Chapter 2
Snape, using every hidden passageway he knew, made it to his rooms in no less than fifteen minutes. During his trek to his chambers, he had not let himself think of all he had seen and heard in the astronomy tower. His one goal had been to reach sanctuary, so he could examine in minute detail the scene he still could not believe had unfolded before him.
Slamming into his classroom, he did not stop for one moment to catch his breath, but proceeded to his rooms at the back of the lab. He growled out the password impatiently and waited for the door to open before him, only to throw himself desperately into his sitting room.
"Thank the gods!" he panted, falling back against the closed door and rolling his head back with relief.
The beleaguered "bat of the dungeons" stumbled to his favorite chair before the fire and fell into it heavily. Leaning his head back into the soft, black leather, he took a deep breath in an attempt to quiet his body, mind, and spirit. He let the quiet, cozy atmosphere of his chambers envelope him.
Truth be told, Snape's rooms were most pleasant, if a little dark in tone. The chair he had collapsed on before the crackling fire was low slung and rather plainly appointed. It was large, black, and squashy, and had a rather ungainly appearance, somewhat like a big, black slumbering dog lying at the hearth…comforting and familiar. Snape had spent a great deal of his free time in this very chair, and it fit his form like no other. It was one of very few constants in his life, and even though it was old as the hills and not particularly attractive, he was loathe to give it up. He would keep it for its faithful service, until it was just sticks and fluff.
The rest of the room was well worn but comfortable, from the scarred up coffee table before the battered green leather couch, to the cluttered ancient roll top desk against the wall. There was a room sized carpet all in browns, blacks, and creams to keep the chill from seeping up from the flagstone, and the walls were covered in the ornate but muted tapestries and portraits that had originally been in the rooms when Snape had taken up residence. But, Snape's favorite piece in the room was the ceiling to floor, wall length book case in which was his preponderance of books.
Snape's love of reading was well known amongst the other teachers, who usually gave him books at Christmas. And, though he was apt to be very restrained in his other activities, he had no compunction whatever about purchasing a good book whenever he came upon one that caught his fancy. Thus, his bookcase was full to overflowing, with the excess stacked on the floor in front of it.
The whole apartment had a lived in look and feel to it. It was clean, but reflected its owner's rather reclusive, studious personality.
Now, as Snape sought to unruffle his decidedly ruffled spirit, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts be overtaken by the perplexing scene he had left behind him in the tower. What on earth had Hermione been on about?
"Severus!" she sobbed gently, pressing the sodden handkerchief to her eyes once more. "How I wish you knew! How I wish I could tell you!"
Snape's eyes flew open, as her anguished words resounded in his heart once again. What could she possibly wish to tell him that could cause her so much pain? And, why would she feel she must hide anything from him? Did she fear embarrassment? Would what she had to say anger him?
Snape steepled his fingers in front of him in a thoughtful attitude. He had already established to his satisfaction that he had done nothing that day to hurt or upset her. Besides, her anguish had been too deep to be attributed to a workplace difficulty. It could not be a personal problem that she wished to share with him. She had her closest friends… Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, perhaps even Ginny Weasley…people with whom she shared her deeper thoughts.
As this thought occurred to him, he felt regretful that he could not include himself on the list of her closest confidants. He and Hermione had been on a first name basis for only the last couple of months. It was a rather severe departure from etiquette, but it seemed ludicrous for her to call him Professor Snape all the time, when they spent so much time together in close proximity. Besides, they had an easy, comfortable working relationship, and when they were not at work on something that required their utmost concentration, they had even engaged in lighter conversation, with a little joking on the side.
A few times, he had invited her to his rooms to read with him. It had been most pleasant to share with her their mutual love of books. He remembered that she had all but swooned when she had seen his private library. He had been pleased that she was pleased.
He had never considered until last night that he would ever wish to know the depths of her heart. In fact, there had been a time when he would have run far and fast if Hermione had wished to confide in him. It surprised him that he now longed for the privilege of such intimacy with her. He shook his head slowly. What was wrong with him?
Snape shook himself mentally, and returned to the problem at hand. He thought upon Hermione's painful declaration again. And, it seemed to him that the thing that was tormenting her must have something to do with him directly. If he had not hurt her in anyway, and she did not wish to confide in him about some unknown difficulty, then what was the matter with her?
Snape's eyes narrowed and he found himself clutching the arms of his chair, as a wholly new and admittedly exciting thought came to him. What would be the one thing that Hermione would not tell him, no matter how much she wished to do so? What was the one thing that he had discovered this very evening within his own heart and had vowed she must never know?
Could it be? Was it even remotely possible?
Snape felt his heart pounding in his chest, as if he had just run a marathon. Without moving anything else, he lifted a languid hand toward the small cabinet in the corner beyond the fireplace.
"Accio, fire whiskey." he murmured huskily.
The cabinet creaked open and with a 'whoosh' of air the cold, hard bottle slapped his open palm. He next summoned a glass, and with shaking hands poured his drink. He tossed it back with practiced movements and, sucking the air past his teeth with a hiss, felt a shudder passed through him, as the fiery liquid traveled down his throat and warmed his stomach.
Just enough to steady my nerves, he thought. I need to be able to think clearly.
He sat for some moments letting the idea that Hermione might care for him settle uneasily into his heart and mind.
He felt utterly terrified.
Suddenly, Snape let out a hearty, deep throated laugh.
I, the intrepid spy who stands before the Dark Lord as he probes my mind looking for proof of treachery…the one who faces down death daily…I am terrified of a small, bushy haired Gryffindor girl! Ridiculous!
He tossed back another shot, and sat back in his chair, bottle in one hand, and glass in the other.
No, he continued miserably, not daring to say the words aloud, I am not afraid of the girl. I am afraid of my own feelings.
In that moment, Snape knew he and his bottle of fire whiskey would not part company until late into the night.
The next morning was as drear and colorless as Snape's outlook on his life. He had awakened quite suddenly, feeling as though he had been hit by a particularly vicious rogue bludger…several times…in the head. He sat up dizzily and realized that at some point in the night, he had stumbled to his bedroom and had managed to remove one boot and one pant leg before passing solidly out across his bed, face down on top of the deep green coverlet. He could still see the drool spot.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Merciful gods! Someone was bloody well breaking down his door!
"Just a moment," he rasped testily, as he oozed off his bed gingerly.
With head pounding and stomach roiling, Snape tried to right himself while pulling his half shed clothes back on and running his shaking hands through his hair.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Snape rolled his eyes painfully and found himself fighting not to wretch, as his aching head pounded all the more in protest of his insisting on remaining upright.
"Keep your bloody shirt on!" he called acidly. "I'm coming!"
Trying and failing to assume his characteristic smooth, gliding gate, he moved to his door, hoping against hope that he did not look as ghastly as he felt. Upon throwing it open angrily, he found none other than the intrepid Miss Hermione Granger, his apprentice, eyes wide and face the very picture of concern.
"Severus?" she inquired, voice high and apprehensive. "Are you quite all right? I have been knocking for several minutes. We usually begin work at 8:30 on Saturday mornings. It is now a quarter past nine." She eyed him suspiciously. "Are you sick?" she asked as she moved past him into his sitting room.
As she took in the state of the room, particularly the damning empty fire whiskey bottle lying forgotten on the floor beside his chair, along with the shot glass turned on it side and spilling its incriminating contents on the upholstery of his chair, he wanted to sink into the floor with horror and embarrassment. He watched as Hermione's eyes narrowed knowingly.
"Oh," she said, attempting but failing to hide her shock. "I'm sorry. I am obviously intruding," she said coolly, as she made to turn back to the door.
Now, Snape felt irritation welling up inside of him. Who did she think she was treating him like an errant child?
"Have you never known a wizard to drink a bit of fire whiskey, you ridiculous girl?" he growled, glaring at her challengingly.
"Of course I have, Professor!" she shot back, straightening her back and tilting her chin up to meet his challenge. "I've just never known you to drink so much that you were indisposed for work the next morning!" she finished, knowing by the clench of his jaw that she had hit her mark.
Now, Snape's shame evaporated and he felt instead boiling, caustic anger running through his veins, chasing the remaining fire whiskey out of his system. He suddenly felt amazingly clear headed.
"I am not indisposed!" he spat, his face contorting. "Why are you invading my privacy anyway? I do not remember inviting you to my chambers!"
Hermione's face reddened and her eyes flashed. "I came to see that you were alright. It is unlike you to be late," she said in low, dangerously clipped tones. "I was concerned."
Snape smirked disdainfully, as he moved to his door with some of his old grace and grabbed the handle, pulling it open sharply.
"Well, as you can plainly see, I am perfectly fine!" he sneered, as he made a courtly bow and waved his hand toward the door in an overdone gesture of showing her out. "Now you may leave!" he said pointedly, with a flash of teeth.
Hermione lowered her eyes and pursed her lips, but said no more as she swept from the room haughtily.
Snape slammed the door behind her causing it to crack like thunder. He would have been pleased to see her jump, before she sped away.
Hermione felt hot tears well up in her eyes, as she paced around Snape's lab, wringing her hands piteously.
What was I thinking? she berated herself. Going to his rooms! Oh, when will I stop being so impulsive!
To her credit, she really had been concerned about the dark potions master. And, in her concern, it had not occurred to her that she was being presumptuous in checking on him.
Why had he felt it necessary to be so waspish? Hermione's chin tilted up defiantly once more at the thought of Snape's degrading behavior.
"For heaven's sake!" she muttered sulkily, crossing her arms and letting her eyes drop petulantly to her shoes. "I was only trying to help!"
It was times like these that made her want to kick herself for loving the man so! He was not an easy man, nor was he particularly pleasant to be around a great deal of the time. She wondered what made her think she couldn't do without him.
He is a good man, and he has a good heart, she told herself with conviction. And, he is brave, and brilliant, and fiercely loyal. He does what is right, even if it is to his hurt…
Tears of frustration and sorrow began to course down her reddened cheeks, as she slowly trudged to her workbench and mechanically began setting up for the day's brewing. She wasn't even sure Snape would come out of his rooms, let alone wish to work with her.
At that thought, Hermione's tears fell even more copiously. She stopped her preparations and eased herself onto the stool she kept by her station and reached into her robes for her handkerchief.
Damn him! Maybe it would be better if I just left, she thought, feeling wretchedly alone. After all, he didn't tell me what to do! I could go to the library and see if there is anything more I can learn to help Harry.
At the thought of Harry, Hermione found herself once again painfully regretting that she was not with him and Ron searching for horcruxes. Though she knew it was for the best that she had stayed behind, she couldn't help wishing she was with her two closest friends.
Only the year before, which had been the trios last as students at Hogwarts, she had spent every free minute researching to get as much information on horcruxes that she could possibly find. She had put her considerable brain power to work in trying to discover what the remaining horcruxes were and where they might be found. And, she had met with surprisingly greater success than she had suspected she ever could have.
Of course, the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, had given her special permission to use the Ministry's library, and had set up a floo connection between her head girl's room and the Ministry, so that she could have twenty-four hour access if she needed it. That library had been just a plethora of extremely useful information.
Harry and Ron, meanwhile, had taken private defense lessons with Remus Lupin and Mad Eye Moody. And, Professor Snape, who was cleared of all charges regarding the death of Professor Albus Dumbledore after evidence of Dumbledore's complicity in the matter had been found in his pensieve, had returned to the school to resume teaching and to continue instructing Harry in Occlumency. His insight into the Dark Lord's thinking, and, of course, his information on Voldemort's movement had also been invaluable in Harry's preparation.
Hermione still wondered how Professor Snape had kept the confidence of the Dark Lord after his capture and subsequent acquittal of Dumbledore's murder. She didn't dare ask, but she certainly wondered. Perhaps she would gain the courage to ask him one day.
Hermione forced her thoughts back to Harry, leaving the mystery surrounding Professor Snape for a future moment of thoughtfulness.
She sighed as she thought about how long it had been since she had seen either Harry or Ron.
It had been shortly after graduation when Harry and Ron had set out on the quest for the remaining horcruxes, leaving her behind. Hermione had been ordered by Minerva McGonagall, now head of the Order of the Phoenix in Dumbledore's place, to remain at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall had felt that Hermione would do her friends more good if she were using her strengths as a researcher and strategist on their behalf, instead of fighting it out on the front line.
The day of her two friends' departure Hermione had thought she might die of a broken heart, but it soon became apparent to her that Professor McGonagall was quite right in her assessment of Hermione's rightful place in this mission. For, since that time, she had been called upon to crack several of Lord Voldemort's admittedly clever puzzles in order to gain Harry access to two of the all important horcruxes, which were subsequently destroyed.
Hermione allowed herself a small smile at that remembrance. She was pleased she had been able to help her friends, even if she could not be nearer to them.
Extricating herself from her reverie, Hermione balled her handkerchief up in her hand and took a deep breath. She knew that the wolfsbane potion needed to be finished in the next few hours, or it would be useless.
Perhaps I should finish it on my own, though I think it would serve him right if he had to brew it all over again. Why, the loss of the ingredients alone would…
She frowned and shook her head a little at her own childishness. Of course, she must finish it. Remus was counting on having it tomorrow morning.
And, with quiet, tearless determination, Hermione headed to the supply closet for the needed ingredients.