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Chapter 3 – Of a Bad Situation

She snuck away as soon as she could excuse herself from the crowd still lingering at the castle without drawing questions. She had listened with awe as Harry revealed the contents of Snape's memories to the exhausted yet still jubilant crowd of students, teachers, and friends engaging in what had to be one of the most exhaustive after-action rehashing in wizarding history. At first everyone had told their individual perspectives in small groups, but soon the groups had begun to combine into larger and larger packs of listeners around the key players in the battle. When Harry had begun telling about Snape's long and covert history as a double agent between Voldemort and Dumbledore, a hushed silence tiptoed across the smashed remnants of the great hall until not a sound could be heard but Harry's voice recounting Snape's unknown heroics.

Hermione's stomach had twisted with an emotion she had never before experienced when Harry revealed that Snape's true allegiance was against the Death Eaters, something in the back of her mind giving her quiet pats on the back for listening to her instincts that he was somehow worth saving. She experienced a small pang of what surely couldn't be jealousy when Harry and the others began speculating about Snape's feelings for Lily, but this unwelcome internal dispute was interrupted by the flood of questions that began to spring up.

Should she reveal what she had done? No. She wasn't sure why, but she was somehow certain he would not welcome the rush of attention (the praise of the people he'd secretly protected nor the criticism of his methods in doing so) that he would accrue by miraculously becoming the second person in wizarding history to survive a direct attempt on his life by Voldemort himself. With that decided, she needed to get back to him. As seconds turned to minutes, being away from her childhood bedroom and its current occupant went from a nerve-wracking inconvenience to a physical pain. As soon as the talk reverted back to small groups sharing war stories, she quietly walked out of the great hall and strided with increasing pace until she was far enough off the grounds to disapparate.

She was not sure what she was expecting when she got there, but every part of her breathed a sigh of relief when she saw he was still there, still breathing, and resting quietly. Taking advantage of his unconsciousness, she felt comfortable perching on the bed next to him to begin checking his wounds. To her immense pride, her novice healing spells seemed to have worked and his wounds were not only beginning to close, but seemed not to show any signs of the lethal poison she had initially removed from them.

After her initial diagnosis appeared favorable, she relaxed enough to allow her mind to drift off to the ever-growing stack of questions piling up in the back of her mind. As she pondered how she was going to explain the situation when he finally awakened and whether he would be grateful to have been saved or angered to have been involuntarily tethered to her bed during one of the most important conflicts of their time, the hand that had been checking the healing of the gash on his neck drifted upward and now gently stroked his cheek. The fingers that had been monitoring the ever-strengthening beat of his heart had snaked quietly up from his wrist to intertwine themselves between his long slender fingers. Having no shortage of thoughts to occupy her more-than-competent brain, she sat completely absorbed in thought, staring absentmindedly at the floral wallpaper. She was, in fact, so absorbed in thought that she didn't notice when his eyes slowly fluttered open.

Again, he came to before he dared open his eyes. At first he thought it was the lingering pseudoreality of some unremembered dream, but after a few seconds of evaluation, he was quite confident that he felt a warm, soft touch on his cheek. Unable fully embrace the hope for what his rational mind was revealing as the only possible source of this touch, he inventoried the rest of his body for sensation. He was immediately greeted by the lingering pain in his neck, shoulders, and chest. Pushing his inquiry past his torso and into his extremities he froze as he discovered his left hand to be gently intertwined with another set of soft, warm fingers. He lay quietly, allowing himself to relish the long-lost sensation and warmth of holding someone's hand. This time he dreaded opening his eyes not for fear of not seeing those soft brown eyes, but for the fear that by acknowledging he felt this touch would make it disappear for good.

He didn't want to think of her as his former student. He didn't want to deal with the idea that she and her friends had grown up thinking of him with a mixture of disgust and loathing. He couldn't fathom what could have happened to change her mental view of him so suddenly. He was even more reticent to admit that this was not the fist time his thoughts had viewed her in a different light. It had been glaringly obvious to all, from her first class at Hogwarts, that Hermione was special. Her encyclopedic knowledge, signaled by a constantly waving hand in the air whenever a question was asked (and often when it had not) was a sign to each professor that they were dealing with the kind of mind that was found but once in a generation.

Yes, he had known of her intelligence from the beginning. However, it was not until her sixth year that he had accidentally stumbled upon one of her books in the library. She must have left one of her late-night study sessions in so tired a state that she accidentally abandoned one of her books in the library. He had never been too compatible with the idea of a good night's sleep, so when he had noticed the book still laying on the table where she had previously been studying, his curiosity won out over his notions of professorial conduct and he had placed it quietly in his robes as he walked past the table on his way out.

Back in his quarters, he shoved aside his lingering guilt at stooping to such puerile activities and laid her book open on the table. It was the standard-issue sixth year transfiguration textbook, but in every margin, around every image, and on each spare page a neatly winding script marked alternative spells, different permutations, new applications of the existing material, and even spells that were clearly borne of personal experimentation rather than academic knowledge. His breath had hitched in his throat as he was forcefully reminded of his own sixth-year potions book. Without another thought for the fact that he should not be spending his nights immersed in the writings of one of his students, he poured through each page.

As the pages turned, he learned not only the degree to which he had underestimated the young witch's cleverness, but he got a never-before-seen glimpse inside her mind. Through spells on transforming abilities and competencies he learned more of her ambition. As he found more and more spells on transfiguring negative emotions he began to learn of her unhappiness. He had thought her to have a perfectly happy social life. After all, she was always seen with the Potter boy and seemed to have gained the affections of the youngest Weasley, but an intellect of her caliber still felt lonely. He smiled as he saw the rudiments of a spell that would transfigure works of literature so she could converse with the characters, a spell he had in fact spent months trying to perfect during his days at school. Page after page late that night transformed his image of her from an obviously bright Gryffendor standout to a companion from a different time, silently joined by the shared alienation created by a lack of social knowledge and abundance of every other kind of learning.

Since that night he strove not to treat her any differently, even making a point to dock points from Gryffendor to ensure no one would sense his change of heart towards her. However, this one night of insight into her private world had somehow joined him to her, at least in his mind. Now, lying immobile in her childhood room, unable to restrain himself from thinking that she was clearly a fully-adult witch, refined in the crucible of the events of the past year, he succumbed to the reticent admission that, for whatever reason, he did not want to let go of her hand. Ever. This was the first witch in a very long time with which he had felt an intellectual and personal connection and he did not want to let go of what he feared would be the last physical reminder of that connection.

Snap out of it, Severus. His injuries had apparently mended enough for his rational mind to regain control over his facilities. It does not matter how much of a connection you feel with this woman; it takes two in these situations and there is no chance of her reciprocating whatever foolish affinity you feel towards her. With a begrudging resolve to face whatever reality would appear when he did, he slowly opened his eyes.

The light brown orbs that had comforted him were still there, but they were obviously lost in thought. He took a brief second to appreciate the sight above him. Hair still disheveled from battle, she had ash from nearly-avoided curses smudged across her cheeks. Even covered in the reminders of a ferocious battle, she was undeniably beautiful. He felt a momentarily uncomfortable guilt for staring, but was reassured by the fact that he was in a full body bind and could not look away even if he wanted to. He most definitely did not want to, but he thought better of letting her catch him examining her face. His voice uncertain from a combination of injury and disuse, he breathed deeply and exhaled with soft, gravely words.

"Thank you."

The silk of his voice jerked her out of her thought. Eyes quickly darted to meet his. To his surprise, her fingers remained completely intertwined in his, even after she realized he was awake. She fought off the internal torrent of questions with which she wanted to bombard him. After a brief pause to search his eyes for the right answer, she simply answered,

"You're welcome. How are you feeling?"

"A great deal better than I should had you not intervened, I believe."

Too embarrassed to answer with continued grace, she defaulted to hurried muttering. "Professor, anyone in my place would have—"

"Severus," he interrupted.

She stopped mid-sentence, shocked. "Pardon?"

Too late to decide for the wiser, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"My students call me professor. Fully adult, former students, especially those to whom I owe my life, call me Severus." And with that it was done. He had officially surrendered up whatever shattered pieces of his soul remained in his possession and offered them up to do with as she wished. Not sure what to expect, he reopened his eyes. She was still there. In fact, a small smile had crept into her eyes. "Severus," she said, as if testing how the word would taste on her lips. As she finished speaking the small smile reached her mouth.

"I did as best I could with no time to prepare, but I was quite worried it wouldn't be enough. You gave me quite a scare…Severus."

There it was again. The sound of his name magically sweet on her lips almost distracted him from the subject at hand, but his intellectual curiosity prevailed. "You performed quite admirably, Miss Granger. In fact—"

Now it was her turn to interrupt. "Surely if I am to call you Severus it's only right that you should call me by my name as well?"

He had to swallow before proceeding, "Hermione." Somehow using her first name only served to deepen their eye contact. He took a moment to process the fact that she still had not broken the invisible bond between their gazes, before pressing on. "Hermione…even someone as skilled as you are at the fine art of self deprecation as you are should take a certain measure of pride in thwarting an attempted murder at the hands of Voldemort himself. If I may ask, what was the spell you performed? The first one, that is?"

There were so many things in that sentence for her to process. She elected not to examine the way her stomach flipped when he said her name, or the veneration in his voice as he described her, rather choosing to focus on the content of his final question. "I froze your blood. It wasn't a recognized spell, but I knew from my Girl Scout wilderness training that snake poison had to be removed before it spread throughout the body. Not knowing any actual healing spells, freezing your blood seemed like the only to prevent the spread until I could get the poison out." After running out of words, she exhaled nervously, worried for upcoming censure for having used him as a guinea pig for her invented spells.

"Brilliant." He paused for a moment. "Girl scouts?" he asked as an afterthought.

She couldn't stifle a laugh. "An organization for muggle children aimed at teaching them life skills."

God, he loved the sound of her laugh. He was able to maintain his façade both through effort and due to the lingering pain from his wounds. "When I regain the use of my limbs, remind me to send them an owl of thanks."

His restraining spell! She immediately began apologizing and explaining herself. After the fourth consecutive run on sentence without a breath, she was halted by the laughing smile that had danced its way into his eyes. After all her years in his class she would have assumed he was laughing at her, but she couldn't shake the eerie similarity between his expression and the look on Harry's face when watching Ginny do something he found particularly adorable. She took a breath to collect her thoughts and simplified her train of thought to a simple, "I was afraid if you woke up you might leave," she realized how this must sound and quickly added "and I wasn't sure how your wounds would fair if you moved around too much." She slumped into a disheartened silence, her eyes finally leaving his, shrinking down in a clear desire to hide from whatever response she anticipated.

Severus' face warmed as he saw through her attempts to pin her actions solely on her concern that he might reopen a wound and caught a quick glimpse of something more, an unnamed emotion was creeping into her features as he realized that she didn't want him to leave any more than he wanted to go. What the hell, he thought to himself. I've already thwarted death once tonight, why not push my luck a bit further. He gently squeezed her hand as he spoke, "I'm not going anywhere, Hermione."

Her eyes flickered up to meet his again. He continued, "…but I can't say I wouldn't welcome the use of my hands. I promise not to overdo it." Without looking away or releasing his hand, she reached for her wand with the hand that she realized had still been absentmindedly stroking his cheek. She wordlessly unbound him and held her breath as she waited to see his reaction.

Feeling his newfound freedom, he slowly stretched his limbs one by one, feeling the pain in each of his wounds as his skin stretched across them. When he was fairly certain in his diagnosis of his physical status, his first move was to slowly raise himself into a sitting position. He grunted in surprise as the pain far exceeded what he had been expecting. Hearing his groan, he saw the look of panic flit across her face, but he nodded to her, continuing his attempted ascent, until he finally reached a sitting position.

Any extraneous thoughts going through either of their minds were immediately silenced by the electric charge created in the proximity of their faces. Her breath hitched as she sat, enraptured by his dark eyes, unable to think or speak. His usually constant internal monologue also ground to a halt as he felt the almost magnetic pull towards her. Neither of them knew how long they sat there in what seemed to be the world's most electrically charged game of chicken before Hermione finally broke the silence.

"From the sound effects you just made in attempt to sit up, I'm going to venture a guess that you're not quite ready to go bounding off to fight the Death Eaters any time soon," she intoned grimaced in response, not welcoming the bleak reality her intended joke brought into his mind. "That decision might not be in my hands," he replied.

Feeling his mood change, she reached over and brushed his hair out of his face again. What is HAPPENING right now? She asked herself. How did they get to the place where she felt comfortable brushing the hair out of Severus Snape's eyes? Instead of shrinking away from her touch he actually seemed to lean into it, eyes narrowing slightly in pleasure. Desperately trying to remember what they had been talking about, her mind returned to the thought of Death Eaters attempting to attack her Severus. (When did he become 'her' Severus?) She quickly explained about her protective enchantments all around her house. She continued, "Plus, no one knows you're even here. In fact," she paused, "no one actually knows that you're still alive."

Her last thought stopped him in his tracks.

"You didn't tell anyone? What you did? That you brought me here?"

"No," she stated matter-of-factly.

"You didn't tell anyone that you stopped the death of a known Death Eater, saved his life, apparated him to your home, by yourself, and magically tethered him to your bed?"

"No," she admitted hesitantly, seeing the growing displeasure in his face.

"And, pray tell, why on earth not?"

"I don't know. I just sensed that it wasn't time to divulge that particular information to the general public. I thought you would be more comfortable keeping…private." She finished even more hesitantly than she began, dropping her eyes to her lap for a second time. She braced herself for the worst, but could never have braced herself adequately for his fingers under her chin, angling her face up to his. As she looked in his eyes she felt her insides melt, his touch the only thing keeping her tethered her from coming completely unglued. His speechless gratitude needed no words.

He stared into hers as long as he dared, but this time it was his turn to break the silence before…he wasn't sure what would happen if he kept staring into her eyes, but he was completely sure that she was not yet prepared for it. He didn't move, but quietly broke the unspoken tension threatening to incinerate them both.

"So if no one knows I'm alive, then the Death Eaters don't know I'm alive, which means I'm safe…until I set foot out the door. At which point I will be killed at their earliest convenience."

They both froze as the unspoken answer hovered over their heads like a cloud. She knew it had to come from her. He had already shown so much uncharacteristic honesty tonight, she was afraid he would revert back to the Severus Snape of her memories.

"Well, Voldemort being gone and all. I'm all out of horcruxes to chase and have no immediate plans. You could stay here. I am more than willing to make sure you're taken proper care of while you recover," she desperately searched his eyes to see if she had overstepped her bounds. To be safe she added, "You know, just until you're up to battling the forces of evil again."

And with that suggestion, he felt the last remaining fragments of the wall he had spent so long erecting around his carefully guarded heart began to crumble. He removed his hand from hers, occasioning a look of utmost worry and confusion on her beautiful face, but he immediately shocked her even further by utilizing his newly freed arms to draw her into the tightest hug he could comfortably manage and whispered his thanks into her lavender-scented hair.