Becoming
Chapter Seven
by snarkypants
September drifted into October and the weather grew colder. The third years (save three) began to buzz with excitement over their upcoming Hogsmeade trip.
Major controversy had erupted when Jim-James was chosen for the Quidditch team and Blithe wasn't. The team captain said publicly (and stupidly) that Blithe was a good enough player, but there were entirely too many Weasleys on the team already.
Jim-James and Wulfric resigned their positions in solidarity with their cousin, although knowing her nephews as Hermione did, she suspected that they had some sort of plan for bringing the team around to their side.
She was particularly glad she had been pardoned from duty as Head of House for a few years. Between the escalating Cold War with Michael Davies and Gryffindor's abysmal showing in practice, none of the Weasleys was much in favour at the moment.
Fabian was made captain of the Gobstones team and, according to Filius, was settling in to his routine, to Hermione's intense relief.
Hermione's students were responding well. The Slytherins were so pleased that Weasleys had sunk Gryffindor's Quidditch hopes for the season that they were ostentatiously friendly to anyone claiming the slightest connection to the family. With the Weasleys in full 'circle the wagons' mode, Wulfric made a 180-degree turn in his classroom demeanour; he was now the discipline enforcer for the seventh year class. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs seemed content merely to learn and were therefore largely unaffected by the dramatics.
She was coming to know her former professors as colleagues; Professor Sinistra insisted that Hermione call her 'Nancy' and they frequently sat together at dinner. Ancient Madam Pince unbent enough to allow Hermione to scratch her cat behind the ears. Professor Flitwick kept her aware of Fabian's progress without telling her too much and violating Fabian's privacy.
She hadn't spent any time alone with Severus since her birthday. By tacit agreement each seemed to orbit through the other's periphery, rarely speaking. She would admit to feeling a frisson of awareness when he entered the room, a thrill of excitement when she would catch him at watching her. It wasn't a sullen silence; he didn't seem to bear her any ill will for her indecision.
Mostly, the silence between them felt like taking a deep breath before plunging feet first into dark water.
Hermione was halfway through her fifth year lecture on the problematic behaviour of the rune ehwaz in time calculation when an owl tapped on the window. She excused herself, and retrieved the message.
She kept her face expressionless as she read. "Class dismissed," she said, without looking up.
That evening, another owl arrived, with a message for the headmistress.
"Professor McGonagall:
"I'll be returning to Hogsmeade via The Three Broomsticks' Floo late tonight; expect me at about 1 a.m.
Hermione Weasley
visiting Royal Marsden Hospital, Surrey"
Minerva gave the note to Severus and sighed. He quickly scanned the writing.
"She's not Apparating just outside the grounds, then?" He returned the note to Minerva, who folded it carefully.
"She may be too upset to risk it," Minerva said. "Tsk, that doesn't sound good."
"I'll meet her in Hogsmeade; she shouldn't walk through the Forest alone at that time of night, particularly if she's distracted," Severus said, looking through a file.
Minerva paused, apparently debating whether to pry. "Severus… is there something between the two of you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Curiosity. Affection for you both."
"Are you asking as my friend of many years or as my employer?"
"I don't think the roles are contradictory in this case."
He folded his arms across his chest, and huffed loudly through his nose. "There is… something. I'm not sure what it is yet."
Minerva nodded, digesting this for a few moments. "You deserve some happiness, Severus. I hope that you can find it and keep it." She smiled. "And that comes from my dual role as your friend and your employer."
"Thank you, Minerva," he said.
"I'm sure I don't have to tell you to keep it discreet, though."
Hermione was quite agitated when he met her in Hogsmeade. She rubbed her arms rapidly over her heavy cloak. "I'm freezing. Hospitals are always so bloody cold. I had two of Rosmerta's toddies and sat in front of her fire for an hour and it didn't do a bit of good."
"I'm impressed that you're still able to walk."
"I think she watered them down somewhat; it is a school night."
"Considerate of her."
They walked in silence for several minutes.
"My father's dying." She said it flatly, stating a fact rather than seeking sympathy.
Severus nodded.
"Stupid fucking fags. He wouldn't give them up. I've been after him about it for years, since I was a little girl, and he just wouldn't stop smoking. Padma Patil came in from St. Mungo's for a consult and she said if he'd got the diagnosis six months ago she might have been able to help him." He could see the cords of tension in her throat as she struggled with her grief and rage.
"How long?"
"Weeks, maybe months. Not longer, though. When Ron died, I thought that it must be easier to let go slowly. But what it really means is watching someone die by inches." She made a noise that was somewhere between a howl and a sob, but she wasn't crying. "I just want to hit something. So hard that my arm shatters."
"Hit me."
"What?"
"Hit me."
"I can't hit you."
He snorted. "You won't hurt me."
"I might."
He rolled his eyes, and murmured an incantation. "Cushioning charm. Does that make you feel better?"
She shoved at his chest experimentally. "Can you feel that?"
"I can feel your hand, but it doesn't hurt. Now hit me." He shrugged. "Most of my former students would give their eye-teeth for the opportunity; besides, it'll warm you up."
She made a fist and slugged him. When he didn't gasp or recoil or show any sign of distress, she clenched her left hand and hit him on the shoulder. This blow was followed by another right to the chest, and a left to the belly.
She struck at him over and over again, until her eyes filmed over with tears and her breathing stuttered with sobs. Flailing blindly, she lost her balance and stumbled; she landed hard against him, bruising her cheek on his shoulder.
"Easy, then," he murmured, holding her elbows to steady her. "Are you warmer now?"
"What? Oh, yes," she said, sniffling. Hermione flexed her hands, alternately stretching her fingers apart and clenching them into fists.
"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked.
She sucked on a knuckle. "Not as much as I wanted to."
"And do you feel better?"
"Not particularly," she said, a snarl in her voice.
"Good," he said lightly and steered her back toward the path.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"If you felt better after injuring yourself, Minerva would insist on sending you for some psychological vetting, and we would need to find a substitute teacher for a few weeks." He laughed as she shot him an especially venomous look. "Not to mention the fact that you assaulted the deputy headmaster."
"Oh! You told me—" she cried, outraged, before he cut her off.
"I feared for my life, didn't I?" he asked, an unholy light gleaming in his eyes and a smirk lurking about the corners of his mouth.
She stalked off ahead of him, hair flying. Furious didn't even begin to describe her feelings at this point. She could cheerfully kill Severus Snape right now! And to think she had kissed him, the arrogant, unfeeling wanker… he couldn't muster up the slightest bit of sympathy…
You don't want sympathy, a voice in her head chided her. That would just make you bawl like an infant. Remember Bill, after Ron died? She sniffed indignantly. Bill had oozed sympathy every time he saw her and left her wallowing miserably in tears every time, leading, in part, to a lingering antipathy toward her brother-in-law.
She stopped walking. After a few moments, he caught her up.
"I know what you're doing," she said flatly.
"What is that?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"Being a Slytherin. Not being sympathetic because it would make me feel worse than I already do."
"Perhaps I'm just being an arsehole."
"No. I recognise it now. Sneaky Slytherin tactics." She smiled wryly at him.
He snorted. "I didn't learn it from a Slytherin. He wasn't even a wizard."
"Really?" She cocked her head to the side, still smiling.
"My father. He had a gift for distracting people from their misery, usually by pissing them off."
"Well. It feels much better to get your blood up than to blubber about it; I guess he knew what he was doing."
"Most of the time. He'd usually come home with a black eye or split lip, though." His tone was dry but somehow affectionate.
"Is he still alive?"
"He died when I was fourteen. Emphysema." He met her gaze and held it for a few moments. "He smelt of sawdust and cigarette smoke always. When I was a boy, before I got my Hogwarts letter, I'd spend hours with him while he worked; there was always a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth. Occasionally the ash would drop and set the sawdust to smoking, and he'd put it out, saying, 'Don' tell yer mum, lad.'"
"He was a carpenter?"
"No, a mechanic down the mill; he just liked to build things of an evening. I have a chair and a table of his in my quarters; nothing special, but they're all I have of him."
"I'm sorry," she said and he nodded his acceptance. "He sounds like a lovely person."
He laughed shortly. "I'm not sure 'lovely' is the right word, but he was a good man; I wanted to be just like him."
Her brows went up. "You don't smoke, do you?"
"Gave it up after the war."
"Oh."
He shrugged. "It served its purpose. It was a stress release; damned few safe alternatives at the time."
"I guess I can't begrudge you a few cigarettes, then," she said wryly.
"You don't have the right to begrudge me anything in my private life, Hermione," he said, his gaze locked on the path ahead.
Stung, she looked up at him. "No. I suppose not." She put her hand on his forearm, effectively bringing him to a halt. "Perhaps I'd like to, though. Have that right."
A bemused look crossed his face. "That's a strange thing to want."
"You're absolutely impossible," she snapped. "I'd like to have the right to care about you, to know you."
"Know me? You may know me all you wish," he said, leering.
"I didn't mean the biblical sense, you pillock," she said, scowling.
"My good fortune improves hourly."
"Just… stop it," she said, with an impatient gesture. "I'm being serious and you're mocking me."
"What is it you want? Come out and say it, then."
"You'll make fun of me," she said, nearly shouting now.
"Probably." As she grew louder, he became calmer and quieter. "That's all part of the package, Mrs Weasley. If you can't take ridicule you should look elsewhere."
"Ridicule? From whom? Besides yourself, of course."
"My derision is a drop in the Pensieve to what you'd get from the majority of the Wizarding World."
"That's rubbish and you know it," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Want to find out?" he asked, a purring note of challenge in his voice.
"Do you always do this? Push people away with one hand while pulling them closer with the other?"
He raised her chin with one hand and brought his face alongside hers. He brushed his lips along her jaw line; the hairs of his beard tickled. She shivered; his breath was hot in her ear, making her squirm.
"Yessss," he hissed into her ear.
She sighed, relaxing against him. "Mmmm… yes… Wait." She looked up at him. "Were you answering my question?"
He chuckled and nipped briefly at her chin. "You're too quick by half, Mrs Weasley." He put his arms around her under her cloak and pulled her close.
"I'm too tired to fight you, Severus," she said into his robes.
"Then don't," he murmured against her hair.
He was neither as tall nor as robust as Ron, but she could easily rest her head on his shoulder. He smelt of wool and wood smoke and cold air.
"Your hair smells of hospital," he said, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"You say the sweetest things," she replied with a yawn, allowing herself to be rocked.
"On the contrary, I never say sweet things."
She rolled her eyes, chuckling. "You feel good," she said. "I'd love to dance with you."
"Ah, the toddies have finally kicked in; excellent."
"I mean it. I think it would be lovely."
"Pity there's no Yule Ball this year, then."
"There's always the wedding," she said sleepily.
"Ah, wedding?" he asked, not bothering to conceal the worry in his voice.
"George's. Over the holidays," she said. "Didn't you know?"
"If I had time to waste in keeping up with others' mating rituals it wouldn't be George Weasley's," he said dismissively.
"It might serve you to do so," she said tartly.
"Why? A Weasley marrying or reproducing is as inevitable as a Malfoy cheating on his taxes."
She cracked open an eye to look up at him. "I happen to be one of those marrying, reproducing Weasleys, Professor," she said, sniffing.
"Don't remind me," he muttered. He brushed a lock of windblown hair from her face. "We should get moving; it's gone quite late," he said. "I'd offer to carry you, but men my age don't recover from hernias as quickly as we ought."
"Remind me to hex you tomorrow," she said darkly.
"You have my word as a gentleman," he assured her.
A/N: Thanks for your kind words and reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying the story.
I realized this weekend, during a re-watching of the LOTR movies, that I owe the line about the 'deep breath before the plunge' to Tolkien. If you're going to steal, steal from the best, right?
Special thanks to my beta, selened.