Playlist: Your Bones - Of Monsters and Men, In the Sun - Joseph Arthur, Soundcheck - Catfish and the Bottleman, White Blank Page - Mumford and Suns, Don't Let Me Down - The Chainsmokers.
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Chapter Three
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"Nothing can be sadder or more profound than to see a thousand things for the first and last time."
Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
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As she breathed in the evening air, Hermione clung to the sounds which it carried: there was faint, bubbly laughter from the yard next door; around the corner was the tumultuous motions of a car fumbling to start. Music rose from the speakers of a radio, through a window opened across the street—a pop song she'd heard not two days before. More distant than the others, a baby cried, and two dogs barked in chorus. The young witch swore she could also hear a lawn mower going, but the sun had fallen too long ago for that to be the case…
Regardless, these were the mundane melodies of a summer she would not have: a summer that the daughter of two Muggle dentists would have enjoyed, eventually, given the time needed for her melancholy to fade, or heal, whichever came first.
Given the chance to turn back time longer than ten hours, she would have chosen to try harder to please her mother. But although she wore a time turner around her neck and badly wanted to turn back and change her mind about going, she wouldn't. It was fairly clear, besides, that there would be no room for negotiation; the headmaster had not given her a choice.
At this point, Dumbledore didn't have anything else to hold over her head, besides her Gryffindor honor and Harry's life. Had her parents resisted more, she did not doubt they would have eventually been convinced with nefarious means—by false promises, confounding magic or… she dared not think of anything more heinous. If she had resisted, would Snape have forced her, or would he have been instructed to Obliviate her? Without any other chips, perhaps he could threaten her well-being, or her parents'. Was he capable of violence? Worse yet, capable of violence towards one of the students he was sworn to protect and cherish? After Cedric, she thought he might be.
Flushing from the dark thoughts that plagued her and their brisk pace, Hermione trotted behind Snape. The quiet descended as they headed farther away from Granger House—even Crookshanks seemed to stop rustling in his enchanted carrier (far roomier than would be assumed to the glancing eye and light as a feather, too). Never one for silence, she found herself trying to fill it with questions.
"Where are we going, exactly… sir?"
The potions master kept walking. His gait was determined and swift and she realized that he had more posture in his little finger than she ever did in her entire body. The hair which he wore was unfashionable in this world and maybe even the one they shared: for the first time, she realized it had grown longer than she remembered it ever being. Her eyes trailed from the tips of it, falling past his shoulders, down his narrow back. Although he had, almost absently, shoved it behind his ears sometime after arriving at her house, it threatened to hang loosely around his face.
Without the voluminous robes, his build was rather alarmingly emaciated. Even in Muggle clothes he was poised and stiff, unapproachable in his grim stature and countenance. As her eyes trimmed the jacket he wore, fashionably tailored to his ever narrow waist, it seemed to her that he had never particularly cared about his appearance, yet always carried himself with structure and dignity. Hermione cleared her throat, wondering if he had eaten as he had claimed or simply said it to appease her parents.
Thinking of them made her feel guilty and lonely, "My parents—"
He didn't even spare a glance backwards, but she could hear him sigh with irritation.
She huffed, "Will they be safe... sir?"
That gave the bat a slight pause. He slowed to allow her to catch up, and she was able to catch his dark eyes for the briefest of moments. They were set beneath dark, imposing brows which were hardly as thick as Viktor's. Opaque, yet slender, they lay flat and revealed nothing.
"For now," he intoned, "yes."
Hermione's eyes darted away from his. She chewed her lip, and focused on trying to keep up when he continued with determined fervor, "How will we get to this safe house… side-along apparition? Why must we walk?"
"Naturally," he drawled with a dry, bored roll of his eyes, "your neighborhood has been warded in order to preserve your parents' safety. We will have to walk a distance to disapparate to the Order safe house."
"Order? What Order?"
He seemed to walk even quicker to avoid her questions.
"But I thought Dumbledore sent you?"
The question was ignored with a soft, "Hm."
When they eventually reached a "distance"—and she only knew because the potions master stopped abruptly and turned into an alleyway where several cars were double parked, providing plenty of cover—she was a bit out of breath. For some reason she did not think the location or the cars were a coincidence. Briefly, she thought she saw a figure standing in a window of the nearby house, looking at them with a lifted hand in greeting. When she blinked they were gone.
Snape offered her his arm—the right and not the left. She stared at it, wary of the thin length of it, while juggling the cat carrier and her trunk. The latter was vanished away with a modest flick of the professor's wand (which was how she came to recall that he was left-handed and not right, like she was).
"Wait—Crookshanks…?"
"I charmed the contraption while you were… sharing details with your parents," the potions master drawled, his eyes narrowing at the widening of her eyes at the arguably kind action, "Even so, I suggest you hold your beasts' carrier tightly, unless you want him lost in the abyss or his parts scattered all over London."
Her mouth twisted at the thought. She grabbed hold of Crooks tightly, unconsciously doing the same of her professor's arm. Unsurprisingly, she had expected it to be an arm made of icy stone, stiff and unbending. To her surprise, his blood was as warm as hers was, slightly more so in the dry heat of the summer. Beneath the layers of clothing, he was all muscle and bone, but there was flesh, too, that was supple against her grip. In touching him, there was evidence that he was a breathing, living thing and not carved from granite or marble.
It did little to change her thoughts of him. Whether he was a breathing man or the Shade some rumored him to be, hot or cold, flesh or stone, to her he was still a beast, without a care or conviction that aligned with her own ideals.
"Do not let go."
There was no other warning. Instantly, the magic yanked them through space and time. It was the first time she would feel such a way, having never ridden side-along before or apparating at all, actually. This form of travel was far more disorienting than the time turner, but less so than Floo. After they arrived, she gasped for breath, shivering at the sudden sensation of air on her skin once again. The trunk which Snape had sent along before them skidded to the ground beside them, having been delayed with the distance he had sent it. Crookshanks meowed, allowing her to be comforted that he was in one piece, too.
The dark wizard silenced the sound with a harsh sound of his teeth, then drew his dark eyes along the street in search of observant Muggles. Hermione could do nothing more than take a deep, steadying breath as he did so, and blink the world straight again.
Her escort began to lead her along, only barely allowing her to gather her wits. They entered a park through an open wrought iron gate, following a paved trail which wound beneath a canopy of trees. As they exited, Hermione thought she could feel eyes upon her and turned to peer through the night behind her. It was too dark, however, and Snape did not relent in his briskness to do the same, so she supposed she was just being overly paranoid.
Once they escaped the park, rounded two more lanes, and followed a slender road for what felt like a mile, they only halted when they stood before a street of townhouses, each with several floors of glittering, flat, rectangular windows. Snape did not allow her time to observe them properly, as he promptly procured a slip of paper from his pocket and offered it to her. Hermione was confused for a moment, but she took the paper, and read the lines.
The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.
"The Order of—"
"Quiet," he hissed at her, grabbing her arm and pulling her forward, towards the house that had squeezed itself in between the others, "I know it must be difficult for you, but I implore you to think before you speak, or hold your tongue indefinitely."
While she should have expected such from Snape, she was growing extremely tired of his jabbing at her. The Gryffindor easily recalled another time, when Snape had grabbed her, leaving bruises in his wake. It was his hand that had physically prevented her from saving Cedric, as she should have and would have given his leave.
With a heaving sigh, she pried herself out of his arms and glared away from him, heading up the steps towards the "safe house". He filed in behind her with her trunk levitated beside him, standing closely, too closely for her liking. If she was such a bother to him, then he could just leave her to her own. Why bother with her if he hated her so? She'd rather face capture by death eaters than suffer one more second with him!
Bite your tongue.
More frustrated with herself than him, she grabbed the handle and twisted roughly. For a moment, she registered him warning her not to. To spite him, the Gryffindor pushed the door open too forcefully, sending it banging against the wall in pure spite of him.
"FILTHY BLOOD-TRAITORS! VILE HALF-BREEDS!"
Hermione froze at the sound. Snape pushed her through the threshold forcefully, neatly closing the door behind her with a curse darting from his lips. She shot him a venomous look, surprised at his language, but far less than she was of the words bellowed overhead.
"PESTS! MONGRELS! VERMIN!"
Hermione nearly tripped over her trunk. Crookshanks hissed from his carrier, and she could feel him pressing weight against the wall, trying to force himself out. She was reaching for her wand with her hand, but the weight of the carrier shifted, forcing her to drop it—
"HOW DARE YOU STAIN THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK WITH THE LIKES OF MUDBLOODS AND WEREWOLVES! FILTH! SCOURGES OF THE EARTH!"
The witch within the gilded if slightly moldy looking frame was red-faced and screeching. Snape seemed undisturbed by the display. He only stared at her with mild disgust on his face (which was a typical expression for him and thus she could assume he wasn't surprised as she was).
Beside his sneering form, Hermione crouched on the floor. The woman continued, but she was feeling too badly about Crookshanks to pay attention to the harsh words. Hastily, shaking fingers opened the carrier with soft cooing sounds. Her affections fell on deaf ears as the half-kneazle shot off like a bullet, an orange blur sliding against a dusky, stained wooden floor.
"AND YOU—YOU WRETCH—TRAITOR! FUMBLING COWARD! BESEECHER OF LIES!"
The potions master seethed at the portrait, but refrained from hexing it. Instead, he grabbed Hermione—by the elbow, this time, and not her arm—urging her upward and away from the hateful creature, down a long hallway, a distance from the entryway staircase. Just as Hermione was about to ask what was going on, where he had brought her, and why she should trust him at all, Molly Weasley appeared at the threshold of a kitchen. The redheaded matron wasn't paying attention, really, but was obviously irritated enough to emerge from her sanctuary to chastise someone, "Nymphadora, dear, that holder is in the same place where you left it last—oh!"
Her eyes flew between Snape to Hermione, back once and back again. The way she looked her up and down made the young witch uncomfortable, as if she were being evaluated from head to toe. When she noticed that Snape still held her arm, they darted away from each other. The professor skulked towards the dulled shrieks of the devil-woman's portrait, but only to cast a wordless spell that dulled the sound of her. It was not completely drowned out, but rather instead sounded as if he had placed a rubber bubble between them and it.
Mrs. Weasley seemed uncomfortable as she addressed Snape, who turned his attention, and his wand, back to her, "Severus, when did we first meet?"
"During the twins' first year, in the hospital wing," the potions master said tightly, "And for what reason?"
The redhead matriarch pinked a little, "The twins... er."
The potions master quirked a brow.
When Molly flushed and added a single, uttered word, "The incident with the stirring rods."
"Yes... the stirring rods," Snape bemused with a scowl, before lowering his wand from her and stepping further away from Hermione.
After Mrs. Weasley enveloped her in a crushing hug, she fretted over her mussed hair, "Hermione—we weren't expecting you for a few days."
"Hermione?" Ginny appeared through the same door her mother had emerged from, wearing a jumper and jeans, obviously compelled to modesty while at home that she did not similarly hold at Hogwarts. Her eyes widened at the sight of Snape, still in Muggle clothes, before they flew to Hermione's. The chocolate brown eyes of her only female friend seemed utterly relieved to see her and it made all of her despair at leaving her parents behind dissolve.
"Hey, Ginny," she said with a grateful smile. Seeing Harry would have only made her think about Cedric. Seeing Ginny, however, made her feel at ease.
The redhead wasted no time in running forward to hug her, "Please, Circe—tell me you're here for the summer?"
Hermione nodded her head. Ginny pulled away to do a little wiggling dance in the doorway, obviously glad to have another female in the house, "Hermione Jean Granger—oh, am I glad you exist! Sweet Nimue, there has never been a more gorgeous, intelligent, brilliant witch ever to live. Honestly, I would have settled for Milicent Bulstrode at this rate, but you—you are one beautiful son of a—"
"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley hissed, "Language."
"—Muggle!"
"That is not appropriate, either, Ginevra!"
Hermione shook her head in bemusement—Mrs. Weasley thought she would be offended by the way her eyes darted to hers.
"Sorry, Mum, really, but how can you blame me? Ron's been driving me batty for a fortnight. There's only so many times I can play him at chess before I want to set the pawns to gauge his eyes out. I'm high off endorphins at the presence of someone with a uterus—besides you, of course… and Tonks, who never stays long enough."
"Ginny, there is no excuse—you—we have company."
Was she taking offense to her daughter's violent urges or her use of the word 'uterus' with Professor Snape looming a meter away?
Ginny made an expression of incredulity towards Hermione, but politely urged toward her mother, "Lighten up, Mum! It's only Hermione—oh, and Professor Snape. Hello, Professor."
"Miss Weasley," Snape said coolly, while rather uncomfortably dragging his dark eyes along the portraits and shadows as if in search of something. Obviously as overwhelmed as Hermione was with this strange safe house, no doubt filled to the brim with Weasleys of all ages and darker artifacts than a cursed portrait, he seemed to (for once) be out of his element. After realizing they were all looking at him, she noted that his cheeks appeared to flush slightly. Perhaps in response to his reaction, his face twisted into a trademark scowl.
Was that a bad habit or a defense mechanism?
"Has something happened?" Molly asked him with a furrowed brow.
"No. Miss Granger is to remain at Grimmauld for the summer, as she said, at the urging of the headmaster... it was believed sooner was safer for all parties involved."
"Oh, yes. I—er, received his letter. Thank you for fetching her, Severus, it was very kind of you," Molly was too polite for her own good, "Have you eaten, dear?"
The potions master looked like he wanted very much to just run for the door rather than eat with Mrs. Weasley, "As usual, I shall decline."
"Come now, there will be plenty of food! We would be honored—"
"No—thank you," the professor said grumpily. Mrs. Weasley made the face that she made whenever anyone tried to fend off her cooking (especially someone as skinny as the potions master)—one of suspicion and then determination.
"Severus, I insist!"
Without further discussion, the potions master turned, eager for the door, but stopped dead in his tracks. Not a moment after, a figure emerged from a perch at the landing of the staircase, fingers curling through the air in a mock show of gentility.
"My, my Snivellus… how kind of you to call upon your old friend Sirius."
Snape sniffed, jutting his nose upward. For a moment, she thought he might just brush past without a word, but he seemed to remember something and greeted the man with a gritted, "Black."
It came out like a snarl, but Sirius grinned smugly at the sound.
"Oh, dear," Molly Weasley said, glancing worriedly to Ginny, waving her hands as if to usher the girl into the kitchen. The redhead ignored her mother, and was rapt at attention towards the two dark-haired men, looking interested but also slightly worried. She could sense the tension between them if her furrowed brow was any indication.
Oh, fuck, was more accurate—remembering, very clearly, how much Snape's face contorted when he had faced Sirius that night in her third year. Hermione's hand flew upward, to the time turner around her neck, and she knew—if she had not worn it that night, Snape would have likely killed Sirius, either directly or by way of the Dementor's Kiss.
While Harry had been convinced that Snape wanted to earn glory for the capture of a killer, Hermione was not so stupid. There was history there, between the two. One that having them in close proximity in closed in spaces would not be advisable.
"Off so soon? And without even a parting greeting."
Hermione's eyes darted to Ginny's. Mrs. Weasley was wringing her hands, eyes jumping from man to man, trying to decipher which she would have a better chance of restraining. Snape was no longer facing the door, but had turned to face Black slowly, almost lethally, with a calm sort of preciseness that made her shiver.
"Don't fret, Black. It's nothing against your hospitality. You are ever the gracious house pet," If he was angry, his features did not reveal it, "I merely can't stand the stench of dog."
"That's right—you prefer the company of rats, don't you, Snivellus?"
She could see the man's jaw tighten—gritting his teeth. In moments, the veneer had cracked and the man beneath was struggling to contain his anger. Sirius, on the other hand, was the picture of cool arrogance. Hermione noticed that the convict appeared healthier, although still slightly gaunt, and in his heavier form he was far handsomer than she remembered. In place of the rags she'd seen him wear last were finer clothes: robes with a vest and suit-pants and a pocket-watch with a golden chain. His hair was cleaner, shorter, both curly and dark and handsome. His eyes, eerily gray, peered at Snape with a contempt she had not thought possible of him, even as his mouth quirked into the smuggest of smiles.
"Sirius," she could hear Mrs. Weasley say sweetly, hopefully trying to distract him. Beneath the smile was a hint of warning that he should listen to her if he knew what was good for him, "Severus has brought Hermione to us to stay for the summer. Won't you greet your new house guest?"
His gray eyes flicked to Hermione and coyly filled with warmth, "Hermione Granger… you are a sight for sore eyes. How are you, pet?"
Sirius seemed to be baiting him and kept his eyes on hers, abandoning Snape's attention for hers. She felt a blush tinge her cheeks at the huskiness of his voice, the scrutiny of his eyes, and hated herself for feeling such a way. No longer was she a thirteen year old girl, mooning over handsome older men like Gilderoy Lockhart and Sirius Black. Those days were over, she decided. She and men were over.
"Fine," she answered, evenly.
After all, she was still mourning over Viktor and all the childish fantasies she might have had over love. Honey-brown eyes dropped from his silvery gray and she missed the way he took the opportunity to look lower, as if following them to the floor. Only Snape saw it for what it really was: to evaluate her body beneath the flimsy, white cotton blouse she wore.
He turned to leave. That wasn't his problem, was it?
"Come now, Severus... I was only teasing," his host stepped off the stairwell, his grin wide and feral, "Stay for supper. We can swap stories of the old days. You remember them, don't you, Snivy?"
"While I appreciate you slobbering over my departure, I have better things to do than reminisce about school," Snape hissed, "I'm sure Molly can dog-sit just fine without me."
Sirius' smile wavered, but he was quick to retort, "Better things, eh? Like bowing over for your old pal Lucius—how is the shirt lifter these days?"
"Sirius!"
Snape was gay? Hermione peered towards him, but she didn't see it. She couldn't see Snape desiring anyone, man or woman.
Obviously, Sirius just knew how to get the rise out of him. Hermione inwardly fumed. Anyone with a brain could see that Sirius was trying to get Snape to cast the first spell. As hateful as he was, the potions master had endured more than enough to warrant a reaction, but was visibly refraining. It was discrete and subtle, but Hermione saw Snape palm his wand and grip it tightly, tight enough for lesser wood to snap. Wisely, and with great effort by his trembling hand, he did not brandish or lift it.
If ever there was a moment she could compare to a stand-off, this was it: Sirius was obviously fingering his wand in his pocket, while Snape's was clutched in fists at his sides. The Black heir's mouth was twisted in a way that revealed his teeth, yellowed from Azkaban, while the potions master was tight-lipped, scowling.
"Both of you, stop this, now," Molly insisted from the corner.
Neither men moved a muscle. It seemed the world grew still, pregnant with hatred, until...
Only when the door opened suddenly did both men reach and raise the wands. Sirius pointed it at Snape, but Snape turned his back and pointed his at the door. Shockingly, Hermione could see Harry's godfather murmuring the beginnings of a curse before anyone even stepped through, and was immediately outraged. How dirty, how unfair! The young witch stepped forward instinctively, out of Molly's reach, while reaching for her own wand.
It was very close, but Sirius' spell died on his lips while his wand was pointed directly in her face. Given another second of hesitation, she would have surely suffered from it, and there was a moment where she knew he'd registered her in front of him and still had not relented. Hermione unflinchingly glared up at the Animagus, making sure he knew exactly how she felt about him lifting his wand to the man's back.
Both of them knew she would have absorbed the spell without qualm—and both knew, also, that he had not immediately halted when he had realized what she was doing. If there had been fewer witnesses, she might have been hexed by him, simply because he was too caught up in opportunity that he wanted not to waste it.
For her, it was utterly surreal: while Snape, who had protected her time and time again despite his hatred of her, was once again concerned with protecting them, Sirius, the man who's life she had saved, was blinded by hate and willing to hex him in the back and her in the processes. While she did not think Snape was perfect, the distinction between the two wizards was made very clear in that instant that her friend's godfather did not hesitate to abuse circumstance, or lower his wand from her. As Sirius' gray eyes bored into hers, she immediately became wary when he smiled at her charmingly, almost… devilishly. Perhaps trying to will her from believing what she had seen in his eyes.
Mr. Weasley was the breaker of the ice. Having arrived home from work, and late by the looks of it, he stiffened at the end of Snape's wand. It had not been lowered, even when he might have been blasted with a spell for dropping his guard from his enemy, "Er—Ginny, dear, what comic did I last buy you?"
"X-Men: Omega, Number 1," the girl said.
"Thank you… Gentlemen," he addressed them with a calm jovial tone. She noticed with surprise that he appraised Snape with the same amount of respect he did Dumbledore, or Harry, or even Hermione. But he only nodded towards Sirius and smiled grimly. When his eyes fell upon her, still at Snape's side and facing Sirius with her arms crossed, the patriarch's face wavered in surprise, then split into a genuine smile, "Hermione! How are you?"
"I'm... well," she replied with a blush as his eyes settled once more upon her position with her back to Snape. She stepped to side and backwards slightly, feeling the tension between Snape and Black slightly dissolved, and her sleeve brushed Snape's. Sirius seemed sort of irritated when she did not flinch in surprise, but merely smoothly adjusted to stand beside the potions master. Snape, ever the elusive creature, guardedly retreated away from her as she did. For a moment, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts beneath a curtain of dark hair to hide his face, glaring towards the clock as if realizing he was late for an appointment, "And you?"
"Fine, fine," Unperturbed by the atmosphere of the foyer, Mr. Weasley brushed towards her to shake her hand, squeezing them both with his in a grandfatherly way, "And your parents?"
She was interrupted from answering by the sound of barreling feet down the stairs. Perhaps having heard the rising voices (although not disturbed by the still muttering portrait), Ron appeared. He opened his mouth to say something mundane, but caught her in his sights and blurted, "'Mione?"
She replied as she always had when he used her detested nickname, "Hello, Ronald."
His face darkened slightly, as if remembering something unpleasant, "What are you doing here?"
"She's staying for the summer, Ronniekins," Ginny answered smartly, "And don't pretend like you weren't just begging for someone to keep you company besides me! Careful what you wish for, you git."
"Ginevra Molly," the matriarch warned of her daughter.
"Sorry, Mum—you toe rag," she corrected with a wink at Hermione.
Ron's scowl hinted that he did not share the sentiment, "Oi! Don't be a bint, Gin."
"RONALD BILIUS!"
His ears turned red and he shriveled when she began to rant, "In the kitchen, all of you! Ginny, Ron, you are both on punishment—don't give me those looks. Set the table and you both will be on dish duty tonight, and early chores tomorrow. Not a peep, Ronald. Get!"
Mrs. Weasley's face was frowning at her daughter, then apologetically smiled towards her guest, "Please, go and wash up, Hermione. Dinner is nearly ready."
The young witch glanced towards Snape, Sirius, and Mr. Weasley. None of the men were concerned with her, however. Snape was slightly separated from the other two. When Sirius jutted out an arm, Mr. Weasley grabbed it and pulled him away, smiling all the while. He was telling a story, despite Sirius' obvious disinterest. Across the hall, Hermione met Snape's eye. The weight of them made her feel strangely and she fell into step with Ginny.
"You alright?"
"Fine," she answered Ginny.
Just a little stunned.
She heard Ron mutter to himself. He was craning to look over his shoulder at the door, "I thought the Bat was staying? Just 'bout lost my appetite."
Hermione glanced towards the corridor. She saw that Sirius was looming near the stairs, distracted by Arthur, who had pulled him aside and was cornering him into a conversation to prevent him from following. Snape was taking advantage of the distraction which the Weasley patriarch had offered him, slinking towards the door. No one else seemed to care that he was leaving, nor did they offer him a parting remark, or thank him for being so prepared to protect them while their humble host was distracted.
Ron guffawed when she stepped around him. Before she had realized it, Hermione had left the trotting teenagers and was rushing past Sirius and Mr. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley made a squeaking sound, and perhaps reached out to grab and prevent her, but Hermione was too quick. Both men stopped talking as she rushed past, their eyes following her as she rushed towards the door. The portrait, too, seemed quiet when she reached out and grabbed Snape's by the forearm, preventing him from opening the door completely.
The door shut with a snap beneath their combined weight and the witch could feel him jerk instinctively, almost as if pained. She realized how stupid she was—he'd been ready to hex Sirius blind not moments before! What might he have done to her—to anyone—in that moment, thinking it was him? Well, she would be lucky to suffer only minor disfigurement. She held her breath for a long moment, but no spell came.
When her mind and body could function again, she felt the muscles of his arm tremor beneath her fingers. Knowing he would likely be scathing and mean, she stumbled over the words as hastily as she could.
"I just… wanted to say thank you—sir," she said, "For seeing me safely here."
She was still angry with him, for what had happened during the Third Task, for both taking too much and then ignoring the rest. For being under Dumbledore's thumb, just as she was. But she could remember the loneliness in his eyes and it crippled her. Too curious for her own good, she wondered, likely naively, that if he wasn't so guarded around Sirius, could she find kinship again in him. If he would share it with her, as he had once before, would she find that he was more than a monster?
Or would he ravage her memories, ignore her desperate pleas for his help, and stalk away in a shroud of darkness and cruelty?
As she searched his gaze, Hermione could see the way his jaw was clenched so tightly, as if he was making every effort to refrain from exploding. Beneath the flesh and skin, he was a man of tumultuous thoughts and emotions: as complex as she was, if not more. To forgive him would not be a weakness, she decided, but a strength. But she could only forgive so much of him. They were, after all, as different as they were alike.
"Considering they are empty-headed as you are, I find that I could care less about your niceties, Miss Granger," the professor spat loudly, sneering at her, although she was too prepared to let it anger her. As she bore his snarling expression with little more than a nod in agreement, she could feel eyes widen upon her, and wondered if the faint redness to his cheeks was from anger or embarrassment. He'd obviously expected her to cower from him, not agree with him.
Slowly, lethally—as he had with Sirius—he leaned into her, causing her to stiffen considerably. In a lower voice, still loud enough for the others to hear, he quipped, "Next time you decide to paw at me without my consent, I will forcibly remove you, you stupid, insufferable girl."
In the blackness of his gaze, she could see the shadows of his thoughts: and rather than enter her mind as he had before, his brushed against hers. It was just the barest, most tender of caresses against her temples, as if lips were pressed along them rather than fists. Stunned to silence, her eyes held his for a long, pregnant moment—obsidian to golden brown, unmoving, unbroken. Hermione could not describe how, but she knew that the words, the glares, the insults were all for show, that although he spoke them passionately, they were not as sincere as one was led to believe.
Why, she would not ever know, but he had spared her a kindness. Rather than allowing her to feel the brunt of his verbal lashing, he apologized in the only way he knew how.
She could practically taste it, his apology, along with several other darting, nameless emotions she did not think he had meant to share with her. It was only a moment, however, and the vestiges of thoughts were quelled as quickly as they arrived. Still, in their absence, in his absence, she felt a great thirst to feel them again. If she could have touched them, she would have traced the surface of them, memorizing the textures with her fingertips, as if she were tracing the planes of his lips.
Alas, after but an instant, it was as if they had never existed, and neither could she recall the true sensation of them. He flew from her mind effortlessly, while simultaneously wiping his face clean of emotion and her heart of any comprehension at all.
When he moved towards her, ever so slightly, ever so predatory, Hermione yanked her hand away with a slight, if nauseatingly pathetic whimper. He continued to return his wand to its hiding place, and his face melted into slow, satisfied smirk, as if he were pleased with her fear. Only she, who had been privileged with such a secret, would know that he was pleased with her ability to pretend. It was the last act for the watchful eyes of Sirius and a smattering of the Weasley clan, and she'd played her part, just as he had, wanting very badly to prove to him that she was just as capable of lurking in shadows as she was.
After all, that was how they had connected in the first place, during the Yule Ball: she and here were but two downtrodden outcasts, wandering, anchored ghosts amongst the freely breathing mortals that shunned them and could never, ever understand them.
With a stunned sort of horror, she realized that he could see her. Like Viktor could. Luckily, he was already sweeping away and could not see the way her lips parted in surprise or her eyes flew open to gaze at him with a stupid sense of wonder. When his back was turned to her, she heard him clearly say, quietly and for her ears only, "Trust no one, Miss Granger, least of all anyone here."
How could she trust anyone ever, ever again, when she had never tasted their mind like she'd tasted his?