It's been an age. But for some reason lately I've not been able to get this story out of my head. Not sure if anyone is still following, and well aware that life has moved on for so many people. For myself, I finally graduated after 6 long years, and have begun teaching, well substitute teaching. Severus' foul moods and lack of patience suddenly seem so much more believable. With no more pressing assignments or mandatory readings, very little to plan or mark, and no need to keep up two jobs, I found myself with some time to dive back in to this story. So here's to those of you still reading. May your lives have changed for the better since you last visited these pages, and maybe, just maybe, I'll get this beast of a story finished after all.
Last chapter:
If her heart continued to thrum, now that she was alone with him once more, the mirror in front of her did not show it. She looked every bit the picture of the Gryffindor princess of the Golden Trio. Not someone who could possibly feel any vestige of attraction for Severus Snape. As she looked away from her reflection to seek the man himself out, she found him by the door, determinedly not looking at her. Words floundered in her throat as she thought of something, anything she could say to return whatever had happened to normal. For once Hermione Granger was speechless as she realised, she didn't want him to leave.
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'Dare to reach out your hand into the darkness, to pull another hand into the light." ~Norman B. Rice
"Love is giving someone the ability to destroy you — but trusting them not to." ~Author unknown
"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." ~Ernest Hemingway
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"You're right."
Snape stopped still before the door. Hermione wondered if her words had been wasted and watched for the tell tale sweep of his form from the room, but still he stayed, seemingly tense and listening. Still, the now gravelly voice seemed to shake the room;
"About what? Your suitors?"
"That your expertise is in potions. That I mean to martyr myself. That you have more time to 'waste' than I do at present."
Hermione tried to ignore the slipping of the rich scarlet ribbon around her collar bone, shifting to her satchel and ignoring whatever figure she might have cut in the mirror. She didn't need to scan for Snape's gaze. She could feel it palpably, even as her arm plummeted into the depths of the bottomless bag, fingers grazing what she sought.
The manilla of the St Mungo's documents was like soft faun under her fingertips as she untied the worn string holding the bulk of it together. Hermione lingered on the feeling of the parchments as she pulled aside the contents on Caligula and tried to ignore the warning of second thoughts racing through her mind. She could trust him.
He had more time, he had access to the plant, and what she was about to walk into outside was spiralling out of control. She had no assurances that Skeeter hadn't double crossed her, or that Narcissa hadn't. She didn't know for sure that Dennis or Luna would be waiting for her, and even if they were, she knew that Emmanuel and the rest of Harry's team wouldn't be far behind.
Snape was right. She had cast herself as the martyr and the numbness she had felt since landing in Paris was starting to wear thin. She had stolen documents in her possession that would give St Mungo's every advantage to release their research before she could stop it. Logically, she needed to get rid of this research, either securing it somewhere safe, or getting it into the hands of an accomplished potioneer. Her attempts at the Parisian hospital had failed, any contacts of Narcissa were dubitable at best, and some days away at least and here Snape was, now, volunteering his services.
The scarlet robe lost it's last slender hold on her shoulders, falling to the floor as her arm bridged the gap between them, the research held aloft. She felt exposed in every sense as she waited for him to sneer at her, to berate her, or worse yet, to recognised the flush on her face and down her decolletage.
Snape still had not turned and her arm slowly began to waiver.
"Please."
The plea sprung from her lips unintentionally, shocking her just as much as the tall wizard, as he flinched, turning finally to look her in the face. Unspoken between them fell the same plea given all those months ago as he lay, dying, on the floor of the shack. Hermione tried to classify the look in those black, hooded eyes as he reached for the pages, but what seemed like hurt defensiveness could very well have been begrudging mercy, or worse still- nothing at all. Was she just too much into reading that same blank stare he'd always given, projecting her own feelings as she stood exposed?
Doing her best to ignore the thumping of her heart, Hermione turned away from him once more. "I leave here in a few moments with Rita Skeeter trailing me. She is here to see my arrival at Groomsbrides, and the suitor awaiting me." Hermione paused, daring to catch the eyes staring back at her through the mirror. "They sell traditional bridal robes, and officially will partner with Luna Lovegood to make both Harry Potter's marriage robes, and my own. Unofficially, Luna is meant to be bringing an auror from the Parisian office. I'll attempt to secure some form of arrangement with them. So at the best, the french ministry choose not to arrest me, and maybe even to help me, only for Emmanuel's men to storm the building in front of the magical press. At worst, The french hand me to Emmanuel's men in front of the magical press without as much spectacle."
Hermione could see his sneer developing as his lips grew thinner and thinner.
"If it's any consolation, I plan to apparate long before our ministry storms the retailer. If the french do decide to hand me over… well" Hermione shrugged and ignored the scoff it drew from the now visibly irrate wizard.
"Ever the irritating Gryffindor. You're the brightest witch of a generation, your potions research was promising, and you could use your so called domineering intellect to solve this problem but instead you run headlong into danger without a thought to your own safety- so long as it's the right thing"
"Oh and you've never put yourself in danger for the greater good?" Her voice was shrill as she hurled his words back at him.
"Don't."
Hermione bored into his reflection's eyes and didn't mistake the warning clear in his voice. Like a splash of cold water, she became only too aware, as he must be, that this conversation was not truly private.
"You might not agree with my methods, but you said you wished to help. Find something, anything, to prove that the use of Caligula is harmful. I can get it published, and we'll be one step closer to being rid of this law."
Snape stared at the woman in the mirror and tried to remind himself she was not his concern. Not his student, Not his problem, and she was most definitely not his to protect. Why then did the lump form in his throat as he thought of his most recent brewing attempts? Why did his voice falter as he remembered the three blue vials currently in his pocket lest he sieze once more?
Why, why, was he afraid, that he would inevitably fail the fierce young woman in front of him. Fail the beautiful, muggleborn witch who for some reason was choosing to trust him, despite of what he was, despite of what he'd done?
"If I can't?" His voice was lower than a whisper and it's ragged resonance through the room seemed to tear at the confidence of the gryffindor's features.
"It's still better than them getting it. I trust you." Hermione's frame began to shiver in the white slip, the numbness that had kept her afloat truly deserting her as panic racked her frame. It slipped into her voice "I need to leave. Now. I'll lead Skeeter out before she sees you." she made out shakily.
"She'll know of my involvement eventually." Snape deadpanned, his voice steady, almost calming.
"I am sorry about that. I didn't mean to drag you into this." Hermione couldn't stop her voice from wavering any more than she could quell the note of desperation in it.
"It's not my reputation that will suffer, Miss Granger." Snape warned, before tucking the pages into his robes and deftly opening the door for her. Hermione donned her cloak once more, and while she was finally covered, she felt no less exposed. The die had been cast, and despite the certainty she felt in her reasoning, more questions than ever swirled through her mind as to Snape's intentions and Narcissa's aspersions.
Rather belatedly, straightening her spine and striding through the door without looking back at the enigmatic man, Hermione's voice projected a confidence she didn't fully feel:
"It's Hermione, Severus. We're working together now."
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Severus' scowl was certainly working again. The salon's mistress soon abandoned her coy and curious looks and hurried to amend Narcissa's tab as he loomed over the ornate golden counter. The twittering of nearby witches had long ceased into silence, and the room stifled as he counted down the seconds till he could leave the god forsaken shop. The files in his robes weighed practically nothing yet their presence was palpable and only added to his frustration. This had been a mistake. Damn Narcissa and Damn Granger- no, 'Hermione'. Damn every witch in the room and Damn Skeeter most of all. She had left the salon moments earlier with loud adoring cries about the foolish girl's hair and rosy complexion. Some nonsense about a blush befitting a soon to be bride.
Now she and Hermione were alone on the Parisian street while he waited for this dimwitted dunderhead to add a simple bill to an established account as glared at the elaborate mantlepiece and fireplace beside him.
He should floo to the Manor. He should begin on the research, and keep his share of this godforsaken bargain he'd got himself into. He was only interested in the research after all, and the foolish Gryffindor was not his problem. If she wanted to cause a scene before the magical press, he should get himself as far away as possible. If she wanted to face off with trained auror personnel and an unknown and possibly unfriendly french ministry, then she had ignored every piece of good sense he had graced her with.
The small fire behind the ivory grate crackled audibly, failing to wither like those around him under the power of his glare. The salon mistress presented a parchment to him and he snatched it away, signing it with a snarl, before leaving both the fire place and the thrice forsaken beauty parlour behind him as he strode to the door.
Each step through the magic facade of the grotto stirred his foul mood, and it was hurried, manic magic that left him as he transfigured his hair grey once more, conjuring a hobbled walking stick, and silently casting the point me charm as he hit the street. He melted into the crowd and moved the way he had honed for nearly nineteen years, seeing without being seen, observing without being observed. The crowds around him parted in stready streams and he watched, hawk like, for the form of a smug blonde witch, and an erraticly attired brunette beside her, but he had lost sight of them. He ignored the twinging of his leg and hobbled faster on the cane, ignoring the thudding of his heart and the clanking of three blue vials in his pocket. The manilla folder rubbed awkwardly against his side, and still his eyes scanned the crowds for any sign of Granger.
Straddling the curb of the pebbled lane, he finally caught sight of several stationary figures, crowded and milling around the entrance of the navy blue shop front that donned the faded signage of Groomsbrides. He ignored the lump in his throat as neither witch stood out from the crowd, and the relative calm of the waiting wizards told him he hadn't missed them. Leaning partially on his cane, He did his best to blend in to the general chaos of the boulevarde and resolved himself to wait.
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