NINE: The Misstep

Hermione hurried to keep up with Severus's long, even strides. For a man who had suffered permanent nerve damage, he still moved abominably quickly. She could distinctly feel the tension radiating from him—the same as it had been during the past hour and a half while they patrolled the castle. His wand was held tight in his hand, black eyes sweeping the grounds as they approached the greenhouses.

She didn't enjoy being out in the vast, open darkness, but she'd lost her anxiety. She was on the alert—she doubted she had ever been so attuned to her surroundings—but the angst of a few hours ago was distinctly absent. For a moment, she wondered if Severus had taken some part of it upon himself instead, if the exercise had transferred her anxiety to him.

Don't be silly. Your tension is all locked away in tiny little boxes in a tiny little room. He couldn't get at it if he tried.

Regardless, his agitation was evident. Perhaps once they were inside the greenhouse and not so exposed, he would relax. She followed him in and let the door snap shut behind her, their wands illuminating the variety of relatively-tame plants. As he stalked down one long row, she decided to say something.

"Are you always so anxious during rounds?" she asked, keeping her tone light. "You'd think we were surrounded by Death Eaters, the way you're behaving."

"I'd be remarkably more relaxed if we were surrounded by Death Eaters," he said darkly, casting his light over the further corners of the greenhouse.

"That's cheerful. Shall I fetch some for you?" She aimed her wand at the other end of the building. A few plants pulsated in the light, but there was no other movement. "They might be hard to come by..."

He was looking at her with a hint of bemusement now, arms folded across his chest, a frown covering his features. There was a glint of concern in his black eyes; she was sure she'd never detected so many emotions in that darkness as she had in the last few hours. She wondered if she was imagining things. He wasn't worried about her. Her cheeks burned at the frivolity of the idea. Surely she was imagining things.

He didn't comment on her blushing, though she had no doubt that he had noticed it; he merely opened the door to the greenhouse. She followed him out.

The next fifteen minutes passed in silence as they journeyed through each of the greenhouses in turn. They would be doing this often, three nights a week, and she wondered if he would always be so tightly wound. She was only set to patrol with him; she wondered if it would get tiresome, or if it was more likely that he would cast a silencing spell on her at some point to make it bearable.

Three nights a week. I'll drive him mad, she thought ruefully, then paused, frowning. Funny—didn't the other professors change partners at least once throughout the week? She was sure she had glimpsed that on the schedule. Why would only they be paired together, alone, every time they were scheduled?

"Merlin's pants," she muttered aloud.

Severus glanced up from his inspection of the Venomous Tentacula, keeping his wand trained on it; it seemed discouraged from taking a bite out of him. "Yes?" he said.

"Why is it Minerva's paired us together for patrols three nights a week, when the other professors all change partners at least once?" she asked. "I saw it on the schedule. We're the only two who always patrol together."

"I expect it's her idea of a joke," he said dryly. "Or some form of terribly clever torture."

Typically, Hermione would have felt a bit hurt by this insinuation, but at the moment, she was too perplexed by the puzzle being presented to her. "No. That can't be it. She would never try to torture you."

His derisive snort made it clear enough that he didn't believe this one bit.

"She's setting us up," Hermione declared.

She had his attention now; his head snapped up from his deeper study of the Venomous Tentacula. It took his moment of being caught unawares to wrap a long tentacle around his wrist, which he viciously slashed away with a jab of his wand. The plant trembled.

"I beg your pardon?" he growled.

He had clearly misinterpreted her statement. She couldn't stifle her laughter; his face was utterly terrifying. She suspected he was hiding indignation.

"Not like that," she got out through her chuckles. "Goodness, no. But don't you see? She expects we'll use all this time we're spending stuck together to work out our issues and become bosom friends." She paused thoughtfully, then added, "I suspect Dumbledore's portrait to be involved, as well."

His mouth had thinned to a narrow line. He threw open the greenhouse door, gesturing for her to go ahead.

"I have a point," she insisted as he followed her out, resetting the wards behind him. "You know I do."

"What of it?" he said. "It's nothing I haven't suspected myself from the moment she handed over the schedule." His jaw tightened. "I also doubt that she expects us to become bosom friends. Perhaps she hopes or dreams, but she does not expect. She's not a fool."

Her face burning again, she looked down at her feet. Her wandlight danced over the sea of green as they walked. It flickered a bit in the wake of the disappointment spreading through her.

"Oh," she said. "Yes, of course, you're right." She forced herself to chuckle. Surely she was usually much more convincing than this when it came to hiding her emotions?

Something inside of her let go, and for a second, she faltered; she stumbled over a tuft of grass and would have fallen had his hands not caught around her upper arms and held her in place as she felt the magic of the room they had created go out of her. She shuddered as the awareness of all her cares and worries filled her up again, for a moment utterly overwhelming as they all took hold of her at once, and then—

It was dark. Her eyes were tightly closed. She was breathing the scent of something sharp—something like pine. His long fingers were still wrapped around her upper arms, holding her upright.

"Hermione," he said, every one of the four syllables too slow, like he had to go carefully to pronounce them right.

She opened her eyes, and for a moment, allowed herself to stare straight into the black of his. Whatever concern she had thought she had seen was gone; there was just cold, cruel emptiness, and the humiliation of having imagined something there, no matter how small.

She jerked herself free of his hands and yanked her cloak straight. "I don't ever want to do that again," she said in a low, tight voice. "And if you really think that I can't patrol in my state of mind, you're welcome to do it alone."

She turned on her heel and marched away from him, dearly hoping that he would get himself eaten by something savage in the Forbidden Forest.

Severus had watched her go long enough to see that she made it safely into the castle before embarking on his usual inspection of the Forbidden Forest. He had thought incessantly of her—of the disappointment and hurt and anger in her eyes and the absolute fury in her voice—all the while, and he was still thinking of her, an hour later, as he drew a bath and tried to shake his annoyance, and worse, his worry.

He sank into the hot water, kneading at the pain in his knee, wishing he could rub as efficiently at the pain in his head.

He closed his eyes. Bridging the gap he had now created would take some effort. He grimaced at the thought. It would more than likely involve an apology, something he had not given with any degree of sincerity in years. A note would be best. Undoubtedly, the infernal beast she called a cat would deliver it to her, if it was anywhere to be found in the next few days.

Or, he mused, he could return to attempting to ignore her. She would, undoubtedly, gladly do the same, now that he had offended her. She would steer clear of him, and he would be left in peace, no one to wheedle him into giving her Occlumency lessons and practise duelling. It would be as if the last few weeks had never happened; it would be merely a small battle to keep his solitude and his distance, a battle he had won.

The sight of the anxieties she held so tightly to returned to him. Endless crates labelled WAR in those stark, bold letters. Piles upon piles of boxes scrawled on with names. Most astonishing, a corner devoted to him: a whole bundle of crates labelled simply Severus.

Not Snape, but Severus.

Was that what she called him in the sanctuary of her own head? While he muddled along trying to help her, working to navigate her mere presence, had she formed some attachment to him—some attachment that he had just as swiftly beaten back, when she was clearly lacking in small comforts?

Severus. In her neat, elegant handwriting, etched on those boxes, he had seen it and masked his shock.

He had stopped pretending that he endured her presence in this castle. In a few short weeks, he had learned that she was a clever, adept conversationalist, her knowledge expansive, her opinions typically sound. She was a sufficient duelling partner. She had a talent for Occlumency. Most telling, perhaps, was the moments they'd passed in silence—moving around one another to rearrange the Potions Storeroom, listening to her humming, working together without any need for small talk at all. He had not endured those hours. He had not been tormented. He had enjoyed her.

With a growl of irritation, he let his head fall back against the lip of the tub. "Fuck."

His apology would have to be quite sincere, he suspected.

Severus had been right in thinking that Hermione would do everything in her power to ignore him. He purposely chose a seat nearer to her usual one at the High Table the next morning, and she just as purposely sat on the opposite side of the Headmistress, tugging Longbottom down beside her before he passed her by and accidentally sat himself next to Severus.

No matter, he thought grimly as he sipped his coffee. She can ignore me all she likes, but she won't ignore an apology. She's still a Gryffindor.

He sat down to write it that very evening, already frustrated by her dramatic avoidance of him throughout the day. Three times, she had spotted him in a corridor—twice full of students, once utterly empty—and each time she immediately turned and strode purposefully away. Crookshanks was nowhere to be found, and he suspected that the cat may not be as warm to him in the future either. He would have to deliver the letter himself, and he loathed the idea of accidentally happening across her as he tried to slide it under her door.

An hour and many crumpled pieces of parchment later, he rolled the missive into a scroll. For a moment, he thought again of how she had looked at breakfast. The shadows under her eyes were deepening again. He suspected that the backlash of the magic they had performed to clear her mind had been particularly potent. After a moment's hesitation, he poured a vial of Dreamless Sleep from his personal stores and enclosed it within the scroll before sealing it.

The night had grown late. It was past curfew, and no students were about, but as he entered the corridor where her rooms were located, a near-silent humming unsettled him. The buzzing sound, grating against the silence of the dungeons, grew louder the closer he got to her door. It settled at a low but irritating hum as he stood outside, listening to nothing but static.

Well, he wasn't Muffliato's creator for nothing. With barely a flick of his wand, the charm was dismantled, and he listened more closely at her office door.

Immediately, he knew that something was wrong. He could not have imagined a clearer contrast to the unburdened Hermione of the previous night; her breath came in short gasps, the sound of parchment crinkling in her clutching hands.

"Sorry, Crooks." The words were forced out, like she could hardly get the air to speak them. "I should go to sleep, shouldn't I? I'm not accomplishing anything here."

The cat's soft meow came through the door.

"I'm fine, you great git," she mumbled.

But then there was a thump, a sniff, and then, as though she had barely held it in until that moment, she was crying. The sound of it wrenched his heart in his chest as though he still had one.

"I'm just a stupid, silly girl," she choked out. The meowing and purring increased tenfold—the cat trying to comfort her. "Of course he's never wanted anything to do with me. Minerva should have known better than to even try, if that's what she was even doing." She was weeping harder now. "Oh, Crooks. I just thought he could help me. I thought, fighting again...Occlumency...I thought...I c-can't stand this. I j-just can't. I'm so t-tired..." Her voice stuttered, and she gave up trying to explain her distress to the cat; her sobs overtook her.

He drew back from the door and looked at the scroll of feeble words in his hands, unable to listen for another moment. He leaned down, pushed it under the door, and set off, the sound of her crying still ringing in his ears, try as he might to scrub it from his memory.

After a long few moments of sobbing into her cat's fur, Hermione felt Crookshanks gently twist out of her embrace. She pulled her knees up to her chest instead, curled up tightly as the tears streamed down her face, and she felt as if a last chance had been snatched from her, as if her life was ending, now, because she simply couldn't pick herself up out of this deep, dark pit where she was slowly but surely suffocating, and the glimmer of light she'd seen far above had gone, just a last hallucinated warmth before death.

What is it that I thought I had? she asked herself miserably. That a few conversations, a few insights to my soul, had won me a friend in him? How could I be so foolish?

Crookshanks meowed at her side, gently pushing his face against her thigh.

When she looked up, all she could see was a mangled orange blob. She brushed her hand across her eyes, trying to clear her vision, and refocused. Her cat was nosing a scroll toward her, sealed in dark green wax and a crest she didn't recognize. Sniffing, she picked it up and broke the scroll open, unfurling it with shaky hands to read the contents. A vial of purple liquid rolled out from the centre of the scroll and hit the stone floor, but didn't break.

Hermione,

It is now clear to myself and the entire staff (and perhaps a few more-observant students, as well) that you are quite angry with me. I can only surmise that this is due entirely to lack of tact on my part, and some small misunderstanding on yours.

I take some offence at Minerva's schemes to insert you into my life, not because of who you are, but because of the implicit interference you represent. I apologize if I did not make this distinction clear.

The aftermath of the exercise we performed on Wednesday night often increases insomniac tendencies for a few days. Therefore, I've enclosed a vial of Dreamless Sleep, which I would strongly suggest drinking.

You will, of course, patrol with me on Friday evening, for I have never known you to shirk your duties.

If you still desire them, I will continue to offer you Occlumency lessons on Saturday evenings.

Severus

For a moment, she wasn't certain if she was going to continue crying or begin to laugh. Some combination of both burst from her lips, a laugh that was strangled by a sob.

Of course he would not face her to apologize.

The cool voice of reason answered her. He wouldn't apologize to you at all if he didn't mean it.

With a last sniff, she traced the letters of her name. Hermione. Her fingers moved down the parchment, seeking out the spiky shape of his name. Severus. An uneasy peace stole through her. If the message itself was not terribly apologetic, the way he had written it was. He had deliberately implied that he expected to see her interact cordially with him soon, had even unnecessarily reminded her of Occlumency and his willing participation in her lessons...

"Perhaps I'm just over-thinking it," she said aloud, while Crookshanks sniffed at the parchment.

But he had addressed it to Hermione, not Miss Granger or Professor Granger or even H.G.—just Hermione.

She let a hand fall into Crookshanks's fur. "What do you think of him, Crooks?"

Her cat meowed happily, and her cat had never led her astray before.

She gathered up Crookshanks in her arms—out of love of food and a place to sleep, she was sure, he acquiesced—and tucked the scroll and vial into the waistband of her skirt, deciding that she would clean up the smashed ink bottle and scattered parchment in the morning. For the moment, she could do with a good night's sleep.

After brushing her teeth and changing into her nightclothes, she settled into bed, looking at the scroll and vial on her bedside table. The Dreamless Sleep clung to the glass within. She had long resisted the desire to buy or brew some of the potion for herself. It was not a fix to the problem, merely a temporary solution, one that could make her dependent on something synthetic to sleep.

And then, there was always the possibility that Severus had poisoned it. She snorted at the thought; it was far too obvious a murder for him to conduct. Still, she uncorked the vial and sniffed to be sure. Nothing out of the ordinary. And the dreams and sleeplessness had been worse the night before.

Just one night couldn't hurt, she thought, and drank down the vial. It's not as if I've had any luck with that permanent fix.

Drowsiness stole over her, and for once, she slipped effortlessly into sleep.