EIGHT: The Old Flame

The days trickled by. Hermione instructed her classes, sat at the High Table and bickered with Snape over an article in Potions Quarterly, retired to her quarters to mark compositions, started a letter to Harry and another to Ginny half a dozen times. It was a comfortable routine, except for that last. In the end, she only wrote to Ginny, a short note to say that everything was fine and that the enclosed potion would help, that she was busy but would try to visit soon, stop worrying so much, it's bad for the baby…

And she was fine—as fine as she ever was anymore, anyway. She'd hoped that admitting those truths to Snape might have uncoiled something inside her, something that had tightened and tightened to the point of pain for the last seven years, but she still lay awake at night, eyes full of the enchanted stars on her ceiling, and wished for sleep that didn't come for hours. When it did arrive, she usually wished it hadn't; it was full of dark, empty forests, the silver of unicorn blood cutting a path through the trees. It just as soon shifted to a room with one wall blown to pieces, a burned meadow, a swamp thick with bodies—

"Hermione."

She blinked; Neville was standing in the doorway of her office, frowning. "I'm so sorry, Neville—what is it?" she asked, rising from behind her desk.

"It's Ron."

She stiffened immediately.

"He's at the gate," he went on, his tone apologetic, "and he wants to see you."

She thought of sending Neville back with a succinct message—that she didn't want to see him, damn it—but she couldn't bring herself to put Neville in the middle of it.

"Did he say what this is about?" she stalled, reaching for her cloak.

He shook his head. "Sorry."

"It isn't your fault." She pulled the cloak tight around her shoulders. "I'd better go see what he wants."

Neville walked with her to the Entrance Hall, where they parted ways at his forced, "Good luck." She squared her shoulders and strode down the stairs, toward the gate. She could see the red flame of his hair in the distance, bright in the setting sun.

Her heart beat painfully in her chest—out of nerves, she was sure, not out of some silly despair over her childhood sweetheart. She had not seen him since she'd left him, her possessions shrunken down and hidden away in her beaded bag, his shirt still hanging off his shoulders, Pansy's oh of surprise still round and regretful in her mind's eye.

She stopped a good way from the gate, just close enough that they could talk without shouting. "What do you want?" she said.

"To talk to you," he replied, exasperated, "and seeing as you don't answer owls or the Floo and Harry and Ginny won't send any messages on to you—"

"—you thought you could show up at my place of employment and ambush me? Typical."

He was a little red now, as though he'd realized his plan was not a good one. That had always been the problem with Ron: all action, no consideration.

"I'm sorry," he said, "alright? I just needed you to hear it. What I did was…awful."

She had torn up most of his letters without reading them, thrown them into the fire like Harry's missives to Snape. Maybe this was why her eyes suddenly filled up with tears; she blinked, trying to disperse them.

"I knew it wasn't going to work out in the end, but why couldn't you have done me the courtesy of just—of just saying, up front, that you didn't want to be with me?"

She wanted to know it, she realized, so desperately—not because she wanted to be with him, be in love with him again, nothing like that. She only wanted the why of it, the reason for the chasm that had opened up between them, the one she'd hardly noticed, let alone tried to repair, until it was too late.

"I didn't know how," he said. "And I thought you needed me."

"Needed you?"

"Don't start. You got so withdrawn, Hermione, you'd look right through me like I wasn't there, and you hid things from me. I wasn't that stupid, alright? Will you open up this damn gate?" he added, features twisting with frustration.

She raised her wand, undid the lock, and let him come through. He didn't stop just inside the gate, but came right up to her, hand reaching out to catch hold of her wrist. He pulled up the sleeve of her shirt to bare the scar. He didn't touch it; perhaps he sensed how taut with tension she was, that she would snap if his fingertips even brushed the old wound.

"I thought that, if I didn't hang around, you'd never tell anyone what was wrong," he said; his voice had softened. "Couldn't have lived with it if it turned out that you did need me, if I'd just waited a little longer—maybe everything could have been like it was, at the beginning. I loved you." She didn't doubt that he meant it. "I just knew that something was missing. Part of you—it was like you were gone. And it got worse and worse. You didn't talk to me anymore. You gave me these—these scathing glances—like I just wouldn't understand. You never let me. You never let me try. Pansy…I never intended anything to happen with her. We bumped into one another at the Ministry and just got to talking. I was trying to get help to figure you out. She was a safe bet. I couldn't talk to Harry, to Ginny…I knew that you didn't want them to know. And then…" He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "It was a mistake. It was a moment of passion. It was wrong. And sometimes I miss you like hell, but I can't regret it. We stopped being in love with one another, and neither one of us knew how to end it. We were so busy trying to fix things that we couldn't even see the real problem."

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He shook his head and dropped a kiss on her forehead, his hand gentle on her hair, holding her in place for a brief second, before he pulled her sleeve down again, covering the scar.

"Ron—" she began, not knowing what to say, but trying desperately to think of something.

"Just think about it," he interrupted. "I want us to be friends again, Hermione, but you need to take time for yourself first. Figure it out. You always do."

With a last sad smile at her, he loped away, Disapparating just outside the gates.

She sat down hard on a rock beside the path, raised her wand to re-lock the gate, then slipped it back into her sleeve, her fingers trembling. It was as if she'd been knocked, none too gently, upside the head; her thoughts had stalled out, unable to move forward.

Had she withdrawn? She found it hard to remember. She'd gone abroad to work with Master Buchvarov, and perhaps she hadn't written as often as she should have. She tried to remember a letter, any letter, but she couldn't remember a single one. With a surge of guilt, she realized the same thing was now happening with Harry and Ginny; she didn't know what to tell them, so she scarcely wrote at all.

She hadn't known it had been so obvious. She'd thought Ron and the rest oblivious, willing to brush off her change in demeanour as overwork, but now she thought—with no small measure of panic—that she had not been convincing enough, that they must all know that something was wrong. But how could they, when she didn't even know?

She pressed her face into her hands, surprised to find her cheeks wet with tears, and sniffed. She had to try harder, that was all. She'd write to Harry and Ginny tonight, good letters with stories about her classes. She would move forward as though nothing was wrong, and someday, nothing would be.

"Hermione."

For a moment, she didn't recognize the voice; when she looked up, she was surprised to find Snape there, his usually impassive features wary with concern. Hastily, she wiped at her face with the sleeve of her cloak.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice sounded traitorously stuffy.

"Walking the grounds—"

"Go away." She turned her back to him, staring out the gate. "I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood for company."

She expected him to make an acerbic comment and walk away, but there were no receding footsteps, only a soft noise of impatience in his throat.

"I merely wished to inquire after your well-being," he said simply, his voice painfully neutral, "as you wouldn't typically allow yourself to be found crying on the ground in the open. It struck me as suspicious."

She wiped furiously at her eyes again. "It's just...Ron," she muttered. "He just...he's...I think I've been very stupid. I can't believe…I thought he hadn't noticed a damn thing, but he's…"

"Capable of deeper comprehension than you believed?" he suggested shrewdly.

She hiccupped. "I just want to be alone," she said. "I know I'm a mess, it's not that I don't appreciate your concern—"

"I have tea," he interrupted. "Perhaps you'd like a cup before we patrol tonight."

She'd forgotten that it was Wednesday. With some effort, she made herself get up, turn to face him. "Alright," she agreed reluctantly.

She fell into step beside him, and they returned to the castle in the gathering twilight. Hermione couldn't bring herself to attempt a conversation, and Snape clearly had no interest in starting one, either. In contrast to how pleasant the weekend prior had been, this was a dismal affair.

In his quarters, he poured her a cup of tea. It was pleasantly strong, and somehow, exactly how she liked it. She curled deeper into her armchair and sipped slowly; unlike the week before, she noticed that a bit of stuffing was coming out of the chair, and that it was not the only piece of furniture in the room that seemed to be aging. She felt a confusing rush of affection for Snape, who seemed to share a fondness for battered possessions with her.

"There is an exercise," he said, as though continuing a conversation they'd been in the midst of, "that will help smooth your emotions. Similar to Occlumency. You might find it easier to focus during our rounds."

She supposed she looked awfully ragged, for him to suggest such a thing. "If you think it will help," she said.

He slid from his armchair and down to the floor beside the hearth, beckoning for her to follow. She replaced her half-drunk cup of tea on the side table and sat down on the floor, mimicking his cross-legged posture. She tried to force the tension out of her shoulders, to look as relaxed as he did, and failed miserably; she settled for her spine straight, her shoulders squared.

"Close your eyes," he said.

Immediately, her remaining senses rushed in to make up for the missing one: the fire crackling to her right, the low rhythm of Snape's breathing, the tick tick tick of a clock somewhere across the room.

"Imagine a room," he murmured. "A room that holds all your secrets, your thoughts, your fears, your anxieties. The things that distract you from doing your job."

If this was an insult, he did a good job of masking it; she didn't feel nearly insulted enough.

"Everything that distracts you," he repeated.

She nearly jumped at the closer proximity of his voice, and at least twitched in reaction to his hand pulling hers away from her knee. He pressed her palm against his, fingers still outstretched. His closeness struck a nerve; she nearly jerked away.

Abruptly, his fingers laced with hers, and the vision of a room poured into her. Everything, he told her, standing at her side in the doorway. It was empty, panelled in oak, dim, dusty. There were no windows.

That would defeat the purpose, he said, turning away from the room and looking out into the hallway. We can put all this away, then.

She turned to follow his gaze, still puzzled by the oddly disconnected remembrance of his palm against hers, and immediately stepped back. There were boxes piled to the ceiling in the corridor, which was open and airy compared to the room. They were labelled, sometimes with many words—Snape moved aside a box labelled why must Minerva be such an interfering harpy with what she suspected was a stifled snort—and sometimes few, such as simply Ron or Harry or Ginny. Then there were boxes upon boxes with broad, ominous black lettering: WAR.

She stood paralysed, staring at all of her anxieties, with no clue how to begin.

His hand squeezed her shoulder, long fingers settling against her collarbone. Pick them up, put them in the room. It's a rudimentary exercise, and it won't last, but it will hold for the next few hours if you're strong enough. His voice became sharp. And don't look inside any of them.

Before she could open her mouth to ask why, he answered, It will be a long time before you are that strong.

His hand, while unfamiliar in this gesture of comfort on her shoulder, felt familiar in its place there, as if they had stood here a thousand times before. The simple magic of the place gathered around him with warmth and it seemed to spread to her as long as they were connected. She took an inordinate amount of comfort from it.

His hand pulled away from her. You must do it yourself, he told her.

She stooped to the nearest box and lifted it, not bothering to see what it was, and trucked it over to the room.

It was slow-going. The boxes were heavy, and though she was certain she had no muscles in this inner sanctum of her mind, they fatigued as if they did exist. She slowed with every crate of anxiety, struggling under the effort, while he stood aside and watched her pass back and forth. His black eyes tracked her every movement, muscles tight with tension every time she paused for even a second.

The last box barely fit in the room; it was shoved and pushed against the others, which towered to the ceiling. She stood back, breathing hard, and wiped her hair off her sweaty forehead.

Close the door, Snape instructed.

She did so; the bolt barely clicked as the last box resisted confinement.

Imagine a key.

She did—a key similar to the one she, Harry, and Ron had stuffed into the door of a charmed room so long ago—and it appeared. Without waiting for his instruction, she put the key in the lock and turned.

Instantly, she was back in her real body, which was only sore from sitting in such a position for so long. His hand was warm around hers, their bodies leaned toward each other as though conspiring together. The peace that seeped through her was unbelievable. She was at ease, lacking tension for the first time in weeks—months?—utterly relaxed and focused, and all the things that had formed the tormenting voices in her head were tucked away in cell-sized boxes in a nucleus-sized room, and she couldn't hear them.

She could barely even feel them.

She sat with her back perfectly straight, but her shoulders were relaxed. The furrow between her brows, on her forehead, had smoothed away. She breathed slow, evenly; he could hear the cadence of her lungs, softened by the reduced stress from her heart.

"Hermione," he prompted. The name still felt strange on his tongue—too many syllables, looking to trip him.

Her eyes opened immediately, deep brown and warm, the bloodshot gone; even the dark circles beneath them had lessened.

"We ought to leave in fifteen minutes," he reminded her. "Would you like some more tea?"

Her eyes flicked to the clock and then back to his face. "Yes," she answered politely. "That would be nice."

He rose and offered her a hand to help her up; she took it without question and settled back in her armchair. "It seemed like hours, didn't it, while we were there," she commented, watching him prepare the tea.

"Your sense of time was distorted; it takes practice," he told her.

She sipped her tea. "It's very disconcerting," she confided.

It ought to be, with all that just sitting in there growing mould and all sorts of monsters, he thought. Aloud, he said, "You've been carrying unnecessary baggage; it likely feels very strange."

"Yes," she murmured, "very strange." For a moment, she stared into her tea, then glanced up at him. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"In a book," he said lightly, voice full of sarcasm.

Unexpectedly, she laughed. "Of course," she answered. "What a silly question."

He had heard her laugh before, of course, but it had been nothing like this: carefree, easy, no errant pain twisting the sound. It was as if he'd twisted a time turner and found her younger, unburdened, cheerful—as different from his colleague of the last few weeks as rain from sunlight.

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes watched his face, concern drawing her brows together, and he felt anxiety, real anxiety, touch him for the first time. He had not expected her to be so different—perhaps because he had not been. Strip away the years, and Severus was still taciturn, derisive, unpleasant; he did not remember anything else.

"Nothing," he replied, and then, more honestly, "nothing you should worry about. You'll ruin the whole exercise."

Her features relaxed. "I wouldn't. You put an awful lot of effort into it." Her eyes softened. "Thank you."

Her gratitude was heartfelt. It was unfamiliar, after all these years with the world at arm's length, and he couldn't abide the feeling of it—like simultaneous flying and drowning—for much longer.

"Come," he said, pressing forward. "We must patrol."

A little smile curved her lips, as if she knew exactly why he'd ignored her thanks. She rose, wand at the ready, and they made their way out.