And then came the night of Slughorn's party.
Severus seethed through his preparations, applying every curse word he knew to Minerva (she'd managed to talk her way out of attending), and using his best glare on her when he encountered her in the entrance hall on his way out.
"You look mighty fine tonight, Severus," she commented, looking amused. He glared and swept past her. "Have fun, then!"
The rude gesture she received might have held more weight if she'd spent any time at all in the Muggle world, but he was fairly sure she got the idea.
He was dressed up, pressed slacks and silk waistcoat under his heavy dress robes. The waistcoat was solid gray. The robes were black brocade. They'd been bloody expensive, and he was still trying to figure out why he'd bought them. He could have just worn the same robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball the previous year, but he'd been in Madam Malkin's to have one of his frock coats repaired properly after an incident with some fourth year Hufflepuff, and he'd seen them and, on what he told himself was a whim, had Malkin take his measurements for them.
Damn it all, he even had a new cravat to match the waistcoat.
He was still scowling when he arrived at the party. Slughorn's house was large, lit with golden fairy lights, and bubbling over with warmth. It was nestled in a little Irish wizarding conclave, and there had been no attempt whatsoever to disguise the magic taking place.
Ice sculptures the size of Muggle cars posed around the yard, changing positions every minute or so. Drinks trays floated around the crowd by themselves. The air was warm and pleasant even outside, and the light snowfall mysteriously stopped at the property line and about six feet above Severus's head.
It was beautiful, and it pissed him off even more than the itching cravat tied around his neck.
Severus went inside. It was equally, horribly festive.
Rich green pine garlands wound around the banisters, decorated with red-striped candy canes. There was a tall Christmas tree in the main room, decorated with white candles and red velvet ribbons and bow. There were white tablecloths on all the appropriate surfaces. Food was laid out on shining silver platters.
The rooms shone with holiday spririt. The whole place was done up somewhere between tasteful and oppulant, only hitting a few sour notes.
The people populating the rooms were less successful. They were all dressed to impress, of course. Most people wore black or white robes with red and green accents. A few had gone for silver and gold. There was one instance of garish yellow that he supposed was supposed to be gold. One witch was wearing violet.
And Hermione Granger was in silk that floated around her like smoke. If he had to put one color to the fabric, it would be charcoal, but that was horribly inadequate. The robes shifted color in the changing light, and he couldn't tell if it was spelled or simply well-made. There was a short collar, purely decorative, and long sleeves that clung to her arms all the way down to her wrists, where they came to points that emphasized the delicate shape of her hands. The bodice clung as tightly as the sleeves, showing her narrow waist and the feminine swell of hips as the silk flared out into a full skirt, the colors rippling from pale gray to black. It was the neckline that was noticeable—a thin strip of flesh exposed from collar to where the skirt began to flare out at the natural waist, just above her naval, showing the inside curve of her breasts. The gap wasn't large enough to be ostentatious, and she wore the robes so well that it wasn't tacky. She had dark eye makeup and deep red lips, her hair piled in artful curls on top of her head. She looked like a bloody queen, and everybody was watching her.
"What have you just done to the gingerbread men?" he asked, coming up beside her. She didn't jump, but he knew he'd surprised her because she didn't brush his mind in greeting until a moment after she smirked at him.
"You'll just have to watch and see, won't you?"
The lipstick was distracting. He'd never noticed her mouth so much before.
Feeling wrong-footed, he took a glass off one of the hovering trays for each of them and handed her one. She smirked again and turned so that they were standing with their arms pressed together without actually looking at each other. For awhile, they simply stood together and watched the party going on around them.
"I've been instructed to be mysterious," she said at long last. He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow, but she wasn't looking at him.
"Oh?"
"Yes. Nobody knows me, of course, so I show up in a ridiculously enticing dress and shoes that make me worry about my ankles, and I smirk and keep aloof, only really to talk to members of the Order. Slughorn is bound to be drawn in eventually."
"Is that why you've put a charm on your tits?" He regreted it the instant he said it. She'd know that he'd been looking, and not just looking but looking hard enough and long enough to notice the spell.
To his surprise, she laughed. She had every right to dump her drink on his head and call him a letch, but instead she laughed. It was a tinkling, sweet sound. It made the men in the surrounding crowd turn and look at her, eyes raking over her. (They looked long and hard enough to notice the charm, too, but he suspected they missed it.)
"Please don't eat me!"
The shriek interrupted what could very well have been an awkward conversation. Somebody had finally made their way over to the desserts table and picked up a gingerbread man. They'd dropped it when it started shouting.
People laughed when they realized what had happened and a crowd gathered around the cookies.
"No, no!"
"Really, I'll taste horrible."
"Eat him, not me! He's got more frosting!"
"Help! Help!"
They each seemed to have one phrase charmed into them. The shorter the phrase, the more they repeated it before the charm wore off. There was one that simply shrieked, and it went on and on.
Severus suppressed a smile, turning to look down at Hermione. She was giggling helplessly. She turned away to hide her face—presumably to keep her aloof, mysterious cover—and ended up pressed into his side. The tits he'd been observing, he realized, had not been charmed, at least not the way he'd first thought. No, that curve was all natural. And it was moving nicely against him as she laughed.
"Well, have yourself a good grope, then, Sev," she said, and he realized he'd been staring again. And she'd stopped laughing. And she'd been watching him look.
He tried to apologize—Bollocks! He'd almost had a friend, and then he'd gone and ruined it by being a sodding testosterone-lackey…—but he couldn't seem to remember words. And then she surprised him, again, by taking his hand and actually placing his fingers against her skin just below her collarbone. He froze. She loosened her grip, but when he didn't move his hand of his own accord, she smirked at him and dragged his fingers down. Down.
Oh, gods…
There it was. His eyes could see only pretty pale flesh all in feminine lines, but his fingers could feel a smooth crest of old scar tissue. He recalled a raised red line beside her collarbone and wondered if it was the same scar.
He looked up at her face, a question on his tongue, but her eyes fluttered shut. He would have gaped at her if he had had less practice at minding his expression—she was enjoying his touch?—but before he could process her reaction, she'd removed his hand from her breast, but not from her hand. She squeezed his fingers gently, held his hand for a moment, and then finally let him go. She was still standing very close, her back to the rest of the room.
The crowd was still focused on those screaming gingerbread men.
He had a brief fantasy that involved putting his hand back on her skin, sliding it under the dress, cupping her breast. Had she charmed her lipstick to stay in place, or would it smear across his face if he kissed her?
The fantasy came crashing down when he remembered that she was his student. She was currently tucked away at Hogwarts, studying for her winter exams and planning what to get her idiot friends for Christmas. It was worse than waking up on her couch and realizing the anti-depressant that had been forced on him had run its course and he was back to a reailty that didn't involve singing bawdy songs at her until she giggled helplessly.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, because it seemed like the thing to say.
"It was my first scar from the war," she said, her voice far away. "The attack at the end of fifth year… we were so bloody young."
"At the end of—you get that in just a few months?"
Her face shuttered immediately. She looked blankly up at him, a false smile in place. "Sorry. Ignore me. I wasn't supposed to say that."
Her hand found the spot he knew the scar to be, fingers pressed against it.
"We could change it," he suggested. "We know what's going to happen. We could change it."
"No we can't. That's why Dumbledore made sure I could keep him out, so that he wouldn't be tempted to try to do things better." She sighed, met his eyes. Her eyes were the color of coffee with cream, and right now they were very, very tired. Old. Hurting. "Better the devil you know."
"Somebody dies." She didn't refute him; in fact, she almost looked confused. "In that attack. Somebody dies."
"Yes," she said, her shoulders slumping. "But I was the worst injury. All things considered, taking into account the number of children running around… I've run the arithmancy—so many times. Any difference, any interference, any plan that I've come up with… We fail more often than not. When we come out alive, we're worse off on the larger scale. The… Things change, after the attack. Things move into the open. The Ministry…" She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked at him. Steely resolve replaced the ancient exhaustion in her eyes. "It has to happen. It's not pleasant, and it's not nice, but it's necessary."
You sound a bit like Dumbledore, he thought, and looked away. She'd heard the thought; he could see it in the hurt expression that flitted across her face, just for the briefest moment, before her Occlumency shields had snapped into place and her face had gone so carefully blank.
"Ah, Severus," Lucius said, drifting over from the far side of the room. He wore rich green robes, all shining velvet and artful draping. "I'm sorry. I seem to have scared off your lady friend."
Severus smirked, wanting to frown. Hermione had vanished into the crowd. He wondered if it had to do with his own offensive behavior, or the arrival of Lucius Malfoy.
"I have a feeling I will find her later," Severus replied, and Lucius smiled. It was the warm, friendly smile that had become so rare in the last few months. It was very easy to forget that Lucius had been his friend.
"The two of you looked… close." There was a deliberate pause, a question without asking. Severus raised an eyebrow.
She's probably my best friend; she calls me 'Sev' sometimes. She's my student, too. It's confusing.
"She works at an apothecary I've visited a few times. I've never seen her socially before, but it seems she wrangled an invitation through an acquaintance."
"Are you in love with her?"
"You have all the tact of a first-year Gryffindor."
What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I'm not in love with her. Merlin's damned liver spots, she's my student.
Lucius merely smirked, eyes dancing with mirth. "Come, then. If you're not going after her, you'll come with me and say hello to my wife."
"And how is dear Narcissa?"
"Angry with me. Again."
"Cissy? With you? Surely not."
"I hope that beauty of yours has a better temper than mine."
"What did you do this time?"
Lucius actually looked guilty. Severus smiled.
"So it was something you did."
"Shut up, Severus," Lucius said petulantly, sounding seventeen again for a moment. Then they were on Narcissa—creamy white robes with a white fur collar, and a shimmering dress beneath the color of red wine—and Lucius was all solicitous charm for his wife. "Narcissa, dear, look who I found sulking in the corner."
Severus almost smiled. It was very like when they were young, Lucius drawing him into the fold of his many friends and acquaintances. Of course, those friends and acquaintances were mostly Death Eaters, so it hadn't been the best thing—but it was well-meant.
"Hello, Severus. How are you?"
"Bored to death. And yourself?"
Narcissa chuckled demurely. They got to talking about Draco, of course.
A long time later, after discovering that Narcissa Malfoy wanted another child and Lucius was reluctant to aid in that venture, Severus found himself outside again. The ice sculptures were still posing and preening. The air smelled of pine.
Hermione stood at the edge of the balcony, looking not out on the garden but up at the sky. It was a clear night, the snow stopped long ago. The moon was a waning cresecent, and the stars were out.
She was dressed in smoke and bathed in starlight.
Something in his chest clenched, reminding him that he had to apologize for… earlier.
"I figured questions about me would be easier to answer if I wasn't there," she said, not looking down from the sky.
"I could have introduced you to the Malfoys," he said, teasing. The ease evaporated when he noticed her finger the hidden scar between her breasts. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It wasn't your fault."
She looked down, then, and smiled at him. She kept her lips closed, and he had the sudden sense that she was not nearly as confident as the dress and dramatic makeup suggested—she was worried she might have lipstick on her teeth. It was unbelievably endearing.
"Are you free to go?" he asked her impulsively. He had the mad thought to show her his home at Spinner's End. He had books there that she would like. He'd been meaning to add her to the wards for some time, as well. Just in case. "Did you get Slughorn sufficiently interested?"
"Interested and wary," she said, nodding. "We'll see if it works."
"Shall we?"
"Lets."
They did a round of the house, saying their goodbyes. Lucius gave him a knowing sort of look, eyes trailing the silk-clad figure currently being fawned over one last time by Horace Slughorn. He retrieved his cloak and joined Hermione at the front gate.
"Well then," she said, tucking her arm into his. "Off we go."
"Allow me."
He Side-Along Apparated her to Manchester, and she looked up at him, curious, when she realized they weren't in London or Edinburgh.
"Where are we?" She was tense, and she stepped away from him just enough to give them both freedom of movement. She had her wand in her hand, and he hadn't seen how it got there.
"Manchester."
"On purpose?"
He scowled at her, then realized she hadn't been insulting the place in and of itself, but wondering if he'd intentionally brought them to Manchester and not been somehow altered in their route.
Severus brought her out of the alley, around a corner, and there it was. His dillapitated little house. Brown, battered. The front gate thunked in the wind (It had stopped snowing in Ireland, but it was a snowy, miserable night in Manchester.) The big tree at the front corner of the house would be rubbing its branches on his childhood bedroom window. There was a drift of dirty snow up the steps and across the front porch, ending in a smudge across the bottom of the front door.
Ugly thing. Why did you bring her here?
"Welcome to Spinner's End," he said, opening the thunking gate just so, preventing it from squeaking. Gnarled bits of overgrown bushes, currently looking quite dead, poked out of the snow on either side of the gate.
"This is where you grew up?" Her wand was no longer in her hand. She looked calm, interested. She pulled her cloak more firmly around her and walked through the gate to stand next to him.
"Delightful, isn't it?"
"It looks like a haunted house out of a story book."
"I believe that is the tale the children of the neighborhood tell each other."
"Have you ever enchanted the curtains to flutter ominously?"
"I would never do such a thing."
"Of course not. Such pranks are below the great and powerful Severus Snape."
"I work at a boarding school. I deal with obnoxious children. The last thing I need, when I'm here, is children daring each other to run up and touch the door or something."
"I'm going to charm your curtains to flutter ominously. And then I'm going to charm the gate so that any child who touches it has the sudden desire to hide behind the tree across the street. You can sit at your window just there and watch them."
"No wonder you're such a delinquent."
"You don't even know what happened to Dolores Umbridge yet."
"What happens to the toad?"
"I'm not telling."
They smiled at each other. (She didn't have any lipstick on her teeth.) Then he turned and flicked his wand at the house, moving it in the familiar, if complex, forms to add her to the wards. When he was done, he used his wand to clear the front path and the porch of snow, then gestured for her to go first.
He gave her the grand tour. The narrow entryway that really needed a runner or something to hide the faded floorboards. The front sitting room with its walls covered in book shelves. The tiny corner of a kitchen and the dining area that went with it, the table covered in layers of old stains and gouges. The cellar magically Expanded to have room for his potions experimentation, the tables and cabinets empty since their usual contents were currently at Hogwarts. Up the rickety stairs to the wide landing with the large window giving a view of the baren lawn in front of the house, the street, and the connected houses across. Two bedrooms, both bare of anything beyond the essentials, the furniture sagging and worn. A tiny bathroom with horrible pea green tile on every possible surface.
He noticed the way she didn't look away from anything. The broken spindles on the banister from one of the many times his father had fallen down the stairs when drunk. The way the worktable in the cellar didn't quite hide the mildew stain on the wall. The bare mattress in the larger bedroom; the musty linens on the narrow bed he'd slept on as a boy.
Severus wished he hadn't brought her here.
"Severus," she said quietly, coming up behind him. They were in the sitting room, and she'd been looking at his books. At some point, she'd pulled her hair out of the elaborate bun, and it pooled around her face and shoulders in strange smooth waves.
"Yes?"
"I need to ask you a question. Because you're my friend—probably my best friend—and I… just need to know."
"Alright." He dreaded the question just from the look on her face even when his blood was rushing at the thought that she considered him her best friend. (Even just probably.)
"Why did you join the Death Eaters?" He inhaled sharply, feeling like she'd slapped him. Of course she'd wonder, of course she'd ask that. It was a valid concern, he supposed; how could he consider her a friend if he hated Muggle-borns? "Before you lay an egg! I just want to know because I am Muggle-born…" He wondered what sort of expression he'd been making for to jump at him like that. She put a hand on his arm, squeezed it gently. He schooled his face to neutrality, blinking down at her. She was standing very close. "I don't want the awkwardness later, finding out you only tolerate me for the cause."
"Hermione, stop," he said, his hand finding hers on his arm. It was awkward, for him. He wasn't used to comforting with touch. Hell, he wasn't used to being touched period. "I don't hate Muggles, I don't hate Muggle-borns. I hated my drunk Muggle father, yes, but… I joined because I was an angry teenaged boy, and I thought they were the only ones who would have me. I—"
"You don't have to tell me more. That's enough. That's all I need to know."
"I was in love with Lily Evans—Lily Potter." The words tumbled out of him and wouldn't stop."We grew up together; she was the only friend I had before Hogwarts. I fell in love with her, but she fell in love with James Potter. We'd stopped being friends long before that, but I was… attached."
"I didn't know."
"Nobody knows."
Nobody but Dumbledore, and he's kept his promise.
She didn't understand. She looked up at him and he could read her curiosity in her face, feel the question in her mind.
In for a penny, out for a pound.
"I was angry that they were engaged. I went home, came here, at the end of my seventh year, and the two of them were sitting at the park where I'd first met Lily, talking and laughing." He gestured out the west wall, toward the park. He hadn't been there in years. "And then I came through the front door and my father was drunk again. I left. I went to Lucius's. He's a couple years older, out of Hogwarts by then and just married to the youngest Black sister. He'd been a friend at school, and still after he finished. His father, Abraxus, was one of the Dark Lord's first supporters. A financial backer, then one of the first Marked.
"So I met the Dark Lord that day, and he was very charming. The Malfoys convinced him I was worthy, even if I was just a half-blood, and they financed my apprenticeship. I went off to Norway for a year and tried to forget it all. Then I came back and the Death Eaters weren't a—particularly intense—political faction. They were closer to what they are now. And I was too indebted to back out without getting killed, and I was still angry.
"I came home briefly, and discovered my father had drunk himself into a well-deserved death, leaving my mother destitute and alone. The Princes—that's her family—had disowned her when she married a Muggle, you see. They thought it fitting she was left high and dry when he died.
"I lived at home after that, looked after her while I brewed for the Dark Lord. Mostly poisons. I didn't think much of it—imagined pouring each one down my father's throat, or James Potter's.
"My mother killed herself one day in the middle of summer. Just a random day. I don't know why that day and, honestly, it doesn't really matter. The day after that, I took the Mark. Nobody else would have me, and it made me feel like I was sticking it to my father and Potter and the new Mrs. Potter.
"For awhile, it was… tolerable. I won't claim to have liked it, but it didn't disgust me the way it should have." He looked away from her, ashamed. He spoke to the dark maw of the staircase leading up to the bedrooms. "I had influence within the group for the potions I brewed. People did me favors to earn my goodwill. It was entirely new to me, that camaraderie and exchange.
"When Slughorn retired, the Dark Lord sent me to apply for the position. He trusted me to spy on Dumbledore, and I reveled in that trust. I would have remained loyal, willfully blind to the atrocities, except for the prophecy. Because he thought it meant Lily and I still loved her. He promised not to kill her if he didn't have to, but I was close enough to him, I'd seen enough standing at his side with my little cabinet full of poisons, to know he wouldn't hesitate. He would apologize later; tell me I deserved better anyway.
"So I went to Dumbledore. I confessed all. I begged him to hide the Potters. I agreed to spy for him. I offered him anything if he'd just keep her safe.
"But she died. He didn't keep her safe.
"He tried, though, which was more than the Dark Lord had. He'd had another spy, one I didn't know about. Pettigrew. More afraid of the Dark Lord than loyal to the Potters. It opened my eyes, the… pain of losing her. I could see what I'd been a part of, what the Death Eaters had become while I was tucked away brewing."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I." He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, or tried to. He'd had it braided back for the party. Annoyed, he yanked the tie from it and carded his fingers through it, knowing it would be kinky from the braid but not caring. "Anyway." They were still standing very close. "That's why I joined the Death Eaters. I don't hate Muggles at large, just a few individulas. And I have a history of loving Muggle-born witches, so you have nothing to worry about so far as the awkwardness of being my friend goes. At least not awkwardness because of blood. I'm sure I can find some other reason to bollocks it up."
Good God, did you just imply you might love her? Stupid wanker, what were you thinking?
She smiled, then leaned up and kissed his cheek. He blinked down at her and couldn't for the life of him think of something to say. Then she blushed and laughed, and rubbed at his cheek with her thumb.
"Sorry. I'm no good with makeup; I got lipstick all over you."
\\
She wasn't there when he next went looking. He'd been Summoned just after dinner the day before, hours before Arthur Weasley was attacked. There had been coffee and mint liquour, and he hadn't realized that he was being kept busy until it was past midnight and the damned snake slithered back into the room, fangs bloody.
"Ah, Nagini. Successful, I see," the Dark Lord said. He and the snake hissed at each other for awhile. Severus glanced around the room, noting the signs of nerves among the others. Lucius was looking smug, which probably meant that he'd had a hand in getting the snake into position.
So I am being kept out of the way so Dumbledore can't ask me to put together the antivenin. He scowled at Pettigrew, then smirked at the way the fool skittered around the snake. That was the reason Severus had been allowed to develop an antivenin at all—Nagini could smell the rat on Pettigrew and had been known to bite.
It was nearing midnight when the Dark Lord sent him with Lucius and a handful of others to the Ministry. They all had vague excuses should they encounter trouble, but it was a government facility outside standard business hours, and Fudge refused to step up security because he refused to believe there was a reason for it.
They didn't find quite the open entry to the Department of Mysteries they were looking for, and he was glad. He didn't want anything to do with the damned prophecy.
Instead of empty halls and a dead Order member, there was Kingsley Shacklebolt interviewing portraits and a junior Auror with him looking tired and annoyed. There was a skeleton crew of clerks already about. There was even a grouchy-looking wizard behind the wand check desk, though he kept his head down when they entered and he saw Lucius.
"I believe you had something to show me?" Severus said as they moved down the hall past Shacklebolt.
"Patience, Severus," Lucius said smoothly.
They dithered in a random courtroom for just less than an hour. Lucius all but pouted. The others paced and swore. Severus took a seat on one of the lower observation benches and simply waited, watching them. It had been almost amusing.
Severus clapped Lucius on the shoulder as they left. The poor bastard had to go back and explain to the Dark Lord that they'd been foiled. Severus wanted no part of that, especially not when he had a much more pleasant alternative.
"You're off to see that apothecary from Slughorn's party," Lucius said, smirking.
"Perhaps."
Lucius would probably have made some vulgar comment—or worse, asked leading questions about his intentions toward her that Severus didn't know the answers to. (Or maybe he did, but he didn't want to tell them to himself let alone Lucius.)
And then he'd arrived in Edinburgh, but she hadn't been there. It had been odd. He'd never been there when she was gone.
He paced. Raided her fridge. Took a nap. He considered showering, but that seemed too invasive. He paced some more; it was nearly four in the morning. He had to be back to Hogwarts for the last day of classes before the students left for Christmas in three hours.
He fell asleep again, and woke just in time to Apparate to the gates of Hogwarts and sprint up to castle. His lack of proper rest, not to mention a strange apprehension itching at the back of his mind that he just knew had to do with Hermione, meant a hard day for his students. He assigned essays that he never planned to read and handed out detentions with Filch like they were candy. He glared at Granger the younger all through lunch in the Great Hall, picking at his food.
His afternoon classes were even worse than his morning classes. He spent a lot of time glaring at the students from his desk, watching them brew as he drank cup after cup of tea.
Instead of going to dinner, he dismissed his last class early (informing them all that they were utter imbeciles) and slammed his office door behind him. So help them if they didn't tidy up after themselves before they left the room.
What the fuck is wrong with you? he wondered, but then he decided all he really needed was a nap.
"Hello, Sev."
"Hermione."
"I was going to surprise you in your sitting room after dinner, but then I realized I didn't have the password to your rooms."
He gaped at her for a moment, only glad his teacup didn't rattle against the saucer in his hand. "The wards on my rooms are keyed to the wards on my house."
"You mean the younger me could have waltzed into your personal chambers at any moment?"
"If the younger you had any reason to enter my rooms, I should think it would be a good idea to let her—you—in." He set the tea down, trying not to notice that she was sitting in his chair behind his desk, and more importantly that it didn't bother him. Such an invasion of his space should bother him. "You were always in the thick of things."
"Still am," she said, cocking her head to the side and almost smiling at him.
He sat in the student chair he hadn't charmed to be uncomfortable, crossing his legs lazily and looking at her. He was strangely aware that his bad mood had evaporated at the sight of her. He was strangely aware of her.
"Have you heard about Mr. Weasley, then?"
"Which one?"
"Oh. I'd assumed you would have heard. Arthur Weasley was attacked last night."
"The snake."
"Yes."
"Did he survive?"
She blinked at him. "Yes, of course. That's why Dumbledore had me in his office all morning. He wanted a word about my interference."
"Or lack thereof? He was angry you didn't forewarn him." Severus rolled his eyes.
"No, actually." Hermione said, running her left thumb along the white scar on the index finger next to it. She watched her own movement, frowning. "I knew it was going to happen, of course. I've been exchanging letters with a contact in the hospital, Albert Clooney. Do you know him? He's the hospital's resident potioneer."
"I've heard of him, but never met him."
"Anyway. I told him I've been working on an antivenin project, convinced him to let me bring in some samples to consult with him, conveniently scheduled the meeting for when I knew the hospital would need antivenins."
"And the headmaster was angry you interfered," Severus said, nodding and leaning back in his chair. He had relaxed enough now that he could feel the cold coming off her in waves—she was Occluding like she had been that night that they'd been set up to be a show for Moody. Her instructed to brew at headquarters after playing the dragon, him doing the brewing when Dumbledore dropped the hint that Black would be away.
Goddamn manipulative bastard.
She smiled at him, and he looked away; the thought had leaked to her.
"Furious." The jars on the shelf nearest her were shuddering in place.
He had to tamp down an urge to gather her up in his lap and rock her like a child. It wasn't something he'd ever felt before, that overwhelming urge to comfort an adult. It would surprise most people to know that he liked children, liked teaching, liked being the Head of Slytherin, but he did. Hell, he kept a tin of chocolate biscuits in his desk for when a hanky would be too impersonal but a hug wouldn't do either. (Yes, he'd been known to hug the children when they needed it.)
"Did he—?"
"Of course he did."
"Would you like something for the headache?"
"I already pilfered something from your cabinet."
Severus nodded.
"Let's talk about something else."
"What?"
"Anything." She sighed and sat back in his chair, leaning her head against the back rest. He was too tall to do that, his head always flopping over the top of the back rest and making his neck hurt. She looked comfortable. "Why do you hate Harry Potter so much?"
"Because he's a cocky little ponce." She laughed, so he kept going. "He's always running off into trouble with half the information and none of the skill. And he looks like his father, and you already heard that story."
"Hm," she hummed agreement, and he raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged, not the least bit sheepish for seeming to agree with him that her best friend—childhood best friend at least; she'd told him he was her best friend now, and didn't that set his spine tingling—was an idiot. "Don't give me that look. You snuck up on us enough times to know that I spent most of my time trying to talk the boys out of things."
"And I know that when you were involved in the planning, it was a rare thing for the three of you to get caught."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Of course it was."
He smirked at her. The cold of her Occlumency had seeped away with the joking, and the jars weren't verging on implosion any longer. (Which was good, because they'd been sitting there long enough that they'd be hell to clean up.)
He settled in to keep talking, to ease her away from those cold shields between her and the world.
"It's not a simple thing, of course. I hated James Potter quite fervently, as you well know. I met him on the train first year, and we took an instant disliking to each other. I was sitting with Lily in the carriage, reading Hogwarts: A History together, if I remember correctly. We were joined by other first years eventually—Benedict Malfoy (a cousin of Lucius's), Remus Lupin, Gretchen Goyle (though it was Prewett at the time, she's a cousin of some sort to Molly Weasley). And then in came James Potter and Sirius Black, already attached at the hip.
"Lily and I had decided it was Ravenclaw for us. Malfoy was looking forward to Slytherin. Lupin was just glad to be there. Goyle was taking a nap. Then in came Potter and Black, confident and charistmatic even at eleven. Going on and on about Gryffindor, how Black was going to throw the proverbial wrench in his family's expectations.
"I didn't realize it, but I'd already lost Lily then. She was Sorted into Gryffindor, and I decided it was because Potter and Black had been going on about it on the train. I had grand schemes for getting back at them in my head when I was Sorted, and I was just glad I didn't end up in Ravenclaw all alone. Or in Gryffindor with those two, even if Lily would be there too.
"Then it was Slytherin against Gryffindor. The Marauders formed up fairly quickly, as did their dislike of me—I was always unkept, and it bothered them. That ws how it began. My parents bought my robes too big so they'd last longer as I grew, and this was before we switched to the current uniform with trousers and ties (that wasn't until '85, '83 maybe—a political move within the Board of Governors, Malfoy and his bloc backing the proposal to make Muggleborns more comfortable in their uniforms by adapting elements of Muggle school uniforms). It was a plain robe, collar to ankle. Mine was bought secondhand, so it was a touch grayed and a bit frayed at the cuffs. And the sleeves went down over my hands constantly because I always forgot to roll them up, and the bottom was held up by safety pins. I'll find you a picture sometime; it was horrendous. Lily helped me research Shrinking Charms, and we got me sorted out by Halloween.
"And then Harry Potter arrived at school and while his uniform fit him, all the clothes he brought from home were much too big. All I could think about, after seeing him his first weekend, was that if his father had done a proper job of hiding and not trusted that damned rat, Lily would be alive and her son wouldn't be going around in too-large hand-me-downs.
"But you're right, and I'm off track. I dislike Harry Potter because he takes after his father."
"With his mother's eyes, I'm told."
"It is uncanny," Severus said, nodding thoughtfully. She was still Occluding; in fact, the cold was intensifying again. That worried him, mostly because he didn't know why she would be throwing up more mental shields when they were talking about something so innocuous. Or at least innocuous to her. "And I rather botched it in the beginning. You could say I flinched—I saw him there in my classroom, talking and laughing and looking exactly like the boy who bullied me all through school, and I… I'm not proud of it."
He couldn't imagine saying this to anybody else. Really, he was having a hard time believing he was even telling her. And he loved her.
Shit! Since when?
"That set the tone," he said, playing casual. All the while, his mind was reeling.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Since when? Does it matter? But good grief, how did this happen? Fucking love again?
"I let his presence antagonize me even though he had no idea, and his temper fed into the scenerios nicely."
I already did this once. It was painful and it ended horribly.
"And then the Dark Lord was back… Dumbledore used to harp on me to let bygones be bygones and help the boy, but now it's good I have memories of Potter glaring at me through Lily's eyes, because the Dark Lord knows the boy doesn't trust me enough to follow me out of the castle some stormy night to meet his death."
Not that his mother's eyes mean much to me anymore, other than the oddness of seeing them in James's face. Shit! How did this happen? No, of course not how, that's easy enough. Hell, it was practically inevitable. How about why. Why did this happen? Why now? Fuckall. She's a student, not to mention off-limits as per Dumbledore. Well, not entirely 'as per Dumbledore;' that conversation hasn't actually happened yet. Hopefully it won't happen. Ever.
Shit.