FIVE: The Room of Requirement
Historically unpersuasive, his arse.
Impulse would be the end of Severus. He tried, in vain, to remember what he had been thinking that had led him to attack her—actually attack her, in broad daylight, in his classroom—but it was for naught: he had not been thinking. He'd had a long week, reached the end of his rope, and snapped, plain and simple.
Not so long ago, that would have gotten him killed.
He reminded himself that it had been worse, that first year after the war. He'd been more terrible to the students and even his colleagues than ever. Every little thing had set him off. He'd brooded alone in his rooms, seized by peculiar desires to be among people, but as soon as he was in the thick of them—at the High Table, the staffroom—he only wanted his solitude back. He'd sorted through it, in the end, learned how to sift through his frankly annoying emotions and smooth their ragged edges, but it had been like re-learning how to be a spy all over again.
And now, after months—maybe even a year—of no words too harsh, no actions too hasty, he felt as if he'd been deposited right back at square one.
Crookshanks mrowed reproachfully, quite as if it knew what he'd done. The thing had taken up residence under his desk; it liked to wrap itself around his ankles.
She still looked like she'd been at war for the better part of a year. He couldn't shake that thought, that certainty, and the way she'd sprung into action a few days before—rust be damned—was proof enough. She wasn't dripping blood onto his sheets or coated in a layer of dirt and dust and Merlin knew what else, but there was something gaunt in the hollows beneath her eyes, some lingering residue.
He could not sit here, pretending to mark compositions, one instant longer. Dusk had not yet fallen; he would walk the grounds until he had restored order to his thoughts.
Crookshanks rose with him. He was quick to depart his office; the weather was still fair, and he did not even take a cloak with him as he hastened away. The cat bounded after him, eager to keep up.
And he had said he'd think over her offer. What had possessed him to do it? His infernal curiosity? An excuse to work out the truth of what was wrong with her? He could hardly manage it from covert glances down the High Table or brief greetings in the corridors. He would be foolish to indulge this…interest. He would be—
But as he left the shadow of the castle and turned toward the lake, he wondered what harm it would do. There was no danger there, nothing sinister. Likely, he would find an answer more simple and disappointing than any of the wild theories chasing through his head.
It was the interest itself that bothered him. The draw had already descended toward fixation; if he was not actively occupied by something, anything else, he found himself brooding on the change in her demeanor instead, or the way Minerva shot concerned looks at her when she was sure Granger wasn't looking. He wondered if he didn't feel a bit indebted to her, after all—if this curiosity about her wellbeing was some attempt to repay the life she'd given him.
Crookshanks bounded past him. He nearly raised his voice to call after the cat, certain that Granger would not be pleased if it got itself maimed under his care, but then he saw that it was making straight for a figure sitting beneath the beech tree.
He nearly stopped dead and turned back, but she would see, and it was…rude. No action too hasty, he reminded himself. Grumbling, he followed the cat, which reached her first.
"Oi!" Her voice carried across the water at Crookshanks shouldered into her lap. "I'm reading that, you—" She glanced up, saw him approaching, and her face did the most peculiar thing: froze, a little fear straying into her eyes.
It was only for a moment, but he had seen it—and in the next, she was closing her book, the crinkle of parchment caught between the covers.
"Professor Snape," she greeted, nothing but polite. "Crookshanks still dragging you about?"
"This time, I ventured out of my own volition."
He looked down at her: hair escaping the sensible plait she wore it in for teaching, eyes a little puffier and redder than they'd been that morning. He cursed himself for noticing.
"I don't wish to interrupt," he said. "I was only going to walk the grounds, and it seemed rude to pass you by."
She blinked. It was one of her tells, he thought, for all that she had learned to keep her face impassive; if something surprised her, she blinked.
"That sounds nice, actually," she said. "Would you mind if I joined you?"
"I suppose not."
She gathered up her book and another roll of parchment. "You can walk," she added sternly to the cat, "I haven't got hands for you." She ignored its pitiful whine, and Severus gestured, and she followed, opening the scroll as they went.
She tucked the book beneath her arm, the better to hold the parchment open, and caught a silver chain just as it slid from the scroll. From the corner of his eye, he saw that charms in the shape of sparks dotted the line of the chain, glinting in the dying light. She smiled, as though it pleased her, and fastened it around her wrist.
"It's my birthday," she said, as if he required an explanation.
"Many happy returns."
She looked up to smile at him. "Thank you." Bracelet fastened, she went back to perusing the parchment.
If he was going to indulge, he told himself, he might as well start while she was in a good mood. "I must express my surprise at Weasley's ability to choose anything suitably to your liking."
She winced, but her eyes continued their scan of the letter. "It's from Harry."
He considered this. His memory was not poor, and he was certain he'd received an invitation to Potter's wedding; Granger's name had not been on the card. A token from a friend, then, but the way her smile had fallen when he'd mentioned Weasley was telltale.
She finished the letter and rolled the scroll back up. "You don't take the Prophet, do you?" She seemed to have understood something.
"I don't see why it's relevant." No doubt she would now explain how relevant it was.
"If you had, you'd have known that Ron and I are…" She hesitated. "Not on good terms anymore."
He glanced down at her. She gazed off toward the lake, not meeting his eyes. He thought of Potter's crude, insensitive best friend, and wondered how they'd been on good terms to begin with. She was bright where he was dull; a match between them had surely been doomed from the outset.
Bright, he scoffed. What was wrong with him?
"Oh?" he answered politely, no longer trusting himself to say more.
"Yes," she replied, now fiddling with the new bracelet. "It was quite a public fallout, actually. He always has had a problem with keeping his mouth shut." Her face twisted into a pained grimace.
He watched her, intrigued in spite of himself. "I can't say I'm surprised," he said dryly.
She laughed, but it sounded miserable. "I suppose I can't, either."
"I assume you did the leaving?"
"Officially, yes. Unofficially, he should have known he was ending it the instant he couldn't stay out of Pansy Parkinson's pants."
Pansy Parkinson?
"Yes," she said, still determinedly watching the lake. He followed her gaze; one of the giant squid's tentacles was playing some sort of slapping game on the surface of the water. "It came as a bit of a surprise to me, too, to be honest. I didn't think Parkinson would be able to overcome all that nonsense about blood traitors. Apparently she has a thing for redheads." She snorted. "Though it's not surprising that Ron couldn't resist."
The words had come out in a rush, and in their wake, she seemed appalled by them; at the very least, her serene expression had screwed up a bit, as though to prevent her from saying more.
"You're better off," he pointed out, his voice brusque. "You've never seemed inclined toward settling down and breeding, and the Weasleys have a reputation for that sort of thing."
He had expected a glare for his comment, but he had been incorrect; instead, her features relaxed, a smile tugged up the corner of her mouth, and she looked at him with something like gratitude.
"Well, you're right, it wouldn't have worked out," she said, very sensibly, and shrugged. "We're not exactly compatible, me and Ron. Good friends, but..."
"I find it difficult to believe that you could even tolerate his friendship," he muttered. "He's insipid."
"I suppose it wasn't the most equal thing," she agreed. "He and Harry really did take advantage of me at times. But, in the end...it turned out, you know, for the best. They did need me."
"And your reward was to be humiliated publicly. Charming."
"You know better than anyone that those who deserve rewards don't usually get them." Before he could protest that assumption, she went on, "I was angry, certainly, but Harry's on my side, and I think Ron and I will be friends again someday. Not soon, mind you. I don't want to have to suffer through the wedding."
That diverted him entirely. "Wedding?"
"Yes," she nodded. "He proposed, you know, and she said yes. Her parents are throwing a royal fit about it, disinheriting her and everything, but she doesn't seem to care. It makes me almost happy for them." A smirk crossed her face. "Though I really wouldn't want to be her right now. Molly's throwing a fit. She wanted me for a daughter, even if I haven't really wanted to marry her son in years." She adjusted the book beneath her arm so that she could stuff her hands into the pockets of her cloak. "Marriage is just so silly, I think."
He had to stop her talking. This was not sating his curiosity at all; it was growing by leaps and bounds instead, and he was perturbed by the development.
"I've considered your offer," he said, which, strictly speaking, was true.
She eyed him with a wary hopefulness. "Yes?"
"Has it occurred to you that half-destroying our classrooms every week may draw the attention of the Headmistress?"
Now she looked a little cross, her frown returning. "Of course I have. We'll just use the Room of Requirement."
Hermione couldn't tell if he was pleased or annoyed or simply grimly looking forward to the opportunity to curse her again.
He followed her willingly enough, up flights of stairs after stairs after stairs, their footsteps and swishing robes the only noise. It wasn't yet past curfew, but she still hoped they wouldn't meet any students; there was always the chance that Snape would call the whole thing off if their momentum was interrupted.
She was in luck. They met no one, and the seventh floor corridor was deserted. "We need to walk past this stretch of wall three times thinking about what we need," she explained.
His chin jerked up—a nod—and then he fell in step with her for three turns. We need a place to fight, where we won't be heard or found, she thought. The litany in her head sounded similar to the one she'd desperately repeated during her fifth year.
A door appeared in the solid wall.
"Quickly," he murmured, his eyes darting down the corridor. His hand wrenched the door open and he allowed her to enter before glancing once again toward either end of the hallway. The door snapped shut behind him.
A laugh startled itself from her lips. It was similar to what she remembered, and she assumed that the differences were Snape's making. Gone were the tables of dark detectors, but the place was fuller of books than ever. She recognized a good deal of the Restricted Section, which appeared to have taken up residence on the eastern wall of the room. The floor felt as though it had been equipped with a cushioning charm, which was a good thing indeed; she was bound to be falling down and passing out a lot.
"Intriguing." His voice was close behind her; she shivered at the blatant interest evident in it. "Not what I imagined."
She glanced over her shoulder; he was frowning, eyes scanning the books. "You…haven't been here before?" she asked.
"No," he said, turning away and striding to the opposite side of the room.
She wondered if she'd touched a nerve. He'd been very…civil…these last few weeks; short, perhaps, but polite. She didn't want that to change. Biting her lip, she watched as he removed his robes and hung them on the tall coat rack beside the fire.
He turned to face her again, and she was immediately distracted from her anxiety. She realized that she had never seen him without about three layers of black wool buttoned to his neck.
He was all angles; the cheekbones and jaw and nose just gave away what anyone should have guessed about the rest of his body. All harsh lines, all tensed as if poised to attack. The white buttoned shirt disguised some of those angles, softened them. The fire from the hearth played over his face, making it a study of light and shadow, increasing the sharpness of his features. He was not handsome, not—exactly—but Hermione had not historically been attracted to handsome men.
And she was attracted. To him. To Snape. She knew how she reacted, of course, the way her breath seemed to catch in her throat, her mouth dry as if she'd gone a week without water. She swallowed, her eyes darted down—anything to keep from meeting his gaze at this moment, because she was about to blush like she'd never blushed before—and she caught sight of the scars.
For a moment, she felt quite lightheaded. As a rule, she did not think about that night, the grisly scene on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, but for a moment he was as sallow and bloody as he'd been seven years ago, his eyes dimming with every passing second.
She turned away—the vision dissolved—and threw off her own robes, trying to control her quivering hands. He was rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, but she didn't follow suit. She did not need another reminder, not when it was clear that the brink was only inches from her, and any wrong move would be a step into oblivion.
We all have scars, she reminded herself, but the thought was hollow.
His wand fell into the palm of his hand. She straightened immediately, reverie over.
"Until one of us falls or forfeits?" he ventured.
She nodded, fingers tight around her wand, and took her eyes off of him long enough to bow her head. He returned the gesture, and then, as though they'd counted—as though they'd discussed it—they cast their first spells at the same moment, and she was running.
A protective covering filmed the walls of books; the curse she dodged was absorbed without any visible effect on the shelves. She had barely twitched out of the way when another jet of red light nearly grazed her shoulder. It had the desired effect; the adrenaline took her, and she was a stampede of action, throwing her magic into a nonverbal Stickfast Hex.
He was much more nimble than she'd anticipated. Some things left lasting damage, after all. How often had he been tortured, or left to sleep on cold floors, or—
One of his curses hit its mark; her left arm, from shoulder to fingertips, went frighteningly numb. "Keep your head in the battle, Granger," he shouted, and she ducked as another spell sailed from his wand.
Surely she'd know, she thought, if he'd used Legilimency—
She barely dove out of the way of his next curse. If it was Legilimency, then the panic, at least, drowned out her thoughts; she cast spells as they occurred to her, trying not to think, trying to simply feel her way through the battle, but he was much better at this than she was, and he was surely still receiving some advance indication of what she was planning. He moved out of the way, or let her own curse rebound at her, long before it was in danger of touching him. It seemed as though he had a permanent shield, hovering around him protectively. Her spells all sailed wide, giving him a good foot of room without fear of injury...
How is he doing that?
She crouched as a Stunner sailed over her head, then conjured a hefty slab of stone to protect her from the next curse. If he was maintaining a shield—and yet still cursing her so agilely with his wand—
"Are you always so easily distracted?" his voice called, irritated; the sound of ricocheting spells had stopped.
She took advantage of the moment to test her theory; popping up, she flicked her wand in his direction.
He didn't move, but the curse didn't strike him, though it was headed straight for his chest; he did flinch, however, as the impact was absorbed by the thin field of magic, nearly transparent, which molded itself around him.
"I don't have a chance, do I," she said flatly, crossing her arms and allowing her wand to point uselessly at the floor. "You're far more brilliant than you let on, you know. Wandless magic? Really? And you're not going to suffer for maintaining it?"
He gave an annoyed sigh. "Stop," he said warningly. "I can see where you're going with this."
"Then get out of my head!" she snapped. "What harm would it do?" she added, a plea in her voice.
"I refuse to put myself in the unreasonably difficult role of your teacher ever again, Granger," he returned, raising his wand.
It stung, but she was more annoyed than hurt. "I don't see what was ever so unreasonably difficult about it," she said heatedly.
He fired a curse; as she dodged, she snapped one back, two resounding cracks echoing around them as the powerful spells hit the walls.
"Honestly!" she cried. "I'm quick to learn—maybe I'm not terribly inventive—but I was never exactly provided an example of how to become inventive—"
Another curse, another dodge, another return. This time he cringed, his teeth locked in a pained grimace, as his shield absorbed the impact.
"I'd be better at learning than Harry," she said desperately, and darted behind her stone slab again as a jet of light made a beeline for her; some of the stone crumbled at the impact. "I have no blood feud with you, no grudge against you, it's not like I'm going to be glaring at you and provoking you the whole time, I'm asking—"
Silence reigned, aside from a faint pop; when she looked up, his wand was pointed at the floor, his eyes narrowed. She bit her lip, watching, her fingers still tight around her wand. The racket her heart was making against her ribs made it hard to catch her breath.
"I have no interest in teaching you," he said, but his words fell curiously flat, without heat.
"I won't argue!" she protested. "I won't disagree, I'll do whatever you say, whatever method you think is best—"
"I have a hard time believing," he interrupted, "that you have not already experimented with wandless magic."
Since the battle appeared to be over, she straightened up from behind her stone guardian. "Experimented," she hedged, "but not mastered."
For a long moment, she was afraid he would accuse her of lying again, or demand she elaborate, at the very least. He had the same expression on his face that he'd had that first night. In the end, though, he only shook his head. "What purpose would you put it to?" he asked.
She folded her arms over her chest. "Well, for one, it would be nice to best you eventually. As it stands presently, you have a few obvious advantages."
"You're never going to need those advantages," he pointed out. "We're not at war anymore. I doubt we will be again in our lifetimes."
"You're wrong."
She didn't know what made her say it—only that, as his black gaze found hers, she wished she hadn't. There was a searching quality to his stare; it was an obvious deflection, but she focused on a point just above his shoulder instead.
"Tell me what future you've divined, then," he said, "where such a thing would be use—"
"Not the future," she interrupted. "Now. Look—look at us. We're still at war. I am," she amended, when he made every indication that he was about to correct her. "I jump at every shadow, every unexpected sound. I sleep with my wand under my pillow. Maybe it's not a tangible enemy, not like before, but it's there, and maybe…maybe if I learned more, it wouldn't have any power over me."
When she dared to look at him again, his expression had shifted—away from idle irritation, toward something else entirely. It took a long moment of embarrassing scrutiny for her to realize that there was something like understanding in the lines of his face. She'd never seen it there before.
She decided to press her advantage, because Merlin knew when she would ever have the upper hand again. "What else do you have to do? Sit in your office and be tormented by my cat? It could be challenging. It could be interesting. Please."
Hermione knew that this was a reach. She was sure that he found nothing interesting about interacting with anyone. She simply hoped that he was bored enough—and yes, maybe lonely enough—that he would be unable to resist the idea of having someone to share the off hours with. She could admit, if only to herself, that she was lonely. The last few years had been one long, unending ache; while her friends went about their lives around her, she seemed apart, separate, as if a thick and impenetrable sheet of glass had risen up between them, muffling their words. Perhaps she was a fool to think that Snape, of all people, could change that.
But they'd shared a singular event in their lives that had connected them anyway, however unwillingly; couldn't they make the most of it?
At long last, he spoke.
"Occlumency first," he said, a note of resignation in his voice. "You need to learn how to keep me out if you're ever to have the slightest chance of surviving a duel unscathed."
She ducked her head to hide her smile, but hoped that he had glimpsed it, anyway.