their whole 'Blood Superiority' theory."
"I couldn't imagine you being so blind," she quipped as she finished her drink.
"How could I not be?" he asked. "Your hand was always in front of my face."
"Oh ha ha." She set her cup on the coffee table next to his and, feeling pleasantly fuzzy and warm, Hermione settled further under her blanket and leaned against her pillow. "Is your father also the reason you learned to occlude so young?"
His wide-eyed stare told her more than anything how loose the whiskey had made her lips. He blinked and looked away from her, staring into the fires for a long moment.
"I'm sorry," she apologized when he didn't speak. "You don't have to answer that."
"It's all right," he said softly, turning towards her again. "I feel like, with all that you've shared with me, it's only fair I share something as well. It isn't a pleasant recollection, but..." Shrugging, he leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees, chin on his hands. "It wasn't so much impressive as it was a survival skill. My father... well, anyway."
She couldn't take her eyes off of him; he wasn't looking at her, didn't seem to be looking at anything, but the firelight reflecting off of his stern countenance was enthralling. She felt bewitched by the dancing shadows, by the swatches of light that bathed his face in oranges and reds, by the reflective flames in his pitch black eyes. He was stunning, and she struggled to focus her muddled mind.
"As I said before," he continued quietly, staring vacantly at the floor, "I did not have a happy childhood. I was not my father's favorite person even before he found out who my mother and I truly were. He resented us; resented the idea that we would be able to thrive without him. Our magic was an abomination, and was not allowed under any circumstances. If he even suspected magic to be behind something, he was not afraid of exerting violence over the supposed offender.
"My mother tried her best to keep the peace, but he..." Hermione put her hand over her mouth, stifling a small gasp at the pained expression that crossed his features. He shook himself before continuing. "It became essential that I learn to lie at a young age. I needed to be seen as obedient; as a meek, submissive child he would see no problem with. To see problem with me would mean not only punishment for myself, but also my mother. Any slight against me was a slight against her. I stopped fighting back for fear of what he would do to her."
She watched wide-eyed as he rose from his chair to stand before the fire. His hands were crossed behind his back, and she could see the whiteness of the fingers as he wrapped one hand around the opposite wrist. She wanted to tell him that it was fine- that she understood enough- but he started speaking again before she found her voice.
"It was easy for me to tuck my true feelings away and put on an air of subservience, to cower before him the way he expected me to, and to show him the amount of respect he felt he deserved. He was never kinder for my efforts, but he would leave her out of it. That was enough."
"Severus," she whispered, but he shook his head, as if telling her that this was something he wanted to say- something he needed to say. She pushed her lips together and listened.
"I was proud when I got my Hogwarts letter. My mother tried to hide it from him, and for a while it worked. She told him she had arranged for me to be sent away the next school year, and my father didn't ask questions. He was happy to get rid of me. Until he found the letter.
"I had asked my mother for it because I wanted to show a... I wanted to show Lily." He rubbed his forehead, pausing a moment. "He confronted me when I got home. Asked me what was in my hand. I should have put it in my pocket, but I didn't want to crumple it. He took it from me, tore it up and threw it in the fire. That was the first time I felt anger in his presence, instead of fear."
She wasn't sure when she had done so, but she was on her feet, arms wrapped around her torso. She took a step closer to him, but held back when he continued. "That was also the last time I let myself feel true emotion in his presence. He almost killed my mother that day. He blamed her for my 'shortcomings', blamed her bloodline for my freakishness. I don't know how she convinced him to send me anyway. I suppose she talked up the fact that he'd only have to put up with me for nine weeks out of the year.
"It wasn't until much later that I learned the truth about what I was doing. I was researching mind magic, looking for a spell to defend against Potter Senior and his ilk, when I came across the term Occlumency for the first time. I had inherently been shielding myself from my father for so long, it had become as easy as breathing. I began studying Legilimency shortly after."
He was silent long enough for Hermione to ask, "How old were you?"
Taking in a breath, he looked at the ceiling and said, "Thirteen? It was in my third year." Turning, his eyebrows raised at her change in position before he returned to his seat with a sigh. "I tell you this because I trust you, Hermione. I don't speak on these things lightly."
"I won't say anything," she assured him, still on her feet. He just nodded, leaning back against the chair with his eyes closed. Carefully, she sat back onto the couch, pulling the blanket back over her. Thoughts ran rampant through her mind. She knew he hadn't had a good childhood. Her heart broke when she thought of a young Severus, cowering in front of his father, closing his mind off in desperation. No child should ever be made to feel that unsafe in their own home. No wonder he harbored so much hatred from a young age.
The flames' reflection danced across the glass tumbler, sitting before her. Flames. Fire. His family home burned down earlier this year. He hadn't cared. I wonder how he could stand to stay there, after everything had happened. If it were me, I'd want to burn the place down myself.
It wasn't her, though. Her parents were nothing like Severus's. They were incredibly kind, and supportive, and had never once raised their hand to her. They loved her, with all their heart, and they had made sure she knew it. It's what made wiping their memories so difficult. It's why she had to send them away.
Of course, her parents had wanted her. They had tried for years to conceive, and always told her she was their own personal blessing. What would it have been like if she were an accidental conception? What would have happened if they didn't want children? She could understand a parent feeling helpless in that situation, could even understand them not being great at raising a child, but to look a child in the face and cause it nothing but fear and pain? She couldn't in her right mind imagine a scenario where that would be excusable.
"You're crying."
She jumped, startled, and touched her cheek. Her fingers met the dampness of tears. She hadn't realized she had begun to cry, and when she looked over at Severus, he was watching her with concern.
"I'm sorry." His voice was quiet, gentle. "I shouldn't have burdened you with all that. It isn't yours to bear."
"No, I-" Her breath hitched, and she turned her head to wipe her tears. "I'm glad you told me. It... feels good to know you better."
When she turned her head back to him, he was smiling, a sad smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. She returned it, rubbing her shoulder awkwardly. "No one should have to go through all that," she whispered, and his eyes clouded with an expression she could not quite place. "I'm sorry you had to experience it."
"I'm glad that you were spared from the pain," he replied. "You love your parents; you miss them. I wish I knew what that was like."
"It hurts." She knew he wasn't looking for an answer, but she felt obliged to give him one anyway. "My chest gets heavy every time I think about them, knowing they aren't thinking of me." At his confused frown, she explained, "I erased their memories before sending them away. They aren't even Grangers anymore. I can undo it, and I will, but..."
"But it hurts." She nodded, wiping an errant tear away.
They were quiet then, each staring into the fire, deep in their own thoughts. "Well," he stated, grabbing the tumblers and moving to the drinks cart when the silence grew too loud. "I say this calls for another drink."
"What does?" She accepted the newly filled glass, only half as full as before, and watched him curiously as he sat again.
"I don't know about you," he said casually, "but when I bare my soul I prefer to spend the following moments under the influence."
"I am feeling particularly vulnerable tonight," she quipped, raising her glass to her lips.
He winked at her as he did the same. "That's the spirit."
It didn't take her long to finish her second glass, and the fuzzy warmth that had begun to leave her during Severus' recounting grew even stronger. Her eyes grew heavy, and her thoughts became muddled as she shifted on the sofa, spreading out and resting her head on her pillow. "Is this how you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Sleep." Propping her head on her arm, she looked over at him. "You drink until you're foggy, then your thoughts aren't so... so... quick."
He smirked, leaning forward. "Oh my, aren't we a lightweight."
"Hush, you." She paused to yawn, loudly and widely. "So, is it?"
"Is it what?"
She picked her head up and glared at him. "Is it how you sleep?"
He nodded. "Sometimes. Less often, now. The sleep isn't as restful, but at least you get to forget for a few hours."
She yawned again. "Can't wait." Finally sinking fully into the couch, she turned her back to the fire and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.
Through the fog, she was still anxious, worrying about what she would dream about next. The fog was thick, though, and dulled the worries until she barely noticed them. She embraced the partial numbness and relaxed.
"I knew you just wanted to get me liquored up," she muttered, before falling fast asleep.
The last thing she remembered was the soft, deep notes of his laughter.
