TWENTY-ONE: Renegotiations

The staff noticed a shift in their ranks in the days that followed.

It was observed by Professor Sprout that Professors Granger and Snape no longer sat side-by-side at mealtimes: Severus had returned to his solitary post at the very end of the High Table, Hermione to the place she had once occupied beside Neville. Shortly thereafter, Professor Flitwick noticed that they no longer sought one another's company at weekly staff meetings, because Hermione had drawn him into a lengthy discussion on memory charms that Tuesday shortly after the meeting ended. Madam Hooch reported that Professor Snape could be seen strolling the grounds alone, never in Hermione's company. Finally, Madam Pomfrey, who had once watched the comings-and-goings from Professor Snape's office with idle interest from her convenient lookout on the first floor, witnessed the halt of social calls made by Professor Granger to Professor Snape. In fact, the only time they were seen together—together, but still, somehow, apart, the space between them tangible—was during the hours of their assigned rounds.

"I don't understand," Pomona said to Minerva. Both Hermione and Severus had taken their separate leaves from the third weekly staff meeting without so much as looking at one another. "They were getting on so well!"

"Hermione won't even talk about it," Neville said unhappily.

"Nor will Severus, not that he has ever been particularly forthcoming," Minerva sighed.

"They must have had a row," Filius soothed. "They'll come around, won't they?"

But November bled into December, and they did not come around.

Time passed slowly for Severus, and the hours spent in her presence during rounds passed slowest of all.

She had tried—for a full two weeks—to re-establish the closeness that he had destroyed between them. She stopped asking for him to talk about why he had left, and instead—earnestly, painfully—ignored the incident entirely, tried to return to their state of being before that night. He did not respond; he was curt, short, unyielding, defensive; and by degrees, she gave up. She stopped sitting beside him at meals and staff meetings; she stopped knocking on his door on Saturday evenings; she stopped talking while they patrolled. Eventually, she stopped even looking at him.

He was certain that it was for the best. Though she grew a little paler, though the shadows under her eyes deepened slightly, she was not as before: she was alert, social, eating regularly. Her classes were going well, for he heard Minerva praise her about a lesson she'd sat in on.

She was, perhaps, having a more difficult time of recovering on her own, but she was still recovering. He had given her enough tools, taught her enough of his methods; she was brilliant and determined and could implement them on her own. She didn't need him, and that was good. That was a relief.

His days stretched on slowly without her, though. The silence of his quarters pressed in on him over weekends he had once enjoyed alone, with books, coffee, and alcohol; he didn't take the same pleasure in his solitude that he once had. He missed her bright voice, her occasional laughter, her earnestness—but she had given up, and that was for the best.

He didn't ask himself why he let the space between them languish. It seemed only natural. He had not only to protect her, but to protect himself—for what good could come of a short, bittersweet romance with a too-young witch? He would never be satisfied with so little. He had done all he could to create for himself a quiet life, a peaceful life, and she would destroy so easily what he had made. It was better to stop that absurd notion now, himself, than allow her to end it in a few short months. For pity was all that it would amount to in the end; he was sure of it.

The remaining flickers of his dreams—his nightmares of war, of living undercover, of fear—had abated, and now, he only dreamed (infrequently, he told himself) of her: of dancing with her at the Masquerade Ball, of kissing her, of sitting and playing chess with her, even of arguing with her. His life drifted forward without direction, and he dreamed of her begging him not to wait.

The students had returned home for the Christmas holidays when, one evening, he found the door to the Room of Requirement. A great deal of noise emitted from within—crashing, banging, the occasional shout of vicious triumph, and he recognized her voice.

He missed her, missed her with an ache so fierce that in that moment of weakness, he could bear it no longer. He pushed open the enormous door, wand at the ready, and for a moment stood still on the threshold as the scene unfolded.

Her shirt stuck to her back with sweat, but he could feel the incredible well of her magic, stretching deeper—glowing brighter—than it had in the last few months, in the last seven years. Her back was to him, a line of defensive cover before her, and there, on the other side of the room, stood Harry Potter.

The Boy Who Lived fired curse after curse, and she ran, dodged, avoided, firing back whenever she saw an opening. There was something not quite right about Potter—he moved too mechanically, too slowly, for someone who had played Quidditch half his life—

Potter shifted and changed when one of Hermione's curses caught him directly in the chest. It wasn't Potter at all, but the Room, providing an enemy for Hermione to face. The next shape it took was Ron Weasley, and she disarmed it a moment later, prompting it to shift and change again, into a tall man, with dark hair and black eyes…

Without thinking, he disarmed the creation wearing the mask of his own face; it was distracted by Hermione's movement, and crumbled into the floor of the room as if aware it was no longer needed. Startled by the spell originating from behind her, she turned, wand raised and pointing before she had fully seen him.

Her features flickered with emotion, quick, each one trading out for another—shock, and then pain, and then a resurgence of the anger that had been driving her in battle just a moment before. "Leave," she snarled, raising her wand a fraction of an inch to point squarely at his chest.

He created his own shield just in time; she cast her first curse seconds later and vaulted to the other side of her makeshift barrier, putting it between them.

"How did you get in?" she demanded, her wand still trained on him, unwavering.

"I saw the door; the Room was open," he returned. "I heard your voice, and I thought—"

She laughed, clear and high and cold and not like her at all. "Did you?" she mocked. "Did you think? With that brilliant brain of yours? What did you think, Snape?"

Her wand lifted and pulled down the stone behind him, trying to bury him, and it distracted him enough that his shield flickered and died. He ducked, avoiding her next curse narrowly.

I didn't think, he wanted to tell her, but she was on the move again.

They ran; they circled one another; they ducked, and cast, and parried, and she slowly established the edge on him, running him down. He wondered how she had come so far, so quickly, since their first duel—or if, perhaps, he was too distracted to battle as he once had. He knelt behind a barrier for cover, prodding his shield to life, but it wouldn't hold; he was scraping the bottom of his reserves.

She'd stopped firing. He couldn't see her, but he could hear her voice, the anger gone out of it, and she called, "Severus?"

Even now, she said it easily; it had been his surname that sounded wrong on her lips.

"Here," he said. He had not planned this, not thought ahead, not constructed an apology; he didn't know what else to say.

He could hear her breathing, the pace of it slowly softening. "Well?" she asked, her voice a little stronger now. "What do you want?"

It was an opening; he hadn't realized he wanted it until she offered. He suddenly didn't care if someday she didn't want him. Hadn't he survived worse than that, anyway? Wasn't it time to do better than survive?

"You," he replied, his voice hoarse.

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. "What did you say?" she said, a little quieter now.

He risked straightening up. "You," he said, louder. "I want you."

She rose from behind the wreckage, covered in a film of dust and sweat, her jaw set, her brow drawn to a hard line, and he'd never seen anything so radiant as her, her wand clenched tight in her hand, her eyes so bright with anger.

"You can't do this," she said. "You can't just—come in and out of my life at will—there are repercussions for ignoring people for weeks—"

"Hermione—"

"You've been so cruel," she said, her voice breaking; his guilt throbbed within him like a brand, like a curse. "You wouldn't even look at me. I tried—I tried everything—I didn't say a damn thing to warrant you storming out like that—"

"Hermione—"

"You wouldn't even let me finish! I was—I was trying—I'm sorry if I violated your bloody precious terms—I was just trying to be perfectly clear—"

"I know," he broke in, trying to halt the rising note of hysteria in her voice, "I know, Hermione, I know—"

"What do you know?" she demanded, her hands quivering now. "You don't know anything."

He had to do something, something that would convince her to let him speak, so he picked his way over to her through the rubble, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. She watched him approach as though she might run at any moment, and he knew that he would never catch her, that he would never get another chance like this again.

"I should have listened to you," he said, stopping a foot from her.

Her eyes blazed. "Is that right?"

He hesitated, plunged on. "I'd like to listen to you now," he said. "Even if you'd like to shout at me, I'd like to hear it."

She huffed, as though she couldn't believe what he was saying; she spun away from him, her arms folded over her chest, but came right back after five paces, her face screwed up with her anger.

"I was a mess. That hallucination—the panic attack—it scared the shit out of me, and all you could do was stand across the room and ignore me. I've worked out a few things, these last few weeks, and the truth is that now that I'm not buried a thousand leagues under my own crap, I have good instincts about what I need. I know me. And you didn't want to listen, because you're—" She gestured at him, obviously at a loss for the appropriately scathing word.

"Arrogant," he supplied.

Her finger stabbed into his chest. "Yes. Exactly. Arrogant. I don't pity you, you—you dense—smug—ridiculous—man. Pity has never directed my hand to help you." Her cheeks were flushed red now, her mouth snarling around every word, her eyes narrowed. "I saved your life in the Shrieking Shack because I thought that we'd missed the whole story; I sought your company because you made me happy, because your friendship helped me recover; I tried to ease your loneliness not out of some ambiguous desire to forever be a do-gooder, but because of my very specific desire for you." She glared up at him, and he became suddenly aware of how close they were, within inches of one another, close enough for him to feel her breath, fast and hard, on his skin. "I wouldn't give a damn if you didn't feel the same for me if you actually believed in the source of my motivation—if you would just stop lying to yourself, if you would just trust me when I say that I'm in love with you!"

He caught hold of her hand before she could stab her finger into his chest again; the spot was becoming sore. "Are you still?" he pressed.

She gaped at him. "It's only been three weeks! I haven't had time to stop caring about you, after everything we've been through, it's going to take more than that for—"

He let go of her hand and tightened his arm around her waist instead, pulling her roughly to him. She had time only to emit a squeak of surprise before his free hand tangled in her hair and his mouth descended on hers, ravenous, demanding. Instantly, she yielded, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him deeper into the kiss. The warmth that swept through him at her touch very nearly burned him; he was drowning in her, the feeling of her hair wrapped around his fingers and her supple body pressed against him, the pressure of her fingertips on the back of his neck and her soft lips moving against his own.

When he pulled back, she stared wide-eyed up at him, her mouth pink and swollen; it was an effort not to immediately kiss her again.

"I'm sorry," he told her. Her eyes went, if possible, even wider. "I will be difficult, I will make you angry, I will disappoint you, but if you still want me, then forget the terms."

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. "Forget the terms?" she repeated.

"Forget them."

She blinked, her eyes suddenly wet with tears, and pulled him back down to her; the wet heat of her mouth pressed fiercely to his.

"You stupid git," she mumbled between kisses. "Of course I still want you."

The walk back to her rooms was too long, his presence—mere inches from her elbow—a distraction from the many things there were to trip over between the seventh floor and the dungeons. The stairs hadn't seemed so endless since she'd first gotten lost in the castle, twelve years old with scabs on her knees, and she kept sneaking sideways glances at him, afraid he would change his mind—

But every time she looked, he gazed back at her, steady, sure, his burning eyes sweeping to her bruised mouth, and it they didn't get to her office soon, any bloody secret passage would do.

Her hand trembled on her wand as she dismantled her wards and unlocked the door. It was dark inside, quiet, and as soon as the lock clicked behind them he had her up against her desk, one arm clutching her to him, the other hand tangling in her hair and pulling her head back to expose her throat. His mouth opened over her skin, tender kisses from just beneath her jaw down to her collarbone—

"I'm covered in sweat," she gasped out. His teeth nipped at the crook of her shoulder. "Sorry—"

He gave an exasperated snort against her skin. "Does it seem like I care?"

She shook her head, and he pulled her away from her desk, backing her toward her sitting room, his hands guiding the way on her hips, his mouth touching every inch of her flesh that he could reach.

"Door on your right," she said, holding onto his shoulders for balance, and they bumped their way toward her bedroom.

When they finally came to a halt at the foot of her bed, his hands moved—caressed her shoulder blades to the curve of her lower back, and then over the swell of her hips, only to pause and return there, his fingers gently digging into her soft flesh. She whimpered; his tongue slipped against her lips, deepening the kiss. His hands rose up to curl around the hem of her shirt.

"Wait," she mumbled against his mouth, his fingers on her bare stomach waking her from the haze of her desire. "The light."

His eyes narrowed. "You once said it seemed stupid to hide something from me, given all that I already know. I want to see you. I've seen precious little of you these last few weeks."

"Whose fault is that?" she retorted, but she didn't fight him further.

He pulled her shirt off and took her hand in his, turning her palm face-up, exposing her forearm. Starting at her wrist, he lowered his mouth to softly kiss the letters there, his dark eyes fixed on hers.

Her heart would escape the cage of her ribs soon if he kept that up—but he did, and she did not expire on the spot. He leaned down to touch his lips to the line of the whip-like scars around her ribs, a last faded relic from the Department of Mysteries; when the scar met the fabric of her bra, he reached around her to pull the clasp of it apart, baring her to him.

She throbbed, ached, and there was a lump of hard emotion in her throat, too. She reached out to pull the buttons of his shirt free, and he let her, fingers running softly over her shoulders, up and down her arms, a touch like a light breeze that raised goosebumps in their wake. He was covered in scars—a dozen, a hundred more than hers, some pink and bright against the pale of his skin, some old and silver with age—but she started at his bared forearm, at the Dark Mark, and didn't look away from him when her lips pressed to the ink.

She wondered if she would ever know where all of them had come from—if, indeed, he could even remember the origin of each.

His attentions returned to her neck, his lips and tongue sucking and laving her sensitive skin. A groan escaped her lips. His hand slid up her stomach, her ribs, to caress her breast, squeezing and brushing teasing fingertips over a stiffening nipple. Her back arched; she squirmed to have more contact with his long fingers. His teeth nipped sharply at her neck—a reprieve for her impatience—but she couldn't make herself comply, leaned in closer to press her lips to the base of his throat instead. He shivered at the touch.

His head dipped to kiss her again, more demanding now, his hands stroking over her bare skin, his body pushing hers back, back, back, until the backs of her thighs nudged gently into her bed. His arms wrapped around her legs to lift her to the mattress, and then he began to dispose of the rest of her clothing: pulling her trainers and socks off her feet, slipping the button of her trousers loose, tugging them slowly over her hips, until she was left in her underwear under his heated gaze.

He leaned over her, cupping his hands around her bare breasts while his hips pressed hard between her legs. She moaned at the contact and the burst of pleasure it wrung from her throbbing centre. "Lay back," he murmured against her lips, and she obeyed mindlessly as his fingers and then tongue slowly stroked her breasts. She gasped when he drew one of her nipples into his mouth and gently sucked; she felt him hardening against her core as he teased her, but then the pressure was gone as he sank down her body and knelt on the floor, draping her legs over his shoulders.

"Oh," she groaned; his tongue lapped over the cotton still separating them, just enough to set her nerves tingling. He proceeded slowly, alert to her reactions, sucking and biting her inner thighs, occasionally teasing her with the pressure of his tongue on her aching centre.

"Severus," she whispered, and he pulled aside the fabric to swipe his tongue over her wet slit, sliding between her lips, teasing at her clit. He repeated the motion slowly, his hands wrapped around her thighs. Her arousal deepened; she'd lost control of her body, rocked her hips up against his face without meaning to. He freed one hand to circle her opening with a fingertip. She could hear herself whimpering, crying out, and couldn't make herself stop. He slipped two fingers inside her and began slowly to thrust them in and out while his tongue deepened its pressure on her clit.

"Severus," she panted again, her back arching against her bed, her hips beginning to meet the thrusts of his fingers and tongue. Her voice rose higher, and finally, finally—for it seemed as if she'd waited forever—she came with a wordless cry, her entire body stiffening with pleasure.

His tongue worked against her until she'd melted bonelessly into the mattress, and then he moved quickly, tugging her knickers impatiently down her legs. He straightened from the floor, slipped the button of his trousers loose, and rid himself of pants and briefs entirely. His cock stood up from a dark thatch of pubic hair, and she wrapped her hand around his length to stroke him, bringing him closer to her.

His hand fell to halt her progress. "I wouldn't last," he said, voice ragged.

She laced her fingers through his and tugged, urging him onto the bed with her and pushing him back against the pillows. She smiled briefly at his irritated expression; it changed swiftly when she straddled his lap. His back straightened against the headboard, hands curving around her waist. She reached beneath her to stroke the head of him against her wetness; he groaned, and then she sank down, down, down, until he filled her fully.

For a moment she remained there while they gazed at one another, breathing heavily, and then, his hands running over her, she began to move, stroking slowly up and down his length. "Hermione," he rasped, thrusting his hips up to meet her strokes. She braced her hands on his shoulders and his lips nuzzled her breasts, licking and kissing and sucking at her skin while she pressed him into her, deeper with every stroke downward. His hands urged her on, forcing her hips down faster and harder until she felt the edge approaching again.

"Severus…please, please…"

He shattered, jerking up into her, his thumb pressing to just above where they were joined; she came with a relieved cry, her head falling back, her motions slowing and then stilling entirely.

When she opened her eyes again, he was gazing up at her, utterly tranquil, his features softer and more peaceful than she had ever seen them.

Professors Snape and Granger went missing for a full three days.

Neither appeared at the High Table for breakfast, lunch, or dinner on the second, third, and fourth day of the Christmas holidays. On the third day, they missed a scheduled night of rounds, but as no students remained at the school, the Headmistress saw no need to contact either professor yet.

Just when Minerva feared she would need to make an inquiry which would lead to the discovery of a murder, they reappeared at dinner on the fourth day, entering the Great Hall together. Professor Granger was caught in the act of beaming up at Professor Snape; he smirked in return before noticing the many stares of the staff and re-adopting a stoic demeanour. Though Hermione attempted to do the same, she failed brilliantly and broke down in quiet laughter. The corner of Severus's mouth twitched.

They seated themselves, side-by-side, across from Minerva, where the only seats left awaited them. She sighed, cast a severe look at the pair of them, and straightened her hat. Severus returned her look with a raised eyebrow.

"It's about bloody time!" Neville exclaimed; he didn't even quail from the dark look Severus cast his way.