SEVENTEEN: The Promise

His face actually hurt from smirking too much.

Every time Hermione whispered a derisive comment in his ear or gazed innocently into his eyes only to convey the image she saw over his shoulder, it was an effort to muffle a snicker. Darrow had the cheek to wink at him as she danced past with that Gryffindor of hers; he thought of docking a few points, but Hermione talked him out of it.

They'd only taken the floor for three dances after their first—they were on duty, after all, and there were punch-spikers to apprehend—but each time had been met by the same astonishment from other members of the staff as they noticed. Never mind that he'd seen all of them dance together, he thought sourly, and he'd never speculated on their love lives even then, but they could not extend the same courtesy to him.

Or perhaps it was just Hermione—because they had all known her, because they had all been fond of her, they wanted to see her happy.

He met her gaze again, only briefly, before she let out a laugh and rested her head against his shoulder, stepping closer while they danced.

The playfulness of their prank was punctuated by these heavy moments, when her closeness reminded him of the conclusion he had come to over the last several weeks. This was a new torment, something he would remember when she was gone—the warmth of her body, the ringing of her laughter—but he could not bring himself to release her.

The song ended, and Hermione brushed a few loosening curls back from her face and looked up at him. "I could do with a slice of pie," she said.

Far be it from him to deny her food; he took her hand more comfortably in his to lead her from the dance floor. Hagrid's eyes tracked the pair of them, his mouth wide open, as they selected a plate from the dessert table and found a few empty chairs.

"It's far too easy," she murmured. He released her hand, and she seated herself across from him. "I haven't had this much fun in years."

"You are a capable partner in crime," he agreed. "I should have expected nothing less from the woman who fed a Ministry of Magic representative to centaurs."

She smacked his hand, gasping with mock horror. "That was an accident!"

He smirked, stole her fork, and took a bite of pie. "Your secret is safe with me."

Her smile faltered, but before he could examine it more closely, a shadow fell over the table. They looked up as one to face Minerva, who looked a touch harried now that the evening was drawing to a close.

"Make certain that all students are back in their common rooms within the hour," she said, eying the pair of them.

"Absolutely," Hermione said, nodding, and took her fork back from Severus.

Minerva watched this exchange, shook herself, and hurried off, shooing a few fourth-years away from the punch. Hermione snorted, taking a bite of pie and then offering the fork back to Severus.

"I was always under the impression that you were close," he said. "It's cruel of you to torture her so."

Her smile was fond as she looked after Minerva. "Oh, a little torture between friends is just fun," she said lightly. "She'll forgive me."

They finished their pie while the last of the students vacated the hall, and then she removed her wand from her boot and led the way to the dungeons to search every nook and cranny for snogging teenagers.

They came upon a scene almost immediately, but it was not the one Severus had expected. Darrow was alone, tucked into the alcove at the foot of a tapestry, her cheek swollen and red, her wand clenched tight in her hand.

"Miss Darrow," Severus began. "You are—"

"Violating curfew," she said. "Yes. You see, Kilduff is waiting right down that corridor to hit me with something nastier than this shiner, and I'm just waiting for him to get bored so that I can get past."

Before Severus could say anything to this pronouncement, Hermione spoke. "My office is just there," she said, pointing to the door to take down her wards. "Wait there, and we will deal with Kilduff."

Eyes widening with surprise and relief, Darrow did as she was told. Hermione marched off down the corridor, wand at the ready, her eyes narrowed to slits.

They rounded the corner, and Kilduff tried to run for it. Hermione fired a Trip Jinx and Severus cast a Cushioning Charm on the floor; the seventh-year went down like a mountain, swearing.

Severus hauled him up. "I have it from Miss Darrow that you inflicted harm upon her person," he said.

"She deserved it," Kilduff spat. He had no love at all for his Head of House; he was the distant relative of a Death Eater. "Snogging that fucking Gryffindor in front of everyone, right, and he's a Mudblood to boot—"

"Think about what you're saying." Hermione's voice was quiet but stern. "Aren't you in enough trouble without adding to it?"

"You're no better," he went on, glaring up at Severus. "Not bad enough, what you did, you've got to dance with her, another Mud—"

"Fifty points from Slytherin," Severus interrupted, "and detention every night this week. I will escort you back to the common room, and if you say another word between here and there, it will be a month's worth of detentions."

Kilduff finally went silent. At Severus's glance, Hermione—paler than she had been five minutes ago—turned and strode away toward her office. It was only a short few minutes to the common room, and Severus loathed every second of it.

Before Kilduff could slip away inside, Severus caught hold of his arm. "If I ever hear you or one of your friends use that word again, it will be a hundred points," he said.

Kilduff yanked his arm away and went in, throwing a look of deepest disgust over his shoulder.

Severus returned to Hermione's office, working to get his anger under control. By the time he walked in, Darrow's face was back to normal.

Catching his eye, she said, "It was my fault. I let Sophie go on so I could say goodnight to Noah—if I'd just gone with her, Kilduff'd never have gotten the jump on me. Too much of a coward to take on both of us."

"It wasn't your fault," Hermione said; she had a very good consoling voice, Severus thought, properly soothing. "If it happens again, my office is right here. I can clear the way for you."

"Thanks, Professor." Darrow got up, giving Severus another wary glance. "Can I go?"

"I will escort you back," Severus said, "to be sure you do not…wander off."

The cut of her grin appeared, bright and quick. "Sure, Professor."

"I'll wait here," Hermione sighed, sinking into the chair behind her desk. "We can continue our rounds when you get back."

Darrow waved goodnight and Severus raised his wand. He did not think Kilduff would have crept out of the common room to lie in wait again—he was, as Darrow had said, a coward—but it was better to be safe.

"Should be fine, once I'm in there," Darrow said suddenly. "'Nuf of them are on my side. Not like they're lining up to snog Gryffindors and Muggle-borns, most of them, but they know Kilduff and his gang are bad news."

"Good," he replied.

"Nice example, though, you and Professor Granger," she said. "Shows 'em it's mature to get over all that old crap."

"I have already taken fifty points from Slytherin tonight, and I will not hesitate to take more if you continue," he warned.

She grinned again. "I'll stop, Professor."

By the time he'd returned to Hermione's office, any fun remaining in the evening had been leeched away. She was still pale, but shook her head at his questioning glance. They left to scour the castle, floor by floor, no secret passage left in peace, deducting house points and assigning detentions in coordinating tones of disdain. They did not, at least, come upon another scene like Darrow and Kilduff.

When the night was wearing on past one, they stopped outside his office. She looked up at him—her weariness obvious—and he could not bring himself to part ways with her, not when she looked so tired and sad.

He opened the door. "Come have a drink."

She blinked, nodded, and went in. He shut the door behind him.

His office was dark. "Lumos," she whispered, and by wandlight found the catch that opened the passage to his rooms. She had been in and out frequently enough to know exactly where to look.

In his sitting room, he pointed his wand at the banked fire. It flared up, warmth spilling out into the room. She sat down on the couch and started pulling pins from her hair, leaving them bent out of shape on his coffee table.

"Firewhisky, I think," she said to his unasked question.

He poured them both a measure and carried it over to sit beside her. With a wince, she freed the last pin from her hair and dropped it to the table, giving a low sigh of relief.

"They look pretty, but the bloody things hurt," she muttered, accepting the drink from him. She raised her glass and forced a tired smile. "Well, you were right." She clinked her glass to his. "It was fucking awful."

She took a gulp and swallowed, eyes narrowing marginally.

"Don't allow one encounter to colour the entire evening," he said, though that was exactly what he had done, too.

She got to her feet, as though she couldn't stand to sit still. "I can't believe he would do that," she said, her voice tight and low, and paced closer to the fire.

"Kilduff isn't the only one. There are a few Gryffindors who take issue, too."

"The instant I see one of them put a single toe out of line, I'll dock fifty points and write to their mothers," she said grimly. "This kind of thing needs to be stamped out. I can't believe he hit her. That little toerag." She glared into the fire and took another gulp of whisky.

He rose to join her, leaving his drink on the table. "Darrow can take care of herself. She mastered the Horn-Growing Hex when she was thirteen and has used it to great effect in her own defence ever since. Given another ten minutes on her own, we would have found Kilduff horribly disfigured, and Darrow long gone."

Hermione laughed, so suddenly that he was sure it came as a surprise even to her, and then desisted, looking up at him.

"Severus," she said, "I need to tell you something."

Something in her tone put him immediately on guard: soft and embarrassed, like there was a secret of hers he didn't know.

"I thought I'd keep it to myself," she went on. "It's a stupid thing, really, it doesn't matter, it won't change anything, at least—I hope it won't." She shook her head, drained her glass, and set it gently on the mantle. Without something to hold, her fingers twisted together, betraying her nerves. "But then, Darrow…she was so brave, and I thought—I used to be brave."

"You are," he said, though he had no idea what conclusion she was stumbling toward.

Her smile trembled. "I'm not. Not about this. I've never been." She took a deep breath. "We're…friends, you and I, but I…I feel more for you than that. I care about you. A lot, actually. It really crept up on me, but…there it is. I don't expect anything from you," she added in a rush, "nothing like that, it just…seemed stupid to lie to you about something like this, when you know everything else."

He stared down at her, and she stared back at him, holding his gaze even though she was clearly terrified—and then he turned away from her, shaking himself free of the pretty spell her words had constructed around him.

"You are mistaken," he said.

"What, you think it will change things between us?" She sounded worried now. "No, I swear, I'll keep it to myself, I just thought—"

"You are mistaken," he repeated, "about your feelings for me."

There was a heavy moment of silence while she processed this, and then she said, "I've only had one drink, Severus, I don't think my judgment is that impaired."

"What," he said, one had clenched so tight in his pocket that his nails had begun to bite into his palm, "would you want with me? I have nothing to offer you."

The silence grew again, and he focused on the points of pain in his palm, his knuckles, willing her to let this go, willing her to walk away.

When she spoke again, her voice had hardened. "Do you want to know what I think of you?" she said, and went on without waiting for his answer. "You are, yes, a mastermind of cunning. You do not make friends easily. You cling to your solitude because it is familiar, and because you believe that you are a force of evil barely contained, one that could contaminate anyone and everyone. I have news for you, Severus. You chose to help me stand when I couldn't even think to crawl. You have done more to earn my trust in the past two months than many have in the last ten years. For a man who sees so much so clearly, it is absurd that you cannot see yourself at all plainly." Her small hand closed around his shoulder. "Would you at least look at me, please?"

Unwilling, he turned his head. She caught his eye, imploring him to listen, but he did not dare believe her.

"I've seen your heart, that's all," she said quietly. "At least, I thought I had, or was that all a lie?"

She'd trapped him. He couldn't tell her it had all meant nothing; it was a lie so blasphemous that he thought he would be stricken dead on the spot for speaking it.

"No," he admitted. "It wasn't."

Her eyes had softened. She was too close; he would hardly need to reach out to touch her.

"You've offered me everything," she said. "How could you think something so silly? What wouldn't I want with you?"

He took her hand from his shoulder, felt the flutter of her pulse in her wrist. She made to tug it back, but he held it fast, and she must have seen some hint on his face, because she said, "It wasn't a game to you, either, was it?"

Mute, he shook his head. His heart seemed to be running toward some unknown brink, faster and faster, as though preparing to take flight.

She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

For a breathless moment, he did not react at all—and then, just as she was about to pull back, he let go of her hand to touch her hair instead.

She wanted to warn him that he could lose fingers in there, but his mouth moved against hers and she forgot all about warnings and words. Their noses bumped; he used his hold in her hair to tilt her head, rearranging them, and then her lips were sliding between his and his hands fell to her hips to pull her closer, flush against his body. Her lungs burned for air, but she'd forgotten how to breathe.

He pulled back, just enough to protest. "Stop," she whispered. "Stop thinking, just—"

And he was kissing her again, her dress bunched in his fists, her arms looped up and around his neck. His hands wouldn't settle, smoothing the wrinkles he'd left in her dress and running up her back instead. She could hear every rustle of fabric over the soft crackle of the fire, every puff of his breath against her cheek—

He tore himself away, put a few paces between them, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. She felt strangely bruised, wonderfully triumphant, and terribly cold without his heat pressed to her. She took a step toward him, but he mimicked the step back, keeping space between them; his dark eyes burned when they met hers.

"Severus," she said; her voice had gone rough. "What is it?"

"I still believe you are mistaken," he said. "You have to consider—what you're feeling—I have been closest to you in your darkest hours. Are you not just clinging to the first life vest you've been thrown in years?"

She folded her arms over her chest. "What does that make what you're feeling, then?"

"Reprehensible," he muttered. "A man taking advantage of your vulnerability."

"I won't listen to you talk about yourself like that," she said fiercely.

"Then go," he begged, "go, and we'll forget this never happened—"

"I won't," she cut across him. "I can't. So what if I started developing feelings for you because you were kind to me when I was suffering? Why should that make them any less valid? I care about you because we have a genuine connection—maybe rooted in a shared experience, but that doesn't make it less."

"Be practical, then." He didn't remove his hands from his pockets; he didn't move at all. "There are thousands—hundreds of thousands—of people who loathe me. Kilduff is the least of them, a child. Your colleagues at the Ministry, many of your friends, still believe me guilty, that I ought to have been tried, and they will shun you for being with me."

She raised her chin. "I'm not a coward," she declared. "It's been years since I cared what people thought of me. It's my life. I know what I feel. Tell me what I have to do to prove it to you."

"Prove it to me?" he repeated sardonically.

She nodded.

"You want," he said slowly, taking a step closer to her, "to prove it to me?"

"Well, I can't very well walk away," she snapped.

"You said you would. You said that it wouldn't change anything between us."

"I assumed you didn't feel the same way." Her eyes narrowed. "You proved me wrong."

He considered her, and she felt, as always, flayed open, exposed. He had seen her more clearly than anyone, right from the beginning, when she had been not waving but drowning; why couldn't he see her clearly now?

"I can offer you nothing," he said. "I meant that. I am, every inch, scarred and broken. Better than I once was, but I will never be whole."

"And I still disagree. You've already given me plenty, and as for being whole…" She shrugged. "Neither am I."

He regarded her for another long moment.

"Wait," he said finally, as though he'd been defeated.

Her brow furrowed. "Wait?" she repeated.

"We cannot…we cannot pursue this. Not now." He raised a hand as she began to protest. "I did not say that we would never pursue this. But it isn't in your best interest while you are still recovering. You have made a great deal of progress, and I would not derail that, even for my own selfish ends. We must wait." As she moved to shake her head, to protest that this was unrelated to her recovery, he pressed on. "These are my terms. If you wish to prove to me that you are sincere, then we must wait."

Reluctantly, she nodded. "If those are your terms, then we'll wait."

Something shifted in his dark eyes; he pulled her close, his hands curled again around the curve of her hips, his mouth pressed fervently to hers. Her fingers dug so tightly into his shoulders that they ached by the time the kiss was done.

"I will not judge you for it if, when you're well, you do not decide to stay," he told her, his breath ghosting across her lips.

Hermione closed her eyes and let her forehead fall to his shoulder. "I won't go," she promised. "You'll see."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hermione's narrative about "not waving but drowning" is a nod to a poem of the same name, by Stevie Smith.