A Pitying of Doves

Originally posted on in February of 2012. I took down all of my SSHG fics in 2014ish when I all but left the fandom. But I've salvaged this one via the Wayback Machine. Maybe I'll repost the others, but I'm not sure if I have all the chapters…

In the meantime—I'm back, lurking on Reddit, saw a request for Hurt/Comfort and thought I'd repost if there was interest.

The castle was quiet. Hermione roamed around the corridors aimlessly on her prefect rounds. The autumn drafts were coasting through the halls, making her shiver every now and then. She went over arithmancy formulas in her head to keep from falling asleep on her feet, but her eyelids felt weighted nonetheless.

The night of the Halloween feast usually made the halls buzz with excitement. Yet this year was different. Hermione had fully expected to find students in shadows, in alcoves, in corners, but she was alone. The night was proving to be tedious as a result.

A chill ran up her spine. In spite of her solitude, she couldn't help but think that something was amiss. Hermione tried to bury the feeling; everything was calm. There was nothing to be worried about. Perhaps it was her insecurity (manifesting in a vague way) at Harry's sudden rise to the top of her Potions class. How he did it, she would never know.

The hours of her shift dragged on; there was no one out of the dormitories. Hermione started to trudge the floors, bored to bits.

The clock chimed midnight-the witching hour. Hermione's shift was over. She emitted a tired puff of air into the space before her, and she could see it. It was time to crawl into her warm bed.

The only sound she could hear was that of her own footsteps as she climbed the staircases to her dorm. The higher floors were black as pitch, leaving her visibility very limited.

"Lumos." She whispered. A soft light emanated from the tip of her wand. It didn't grant much sight, but Hermione knew the route like the back of her hand.

Her bed seemed to call to her as she drew upon the Fat Lady's portrait. She was nearing the painting when she heard it.

It was muffled but distinct: sobbing.

It was such a heartrending sound that it gave Hermione pause. She stopped just around the corner from the Gryffindor Common Room entrance and extinguished her light. Hermione's breath all but stopped as she listened.

The castle had been so unbelievably quiet that evening and for the night to be punctuated by the sound of pitiful crying was unnerving to Hermione. As prefect it was not only her duty to make sure students were in their rooms by curfew but to also provide support and be a mentor to those who needed it.

Hermione peeked around the doorway and saw in the darkness a black huddled mass on the floor beneath the portrait. The Fat Lady was blissfully unaware as she was in a deep slumber. The dark provided no clue for Hermione to figure out exactly who was so upset.

With a steeled breath, Hermione crept forward to the figure soundlessly. She wondered what to say:

"Having a cry, are we?"

"Forgot the password?"

"You're blocking the path between me and my bed."

Instead, she merely placed her hand on the quivering shoulder before her and knelt down.

With a jarring twitch, the person flinched at her touch.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Hermione said quickly, "I just wanted to see if—"

A pair of dark, furious eyes met hers.

"—If you needed help." Hermione swallowed meekly.

Professor Snape.

He remained huddled on the floor before her in fuming silence. When did the Granger girl become so stealthy? Snape blinked and could feel the stray tears dangling from his eyelashes. He'd been so entrenched in his sorrows at the moment of her touch that it nearly caused him to jump straight out of his skin. For a moment he almost believed that a ghost—

"What—what are you doing here, sir?"

Snape turned away from her probing eyes and ran a hand heavily over his face. He did not want to speak, let alone be interrogated by the insufferable know-it-all. Despite his painstaking efforts, he felt the tears daring to fall again. This night was never easy, and this year had been the worst. He usually waited until three a.m. to partake in his annual ritual, but this year the common room entrance proved too magnetizing to wait. And this was the consequence.

Hermione stared at the pathetic, crumpled heap that was her teacher. Once she overcame the initial shock of the situation, an overwhelming feeling of compassion grabbed her. She replaced her hand to where she'd initially laid it.

"Please, sir…" she whispered as she felt the shoulder quiver once more, "what—what happened?"

Again, Snape did not want to speak but her touch warmed him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him so willingly, so tenderly. The tears in his eyes posed even a greater threat of falling.

Severus Snape had always been a master of composure, yet Hermione had stumbled upon his weakest night of the year. It was not easy to merely turn off the despair when he had buried himself in it so deeply. It also did not leave him enough strength to fight her off.

Hermione didn't know what had happened. She didn't know why her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was on the floor before her. She didn't know why he was in such a sorry state. What Hermione did know was that he was mortified at her discovery of him. She also knew that if anyone else came upon them, it would propel Snape into either a dangerous, point-taking rage or a pathetic depression. She could not bear either idea.

So, she grasped both of his shoulders and whispered:

"Up you get."

Snape let his last breath escape his lungs. She'd now seen him at his worst, his rock bottom. He tried to get his legs to work but the pain, the all-encompassing weight of the pain thwarted him. He grasped Hermione's hand.

A small sigh of surprise escaped from her lips. The intensity with which Snape held her was startling. Hermione lowered herself so that she was sitting before him. With a certain amount of hesitation, she reached out and grazed his cheek with her fingertips. Snape fought his strong instinct to shudder as he closed his eyes and succumbed to her touch.

Without any warning Snape collapsed against Hermione's chest in defeat. The trembling girl raised her hand and gingerly placed it atop her professor's head.

"It's—all right." She stammered.

Snape buried his face deeper into the folds of her robe and released a strangled, anguished sound. Hermione brought her arms around him and held him tightly.

I'll obliviate her. He thought. I'll erase any memory she has of this. But for now…

Snape felt safe and warm in Hermione's arms. He'd had so many images playing over in his mind that night: Dumbledore's hand, Lily's eyes, Voldemort's sneer. Snape shuddered again at what he and Dumbledore had discussed earlier in the evening. What the older wizard had suggested to him was reprehensible. Another vile deed waiting to be done and Snape was deemed the only person able to carry it out.

Snape breathed into the girl's robes and held onto her tightly. She was so warm. He snapped his eyes shut and focused on his own breathing. He wished he could lay like this forever—

"—Sir—"

-If only she didn't talk.

"Sir," Hermione repeated softly, "come with me."

The girl gently guided her professor to his feet. Snape felt a weight disappear from his shoulders when he realized Hermione did not mean the Common Room. He trailed her down a series of staircases and corridors until they came upon an unassuming oak door.

Hermione pushed it back to reveal a pair of wing-back chairs set before a roaring fire.

"I do not require this, Granger." Snape had regained some of his acidity on the journey to the Room of Requirement.

"No," Hermione replied, "I think you do."