Severus glared at the class from his desk. Sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins, her class. It was the most difficult class to teach simply because she was in it. It helped that Potter was there, looking and acting so much like his father. But she was always there, too, distracting him.
He'd last seen Hermione, the real Hermione, the day before the students arrived. She'd sat on his lap in his reading chair, and they'd held each other. She'd told him she loved him, and he'd maneuvered so that she was looking into his eyes so that he could show her just how much he reciprocated. It was easier and easier to brush minds, to share thoughts and emotions without more than a wisp of effort.
Really, the hard part wasn't having her in the room, it was having her there and pretending like she wasn't the reason he put up with the rest of the world. He was careful not to look at her more than he had to, careful not to touch her, careful not to reach out for her mind. It almost hurt when he noticed her unscarred hands, or remembered that this Hermione had smooth skin on her back and absolutely no experience with Healing.
So he was as irascible as ever, and he wrote her a letter at the end of each day detailing all the annoying things her younger self had done (like looked moonily at Weasley, or turned in an essay three full inches over the required length). She wrote him a letter back, and it came each morning with the rest of his post. He usually kept the day's letter in his inner pocket, savoring the words in his office between breakfast and his first class, and then touching the parchment like a talisman over the course of the day.
He was trying not to consciously count down to the break for Christmas. He didn't know what would happen after that—would Hermione Granger simply not return to Hogwarts? What would they tell Potter?—but it would put an end to the slow torture of looking without touching.
Hermione had forgotten about Katie Bell entirely. She would probably feel bad about that when she had time to think about it, but she hadn't had time yet. She'd spent Friday and Saturday at St. Mungo's. The water had been poisoned at a Muggle office building; two people had died before the Ministry realized it was potion-based. Hermione's contact at the hospital had asked if she'd be able to help out, and Dumbledore wanted her to maintain and expand her contacts at St. Mungo's so she'd gone.
Exhausted, smelling of the cauldrons she'd been bending over and the grease she'd put in her hair, Hermione had happened upon him in the lobby.
"Hello."
He hadn't said anything, just put his hand on her shoulder like he wasn't sure she was a hallucination or not. Then he ran his hand down her arm to her hand, laced his fingers with hers, and squeezed gently. It was a tender gesture, and it made her smile even though she was tired enough to fall asleep on one of the uncomfortable waiting room couches.
"You've come about Miss Bell, then?"
"Miss Bell? Oh. You mean Katie? Katie Bell?"
"Yes." He looked as tired as she felt, but he hid it better. He was so pale when he was well that it was easy to miss the washed-out look to him.
"I'd forgotten about that, actually."
"Is that good news, then? She recovers?"
"Yes. I was told—or I will be told, in about a week I think—that you stabilized her, prevented the curse from spreading. She'll be here for a long time, past Christmas. The rumors that reached me were all good, though."
He was silent a moment, then nodded. Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders, but not much. "What are you here for then?"
"That office poisoning."
They walked out of the waiting room, carefully separate. He walked just barely close enough so that his teaching robes, unclasped across the front after his long afternoon fighting Dark magic, swished against her ankle every few steps.
"That wasn't Death Eaters, actually," he said conversationally, quietly enough that the people waiting couldn't hear. "Some jealous witch married to a Muggle. Trying to poison a mistress, I believe; not realizing the diuretic she chose can be fatal in Muggles. The Dark Lord arranged for Wormtail to send her a fruit basket."
"A fruit basket."
"Sometimes I can't tell if he's trying to be funny, or if he's read some old Pureblood manual on etiquette that I haven't."
"They have manuals for that sort of thing?"
"Oh yes. There are volumes of them."
"I would've thought I'd've seen some form of them in the Black library."
"I believe Black burned them upon his return, shortly after offering up the house as headquarters. One by one and in front of his mother's portrait."
Hermione actually laughed at that, drawing a few curious looks that turned into alarmed looks when they saw who had made her laugh. She quieted herself quickly, looking down at the floor and putting her hands in her pockets so that she couldn't reach over to touch him.
Finally, they reached the side hall leading down to the Apparation room. There were chairs up and down the hall, spillover area for whenever something really bad happened and families swarmed the waiting rooms. They sat in the two chairs closest to the door to the Apparation room on the left side. They weren't comfortable chairs. They came three to a pod and were bolted to the wall, stiff wooden armrests there more to demarcate personal space than for resting arms. In the chairs, Hermione and Severus were so close that their legs touched.
"How are you?" Hermione asked, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and staring down at her feet.
"Not unwell."
"That's a crap answer, Sev." Hermione turned her head to give him a teasing look, but the teasing fell away the moment she made eye contact and he pressed his thoughts and emotions over to her. He was coming apart at the seams.
I don't want to die, he thought. And, Draco Malfoy is going to get himself killed.
She'd forgotten that Malfoy was his godson, that there was real affection there, not just the drive from his Unbreakable Vow. Faded, maybe, since he could be such a turd of a teenager, but a connection nonetheless. That memory of the nursery at Malfoy Manor came to mind, a younger Severus laying on a blanket with a blond toddler.
"Do you know what he was hoping to be before…" Severus indicated his Dark Mark by scratching at it ruthlessly through the sleeve of his robes.
"We didn't exactly swap aspirations, Severus."
"A Healer." He looked away, left hand clenched in a fist while his right hand spastically smoothed the fabric of his sleeve where he'd been scratching. "He wanted to go to France like you did, because it's the best program in Europe. And he wanted to stay there. He wanted to get away from all this, and help people."
Hermione had no idea what to say. She reached for his hand, but jerked away when the door of the Apparation room opened and a wizard with indigo skin and bubbles coming out of his left ear hurried toward the lobby.
They sat there for twenty minutes like guilty children caught out snogging after curfew, now waiting outside their Head of House's office to get a talking to.
\\
It was terribly ironic, several weeks later, when she received an invitation to Slughorn's annual Christmas party. Thinking of the year before made her smile—both because she'd charmed the gingerbread men to shout, and because she and Severus had been so obviously dancing around each other. This year's party would be at Hogwarts, though, and her younger self would be in attendance.
The night of the party, she found herself sitting at her kitchen table looking at the trunk she'd brought from her office, all the research and charts she'd had there shrunk down to fit in the single box. The flat around her was similarly strange, all her knick-knacks and photographs packed away into her satchel leaving only the bones of what had been her home for a time. Whatever Dumbledore's plans were for her after her younger self first Turned back the summer, he hadn't seen fit to share them with her (beyond a desire for her to pack up her things and "be ready," of course).
She'd taken a nap late in the afternoon, half hoping she'd sleep through the party. Instead, she'd had a strange dream about Severus putting McLaggen in detention for the rest of the year because of his overly enthusiastic efforts beneath the mistletoe.
Green dress robes this year, forest green linen heavy with pleating in the skirts. A golden cream-white dress beneath, the bodice of the green robe mostly open across the front to show off the tiny pleats across her breasts to match the folds in the skirts. The pair of them made a simple, elegant ensemble. She put her hair in a loose French braid, letting the curls soften the updo and putting in just enough Sleakeasy so that the curls that escaped the braid to flutter around her face and neck were more delicate ringlets than frizzy corkscrews.
Yesterday I killed a man, she thought, wrapping herself in her nicer winter cloak and checking her lipstick one last time. Today I'm all dressed up like a girly-girl. What the fuck is this life?
At the gates of Hogwarts, a very bored trio of fourth years leapt to attention at the sound of her Apparation. The boy—and for the life of her she couldn't remember his name, though she was fairly sure he was a Gryffindor—beat the others to her, and thus she followed the red blush on the back of his neck through the familiar halls to Slughorn's office.
The place had been Expanded within an inch of its life. The strain of it would've shown in the washed-out coloring of the walls and floor, but nobody was looking at the floor and the walls had been covered by emerald, crimson and gold hangings; it was reminiscent of a harem tent. At the center of the ceiling hung an ornate golden lamp with real faeiries fluttering about it.
Despite the Expansion, the room was crowded and stuffy. The far corner held a wizard dressed like a medieval bard, playing a mandolin and singing, constantly tossing his head to get the enormous feather on his hat out of his face. There was a haze of pipe smoke in another corner surrounding several elderly warlocks deep in conversation. House elves bearing silver platters of food looked like little roving tables as they made their way through the crowd.
There were too many people. It was probably around the same number as had been in attendance the year before, but they'd had a whole house and yard to spread out in before.
Hermione itched to have her wand in her hand and her back against a wall.
"Samantha, my dear!" Slughorn cried, reaching for her and beaming. It was only habit that kept her from flinching. "You look more lovely each time I see you." He bowed formally over her hand, and she couldn't tell if he was mocking her or not.
"This is a beautiful room."
Slughorn laughed good-naturedly, though there was a touch of stiffness in his cheeks. "It's nothing compared to last year, as I'm sure you remember," he said wistfully. "Alas, there simply wasn't room for ice sculptures. I tried to convince Albus to lend me the Great Hall, you know. We could've made a proper showing there. That ceiling…"
Hermione surprised herself by laughing outright. Slughorn smiled at her winningly.
"Enchanting, my dear. Enchanting."
She resisted the urge to wipe the hand he'd clasped on the skirt of her dress robes. Luckily—for her at least—Harry and Luna made their entrance seconds later.
"Harry, m'boy!" Slughorn cried, and hurtled off toward the door. "Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!"
Hermione helped herself to a glass of bubbly and circulated. She knew a handful of those present by name and most of the rest by sight—wizarding Britain wasn't that big. Severus found her when she was in the middle of an amicable discussion of ashwinder eggs with a client from the apothecary. She couldn't for the life of her remember his name and she'd been hoping he would introduce himself to Severus, but he didn't.
"Hello, Professor!" the wizard said, the greeting coming out half a squeak. Hermione turned to look at Severus over her shoulder and found his full focus on the other wizard, his eyes cold enough to frost over a phoenix. "I—I—Well, it was nice catching up, Barnes. Really must be going now. Going over there, that is. Not leaving, of course. I think I've just seen someone I know…"
He dashed off. Hermione turned around so she could look at Severus properly, though he wasn't looking at her. He was half turned away from her, looking over the crowd like he was waiting for some threat to appear.
Of course, he might just be intimidating the hell out of anybody who had had half a mind to come over and chat with them.
"What the hell, Severus?" He had a hand on her waist, lovely and warm, but that was all the attention he paid her. His focus was elsewhere.
Hermione huffed and shifted so that she could see around him, following his line of sight. Then she blushed, embarrassed for her younger self.
She watched as the girl with the long mane of brown hair smiled sheepishly at Cormac McLaggen and dashed off. McLaggen smiled like the cat that got the cream after her, then sauntered over to a nearby house elf and helped himself to a pasty. The younger Hermione met up with Harry and Luna and disappeared into the crowd before Severus turned back to her.
She noticed that he was wearing his standard teaching robes, as if he'd only attended the party under duress. They were clean and pressed, and he wore starched white linen under his coat. He looked very dour in them, especially with the way he scowled down at her.
"What on earth is the matter?" she whispered, taking him by the elbow and drawing him back toward the nearest wall. A clever fold of the crimson drapery nearby gave them a suggestion of privacy.
"Nothing." The word was clipped, and obviously a lie.
"Uh-huh," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Severus, you're acting very odd."
He glared at her, his hand flexing against her hip. She'd forgotten it was there, as accustomed to his touch as she was. It made her smile, but it also reminded her that they were in a public place, at Hogwarts, and they could be seen. She didn't know what Dumbledore was planning, but it might be common knowledge soon that Sam Barnes was Hermione Granger.
"Somebody will see us," she said quietly, her fingers on the wrist of the hand he had on her waist. He pulled the hand back like he'd been burned, then spun away and disappeared into the crowd.
Alone in the crimson alcove, it was suddenly quite plain that he'd been acting jealous. Jealous of McLaggen? The boy had barely gotten a few kisses out of her, and they'd been horrible kisses at that. Jealous of the man whose name she still couldn't remember? They'd only been talking.
The thought of it—the theory of Severus Snape feeling possessive of her—chased hot and cold through her veins. She thought of faceless Marcella, how the very idea of another witch even thinking she'd had sex with Severus set her magic tingling dangerously over her skin. That Severus felt the same way about her, even if it was the younger her getting snogged uncomfortably under the mistletoe, made her want to smile like an idiot and do something stupid like catch him under the mistletoe. (Preferably out where everybody could see them and know that she was the one who got to snog Severus Snape whenever she wanted.)
She followed Severus into the crowd, intent on dragging him out into the hall for a long… chat. Unfortunately, Slughorn had his arm around Severus's shoulders, trapping him into conversation with Harry, Trelawney, Luna and her younger self.
"I don't think you should be an Auror, Harry," Luna said as Hermione walked past. "The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought everyone knew that. They're working to bring down the Ministry of Magic from within using a combination of Dark Magic and gum disease."
Harry coughed and laughed, half his drink going up his nose. Her younger self looked embarrassed to be there. Slughorn looked flummoxed. Trelawney didn't look like she'd really heard any of it. Severus was looking at her over Harry's shoulder, eyes dark.
She brushed his mind with hers, the usual warm greeting, but there wasn't a chance to apologize for offending him when she reminded him not to touch her in public. Argus Filch dragged Draco Malfoy into the party by the ear, showing all the tact of a niffler after a diamond nipple ring.
"Professor Slughorn," wheezed Filch, practically quivering with his own excitement. "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?"
Malfoy jerked out of Filch's grip, furious.
"All right, I wasn't invited! I was trying to gate-crash, happy?"
Hermione glanced at Severus, meeting his eyes with the mutual understanding that Malfoy had been attempting no such thing. Not only was his pride above such a thing (especially considering that he would have been invited if his father hadn't fallen so far in society the previous summer), but it was far more likely that he'd been trying to take advantage of the party as a distraction so that he could work out another clever way to kill Albus Dumbledore.
"No, I'm not!" Filch said, though his face was gleeful. They were making quite a spectacle, the crowd stopping ther conversations to watch. Even the mandolin player had stopped the music to crane his neck for a look, that ridiculous feather in his hat arching away from his head like a quill stuck in an inkpot. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"
Hermione hadn't remembered Filch being quite so… sad. He'd been a boogey-man of the halls, crusty and ever-present. This man, taking this much pleasure in a child's misfortune when there were such bigger things afoot…
"That's all right, Argus, that's all right," Slughorn said, waving a hand. "It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco."
Filch looked outraged, disappointed. Malfoy looked almost as unhappy.
Definitely Up To Something, then, Hermione thought.
Malfoy glanced at Severus, looking nervous. Severus obviously caught the undercurrent, because his expression went perfectly blank as his Occlumency shields came up to protect his thoughts while he guessed at Malfoiy's motives.
"It's nothing, it's nothing," Slughorn was saying. Very magnanimous. "I did know your grandfather, after all…"
What an utter pillock. You knew his father too, idiot. Only now he's out of favor, so he doesn't exist, right?
"He always spoke very highly of you sir," Malfoy said, the ingrained manners of a Pureblood heir snapping into place. "Said you were the best potion-maker he'd ever known…"
The poor boy didn't look well at all. He obviously hadn't slept, at least not well. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a grayish tinge to his skin. His hair wasn't perfectly greased back as it had once been. His robes were neat as always, but his tie was loose. There was a painfully familiar panicked look at the back of his eyes.
Good God, I'm feeling sorry for Draco Malfoy.
"I'd like a word with you, Draco," Severus said, interrupting.
"Oh, now, Severus," said Slughorn, hiccupping, "it's Christmas, don't be too hard—"
"I'm his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be," Severus said curtly. Hermione wondered if there had been much tension over that—Slughorn had been Severus's Head of House, after all. (And he'd done a piss-poor job of it, too.) "Follow me, Draco."
Severus and Malfoy left, and Harry, of course, followed them.
Not ten minutes later, Severus was back. He walked in, spotted her, and made his way through the crowd to her. A tumbler of something appeared in his hand between the door and her spot near the Christmas tree decorated in shiny red bulbs and more live faeries.
"There's no getting through to that boy," he said sulkily, swallowing down half his drink and blinking hard when it made his eyes water.
"In my experience, he was always that way," Hermione said neutrally. Severus almost smirked.
"He claims he had nothing to do with the Bell girl's attack. And he's been learning Occlumency from his dear Aunt Bellatrix."
"He looks awful."
"He can be a snide little thing, but I don't believe there's murder in him." They went quiet, not because there was anybody close enough to overhear them but because they both wished they didn't have murder in them. "He hasn't been pushed that far. Yet."
"He won't be. You'll be there for him."
She wished, suddenly, that somebody had been there for her. There was her younger self, just across the room, standing with McLaggen again but now carefully keeping at least three other people with them so that he wouldn't try to drag her off to the mistletoe again. It was such a thing—her greatest worry of the night dealing with a handsy date. She hadn't been asked to leave her life behind yet, hadn't been asked to kill anybody yet. She wished she'd had somebody to step in for her just after that Christmas, when Dumbledore had presented this great adventure to her.
Hermione set her wine glass aside and turned to look at Severus. His face was shuttered, as it had been since he'd returned from the hall. "Can we leave?" she asked him. He looked down at her for a moment, almost confused, but then he just nodded and finished his drink before setting the glass aside.
They left, this time not bothering to make a circuit of the room to say goodbye to the proper people. Hermione merely collected her cloak and they slipped out the door.