AN: A long chapter today. Hope you enjoy. :)
Chapter 17: Sanguis
Even if Severus had had time to dwell upon his Legilimency session with Miss Granger, he would only have spared a thought out of curiosity for future ways to test her mind. As it was, however, he had a week left before the Christmas holidays in which to see his classes through their final projects, complete his brewing for the hospital wing, and finish any Hogwarts-related paperwork. Few students, and no Slytherins, were staying behind for Christmas, so he would return to Spinner's End for the majority of break. It also was abundantly likely that he would be Summoned regularly, a fact he was trying not to dwell too much upon.
In truth, the events which occurred during their Legilimency session only arose in his mind again on Monday morning, when the fifth year Gryffindors arrived in his classroom for potions. After revealing the instructions for the day on the blackboard, he made a few slow circuits around the room, checking that no one had any wishes to blow themselves or their classmates up today.
Despite the fact that Neville Longbottom had been the odd one out, and so was seated at a table with Daphne Greengrass–who had a custom for completing her brewing in silence even when partnered with her housemates–he had taken no wrong steps yet. Draco and Blaise were murmuring quietly together, interspersing their requests for the next step in the potion with conversation about the upcoming holidays. Weasley and Potter both stiffened as he approached. Though the duo were a few steps behind even Longbottom, they only needed a single correction to chop their valerian roots smaller.
It's a Christmas miracle, he thought to himself, looking over the whole room as heads bent quietly and attentively over their work. Perhaps everyone was looking forward to the holidays so much so that they believed they would arrive all the sooner if they could make quick, simple work of their final week of potions.
It was as he surveyed the class that he noticed Granger working at a table at the back alone. There was an odd number of students today, as Seamus Finnegan had managed to give himself a nosebleed to end all nosebleeds, if the Bloody Baron, who had floated into the room before the students arrived with just this message, was to be believed.
"It was strange," the Baron had said as Severus wiped the third year instructions from the board. "Because up until that point, he had seemed as typical a student in Binns's class as ever–"
"Sleepy, you mean," Severus had said.
"–and Binns didn't notice a thing."
"Naturally."
"If I had any desire to teach children, I'd take the job myself. When is Dumbledore going to fire him?"
Severus's mouth twitched. "I believe he has tried…"
Scoffing, the Baron had melted through the wall as Parkinson and Nott walked through the door.
Granger, like Longbottom, was silent and focused on her work. As he approached, her shoulders twitched, but she continued slicing mandrake leaves with even movements. After a moment, however, her movements stilled. Her hair was braided back out of her face, and he watched as a faint pink flush climbed up her neck and across her cheeks.
Really. It wasn't that embarrassing, was it?
She wet her lips and opened her mouth a couple of times before she finally spoke.
"Yes?" she breathed. The word was almost lost in the low murmur of cauldron bubbles and ingredient preparation.
Taking half a step closer, he reached for the leaves. She immediately withdrew her hand to rest upon the tabletop as he took hold of them and rolled them up into a tight bundle. His right hand alighted upon hers holding the knife. Her fingers twitched underneath his as he brought the knife to bear over the rolled leaves and began to chiffonade them. With each movement, her shoulder brushed against his sternum.
"More efficient," he said quietly. "Do you see how finely the leaves get by this method?" When she nodded, he said, "You take over."
He waited until her fingers settled on the leaves, almost threaded with his, to withdraw his hand, and did not step away until she had mimicked his movements down to the base of the bundle. A neat pile of ribboned mandrake leaves lay on her cutting board.
"Stay behind," he murmured, then he advanced to the front of the classroom.
Half an hour later, students bottled up their simmered potions and labeled them. Granger finished wiping down her table as the last student walked out, then approached his desk with her sample, setting it into the rack beside her classmates'. Hers was the palest turquoise. She clasped her hands together and waited, as if for instructions. She did not meet his eye.
Is this still because of Friday evening? he wondered, and he began to review the incident in his head.
All things considered, he had had great success: his plan to fluster her by running through her mind had worked, his plan to make her reveal her most secret memory had worked, dodging her defenses to get near it had worked. She had put up a valiant effort to keep him away from whatever her darkest secret had been. He had expected her to fail. He had not expected her methods would be creative and so controlled. No doubt had he invaded the minds of any of her peers, he would have been met with much less resistance. He'd even complimented her in the moment. So it can't be the case that she was embarrassed about failing.
It really did seem that she was embarrassed about how close they had gotten. But for what reason? Clearly there was nothing untoward in what either of them was attempting.
Apart from you invading her mind, you mean? a voice said in the back of his head.
"It isn't normal, is it?" she had asked him.
Fine, it was all a bit unusual, but she had been fine with the experiment up until the moment he'd pinned her to the ground. Did his confusion speak more to himself than to her? Severus was no monk, but in his largely secluded adulthood–and adolescence–he had come to the view the body as something that either served his purposes or suffered his ill decision-making. Was she just a normal teenager, young but becoming aware of these things? Had he deprived that aspect of himself out of existence?
He shook his head minutely. Dwelling on these questions would resolve none of the awkwardness she so clearly felt. Awkwardness, he knew, meant mistrust–whether of self or of others–and they had to be perfectly aligned if this partnership, this work was going to amount to anything beneficial to the war.
Best to proceed as if nothing had ever happened.
"Have you written to your parents to explain your absence?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," she said, examining his ink well on his desk as if it was the most interesting thing she had ever seen. "I told them I have Doxy Flu." As if she could sense his raised eyebrow, she continued, "They don't need to know it isn't a real disease."
"No," he agreed slowly. "But should they ever want to…test your honesty, or, which is more likely, should your letter ever be intercepted, it would be best to stick to something simple and believable."
She looked up at him then, brows drawn together and bottom lip sucked in between her teeth. "Right. That was silly of me."
"For the future," he said, dismissing this instance as being irreversible. "On the last day of term, you will take the Express with your classmates to King's Cross so as not to arouse suspicion. There is an apparition point near Holy Cross Church where I will meet you."
"Where will we be going?" She lowered her voice. "Headquarters?"
"Eventually. Have you been practicing your mental exercises?"
She blinked and looked back down at the desk. "Yes, sir."
That pinkness had returned to her face. He was starting to wonder whether it ever could be banished. Was ignoring it not the best course of action? She was a logical girl. Perhaps discussing it would reduce its awkwardness.
Severus opened his mouth, then shut it, caught between a moment of indecision. Suppose he make it more awkward by discussing it. Or suppose he said nothing and it festered into a full-blown infatuation. He eyed the girl. While it didn't seem likely–after all, she had not displayed similar behavior when she was besotted with Lockhart or when she was seeing the Bulgarian–he didn't need that wrench thrown into the dynamic either. There was nothing for it.
He opened his mouth for the second time, and shut it quickly for the second time. He was no Hufflepuff. He wasn't going to discuss the…feelings…of either of them.
"Are you still running?" he asked.
"Um…" she said intelligently, no doubt confused at his topic of choice. But she continued, comfortable enough with the seemingly innocuous subject. "No, not after I almost slipped and fell into the lake. I've been exercising in the Room of Requirement in the mornings instead."
He nodded, pleased at her ingenuity. "Regular exercise aids the body in sleeping soundly, but exhausting yourself physically would make it more difficult to attentively calm your mind before sleep. I should like you to make some substitutions to your regimen, the first being yoga. You should be stretching regardless, but the motions aid your parasympathetic nervous system, the part involved in relaxation."
"Okay," she said, sounding pleased. Then she smiled. At him. "Mum's going to think I've gone spare and joined the hippies."
"Which would be…worse than joining the wizarding world?"
She laughed. "Oh yes," she said, but didn't elaborate.
"The other modification," he said. "Is that I would like you to add self-defense to your exercises."
Her eyebrows rose. "With you?"
Don't sound so enthusiastic, he thought sarcastically.
"That is up to you," he said instead, keeping his hands still on his desk top. "As of right now, only you, Dumbledore, and I know of your situation. However, I don't think we would need to reveal much to get, say, Nymphadora Tonks, into the castle for some lessons."
"Oh," she said, brightening. "Yes, I like Tonks. I'd be happy to learn from her."
"I will take care of it. Now–" He eyed the clock over her head, seeing that they were ten minutes into lunch. "Do you know what the potion you brewed today was?"
"A modification on the draught of peace," she said automatically, a word for word parrot of the title he'd scrawled on the board. He pressed his lips together as an ironic smile attempted to pull at his mouth.
"What are the modifications to this potion?"
"There was no unicorn horn or second dose of powdered moonstone," she said, not even glancing at the board for the recipe. "And the simmering time which is typical after the addition of mandrake leaves was moved to the end, after the porcupine quills had already been added."
"Good," he said, observing her. Her stance had grown more erect and less defensive as she spoke. "And why did I make these modifications?"
She thought for a moment, reviewing the modifications she'd just listed. "Well…this would be cheaper to produce without needing powdered unicorn horn. But I'm guessing that isn't the only reason."
He did not reply, so she thought again.
"Powdered moonstone is included for its anti-anxiety properties. Not using as much would create–" Here she glanced up at him. "–not a weaker exactly…a milder effect. Any ingredient from a unicorn will have lasting effects, sometimes to the consumer's detriment. So…it's a version that probably has a short-term effect for milder cases and decreases the chances of inducing a deep or irreversible sleep."
"And what milder cases can you think of which might call for the use of such a potion?"
"Um…for a small shock?" When he said nothing, she looked around the room. "I don't know, maybe to calm one's nerves before an interview, or ahead of an important speech, or after…" She trailed off, and when she spoke again, her voice was a fraction higher and softer. "Or after an embarrassing moment."
He waited until she looked him in the eye, then gave her one slow nod. He raised a hand and uncurled his fingers in a gesture to the rack of potions sitting on his desk.
"Your sample is perfect. Would you like a dose?"
Her mouth dropped open slightly. It was the first time he had ever praised her work, let alone so highly. She eyed the pale liquid, then him, understanding in her eyes. She knew now: that he had noticed, that he was trying to restore equilibrium, that he was acting so as to cause the least amount of further embarrassment–or trying to. She brought her icy fingers up to her warm cheek.
"Thank you," she said, lowering her hand. Her voice and gaze were direct. "But no. I'll be alright. And I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for," he said firmly. Then added, "You're sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Thank you, sir."
He observed her keenly for another moment as she adjust the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
"Very well. You may go."
If Potter and Weasley noticed a more cheerful version of their friend at dinner that night, they didn't seem to show it. Granger talked animatedly with them, even setting aside her Charms text which she had up to that point been taking peeks at, no doubt preparing for the final class of term. Either they were discussing Quidditch or Weasley had never been told not to play with his food. At one point, Weasley slipped and put his entire sleeve in the butter dish. Severus could read the words "bloody hell" on his lips from the staff table, but his eyes launched immediately to Granger, who was smiling and exchanging an eye roll with Potter.
In the middle of the act, her attention fell on him. Severus did not blush, but felt as if he had been carved from stone, caught so blatantly staring. She ducked her head, but when she raised it again, she was not pink in the face. Instead, she had returned to her conversation, smiling all the while.
Good. Things were back to normal.
There now, had there really been any need to get worked up? Hermione asked herself as she sat in her favorite library nook the next evening. She finished the last couple of lines of her Arithmancy equation, then rolled up her parchment and sat back in her seat with a sigh and closed her eyes.
She had revisited the memory in her mind. Snape's instructions, and even the texts she had consulted, said that spending some time navigating her mind was a safe exercise, so long as she didn't fall asleep while doing so. Falling asleep during mental exploration could lead to one being trapped inside their own mind for an indefinite amount of time. Occlumency Observed recounted one instance of Frederick Babbage, a wizard in the eighteenth century who had fallen asleep within a memory and did not re-emerge for three years. A bachelor and orphan, he had to be cared for at St. Mungo's, having food and drink magicked into his stomach to keep him alive. When he had awoken, the bill had been astronomical…
As such, she had been sure to set an alarm on her wand so that it would vibrate after fifteen minutes to head off such a situation. For the last few days, she had returned to her mind, but had avoided the aisle of her and Snape's misadventure. Instead, she had picked up various objects to view the memories associated with each.
The bundle of dried wild flowers brought her back to a Summer afternoon before fourth year. The Weasleys and Harry had just finished a Quidditch match and were spread out across the field, drinking lemonade and eating jam sandwich cookies Mrs. Weasley had brought out.
"What's going on?" Ginny had asked her quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Between you and Ron," Ginny said. Hermione coughed and almost spat out her lemonade. "Oh, come on, Hermione. I'm not blind."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Ginny. Really," she added when Ginny raised her eyebrows skeptically. "If you're picking up on something, it's not from my side."
Ginny regarded her shrewdly for a moment, then shrugged. "If you say so."
"Well," Hermione said, turning to face Ginny properly, and eyeing the black haired boy several feet away over her shoulder. "What about you and Harry?"
Ginny didn't even blush. "You know there's nothing happening there," she said, almost wistfully.
Hermione smiled sadly. "You know, it may help to get your mind off him if you tried seeing other people. Maybe it's just a crush you need to get out of your system. Or maybe it isn't," she said, raising her hands defensively. "But that would help you to know, wouldn't it?"
Ginny pulled at blades of grass at her side, ripping them up out of the ground. Her freckled nose wrinkled as she thought. "You may be right…"
Now as she appeared in her mind, she observed the wildflowers curiously. She didn't touch them, however; instead, she turned on her heel and–almost as if she had apparated inside her own mind–she appeared in a new aisle. On this shelf, there was a scrap of ripped black denim. Heart thudding in her ears, she laid her hand on top of it.
She twisted around as she heard a shuffle and then a slightly winded grunt. It was bizarre, watching a past version of herself wrestle with Snape on the floor only a few feet away. The closest she had ever come to such an odd experience had been observing herself running on the Hogwarts grounds when she and Harry had turned back time to save Sirius and Buckbeak.
"Impressive," Memory Snape said.
His eyes glittered in the ethereal light of her mind. He already knew he could overpower her, already knew what he was about to do, and yet he'd given her that small moment of victory. She didn't know whether to be angry at his trick or pleased that he'd praised her, even if deceptively.
And then he raised his hips. The movement threw her off balance, and she slipped, losing her hold on him. His hands, now free, reached out; one gripped her hip, the other the back of her head. He spun them expertly, as if he had fought his way out of this position a dozen times, and pressed her to the floor. He drew her leg up and to the side, pressing his knee into her inner thigh, straddled her other leg as he pressed her opposite wrist with the other knee. His hands moved as one, his left pinning her other wrist while his right left the back of her head to tangle in her hair at the side of her face. His shirt strained at the shoulders and rode up the small of his back as he hovered over her, revealing a thin sliver of pale skin.
Get a grip, Hermione, she scolded herself. This is your professor. What are you thinking?
The fact that Lockhart was your professor didn't stop you before, a voice whispered. It sounded oddly like Aunt Rebecca.
Yes, but that was different. I was twelve. And he was an idiot.
And now you're older and wiser, and Snape certainly is no idiot. Haven't you always found knowledge appealing?
Yes, she argued back. Knowledge. Not half-dark wizards who would flay me alive if they knew what I was thinking right now.
Memory Snape's eyes gleamed in triumph. He threw back his head to get his hair out of his eyes, revealing the length of his neck. Two faint spots of pink lit up his high cheekbones. There was a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. He closed his eyes, reveling silently. Memory Hermione breathed heavily, still trying to piece together what had happened. The Hermione viewing the memory swallowed thickly.
It's just a body, she told herself, trying to stay logical. It's just well-used strategy and skill and–
Memory Snape opened his eyes. A small grin parted his lips, and the exposed canine glinted. He lowered his head.
"Now, why should you favor this position against a wizard?"
Memory Hermione blushed, but she felt hot enough she had the urge to pull her jumper off. Surely he'd known how that question sounded… She felt her blood rushing in her cheeks, in her fingertips, in her chest, but she couldn't look away. Not when he discussed what was advantageous about the position, not when he challenged her to get free, and not when her memory self raised her pelvis toward his.
"Oh, Merlin," Hermione breathed through her fingers. She watched as Snape's face didn't change, but his expression held so much knowing, there was no way he hadn't noticed. And, true to his word, he didn't move, didn't resist.
It's not just knowledge… The voice had returned. Look at how he's protected you, your family. He would do anything for those he's committed to. Look at what he's putting himself through to help you.
He wouldn't touch me. Not like that.
But you want him to. Don't you?
Hermione couldn't respond. She only watched as her memory lowered herself back to the ground.
"You have nothing to apologize for," he had told her after class.
Why was that? Because she clearly didn't seem to realize what she had done? Because he had given her the challenge? Because in fighting a war or figuring out what this double life entailed, a little awkwardness was wont to occur?
And then, the worst part. She watched and she remembered as Memory Hermione thought, "This has to be the most embarrassing–" But she hadn't even finished the thought. The glowing orb disappeared and reappeared over their tangled bodies.
"Hmm…" Memory Snape said softly, and a shiver ran down her spine. "I think that means I won."
He pulled her to her feet after her request for help, and she saw how close their chests were, wondered whether he had been able to hear her heart beating, wondered whether he had known how shaky her legs were.
"Think about it yourself," he breathed over her face, and then the memory vanished.
Hermione's hand slipped from the fabric, and she sat down hard next to the shelf. She wet and rewet her lips, desperate for a glass of water, eyes wide on the spot where she had lain only days ago.
"It's not a big deal," she said to herself, even feeling it was a lie as she said it. "He said it wasn't a big deal. Or implied it anyway."
Eyes closed, she murmured such nonsense to herself until her heart rate stilled. When she opened her eyes again, there was a determined set to her mouth. He wasn't making a big deal out of this, so she wouldn't either. She would do as he said–think about it, in a clinical, evaluating sort of way, so that she could return to him with a genuine answer to the question: how could she get free?
She scrambled to her feet and pressed her hand once more to the fabric. She watched the memory play again and again, examining their bodies, looking for secret loopholes until the flush in her face faded. She thought about everything, from headbutting him to casting a wandless electricity spell on his hands. She was just wondering what he really would have done had she lifted her hips all the way when a throat cleared.
Blinking, she withdrew from her mind.
Theodore Nott was standing at the entrance to her alcove. She sat frozen for a moment, the difference between what she had just been viewing and what she saw now–a confused, lanky classmate darting looks between her face and her chair–too great for her to wrap her head around.
"Um, hi," she said, feeling rather stupid, and jumping to her feet. She began shoving her books and papers into her bag. "Did you want to sit here? I just finished my Arithmancy, so I was about to turn in. The spot's all yours. Really great taste, by the way. It truly is the best–"
"Granger," Nott interrupted. She turned slowly to face him. He tilted his head, brow furrowed. "Why… Do you always get this flustered about study spots? Your face," he added, when she didn't move. "It's all splotchy."
She brought her hand to her cheek and felt warmth radiating there. For the love of Godric, was she ever going to stop blushing?
"I…think I may be coming down with something," she said. Nott took half a step backwards and Hermione had to swallow down a laugh. "I'll just head to the Hospital Wing right now. Um…see you."
And then she pushed past him and took off out of the library.
I need you.
There was no signature, but she knew immediately who it was from, even if it hadn't been Crookshanks again who had brought it to her. After an hour in bed, she had determined that, yes, head butting was the way to go. So what if it wasn't the answer he was looking for? So what if it was a Muggle trick? No wizard would ever expect it, surely. That was the most reasonable answer. She was the most reasonable, calm person she had ever known. Truly.
She checked her watch as she closed Viktor's little black book. It had just gone half two in the morning.
He can't have been injured again, can he? she grumbled to herself as she pulled on shoes. Why doesn't the Dark Pain-In-The-Neck just summon him over the holiday and leave him alone the rest of the year?
She pulled on her dad's old Glasgow jumper, gave Crooks a scratch, stuffed her wand up her sleeve, and left the dorm. Halfway down the third floor corridor, she ducked behind a tapestry and held her breath.
"...the authorization to dismiss students, then he has another surprise coming his way," Umbridge's voice muttered as wand light and quick footsteps passed across the tapestry. "I'll write Cornelius first thing in the morning…"
Hermione counted to one hundred before ducking back out from behind the tapestry and continuing her venture to the dungeons.
Snape hadn't written where she should meet him, so she tried the classroom door. She gave the handle a gentle tug. It was securely locked; not even an Alohomora would open it. So she crept past the classroom door, following the path she dimly remembered from June until she came to what she was sure was his door. As she touched the handle, warmth spread over her fingers and up the length of her arm. The wards welcomed her. The handle turned and she slipped inside.
"Sir?" she called out, stifling a yawn.
Only the embers of a fire smoldered in the fireplace. But as she scanned the room, she noticed a door beside the bookshelf had been thrown open. A clinical white light glowed in the room over white and gray surfaces. The familiar sounds of brewing–the hum of a flame, insistent clicks of ingredient chopping–met her ears. She stepped carefully into the room and stopped in the doorway.
Four cauldrons were bubbling simultaneously upon a long table. Bright blue flames licked the copper bottom of one cauldron. Pale purple steam rose out of a pewter cauldron. A stirring rod had been charmed to stir evenly in a third, silver cauldron. Snape was hovering over the final cauldron, letting drops from a pipette fall into its depths. He had pulled his hair out of his face, tying it in a low ponytail at the base of his neck. He was dressed in simple dark slacks and a white button down, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows. She watched the barest flicker of movement in his lips as he counted drops. When he reached seventeen, he withdrew the pipette and waved his wand, setting an invisible barrier over the cauldron.
"Finally," he said, turning his back to her to fetch a cutting board and another knife off of a shelf. "I need you to cut these mandrake leaves the same way I showed you two days ago."
Three, she corrected silently. He glanced at the clock.
With those instructions, he returned to the cauldron now emitting heavy blue clouds of steam. Hermione blinked, but stepped quickly up to the station he had set up for her. A pile of mandrake leaves lay rinsed and dried on a silver platter, ready for her attention. There were easily a hundred of them. She opened her mouth to ask what exactly it was they were working on, but one look at the stern expression on Snape's face as he began making figure-eight stirs in the cauldron shut her up. Despite the fact that he was moving quickly, he was not rushed. He was in control, but so intensely focused, that she knew whatever it was they were working on was important.
Maybe it's something for him, she thought. But as she cast a glance at the work table, she noticed several ingredients used in healing potions. Surely he would demand that Snape make something destructive, not restorative. But then that begged the question: healing from what?
She bundled the mandrake leaves tightly beneath her fingers, then sliced them carefully into ribbons with the silver blade. As she finished her fifth bundle, filling her cutting board, Snape set a silver bowl in front of her.
"If any fall onto the work surface, do not add them to the bowl."
Hermione transferred the leaves carefully, then continued her chopping. The moment she'd scraped the last of the leaves into the bowl, Snape set three jars on the table.
"Peel, juice, and cube," he said, indicating each jar in turn. "One centimeter." Then he seized her bowl and began sprinkling the mandrake leaves into the self-stirring cauldron.
Hermione found additional tools on the rack behind her. As she peeled thin ribbons of Shrivelfig, thin gray smoke rose from one of Snape's cauldrons. He stirred it regularly until the smoke turned yellow. His eyes rose and caught hers, and she jumped.
"Quickly," he prompted.
Hermione returned to her work, cubing a small pile of rat spleens and juicing a fruit she'd never encountered before. With the last drop of liquid out, she pushed her ingredients across the table. Snape nodded.
"Find the yarrow on the back shelf. I just had them brought in by Sprout. Use gloves. Remove fifty flowers–just the flowers, no leaves–and grind them until you make a paste. Let me know when it is done."
Hermione pulled on the gloves that sat waiting for her by the plant pots at the far end of the room. The small white flowers separated easily from their stems. She quickly counted out fifty, dropping them into the mortar beside the pots. She paced from side to side as she ground them, watching as the flowers smashed and smeared over the stone. Every now and then, she looked up at the racks of plants which sat under an especially bright light, like a makeshift sun lamp. Dittany, aconite, alihotsy, moly, and–the only common Muggle herb–sage. When she had achieved an even consistency, she returned to the large table.
"I've finished, sir," she said.
He was over her shoulder in the next moment, moving the mixture around with the pestle himself and nodding.
"Good. Stir while I add."
He lifted a sheet of thin paper on which was spread a glimmering substance. As he took the paper by the edges, the powdered unicorn horn slid to the center. Slowly, he added it to the mortar as she stirred, and the two ingredients combined to form something like brown sugar in texture, but pearlescent. He took the mortar wordlessly from her hands, then crossed the floor to the single cauldron with a flame still lit under it. Hermione peeked into the other cauldrons. At some point, they had been emptied, and now she understood that Snape was completing the final step of the potion. He stirred in the thick powder until it dissolved. The potion was a rusty orange.
What potion requires four separate cauldrons?
"If this doesn't stop the bleeding, I don't know what will," Snape murmured, now directing the potion into several vials. He corked two vials and left the room. She scrambled to catch up with him, tossing her gloves on the table, and reached his sitting room as he threw floo powder into the fire.
"You could try stitches," she said. It was a delirious, half-awake response, but he blinked at her.
"That might help," he said seriously.
And then he announced, "Hospital Wing," and disappeared, leaving her to stare after him as the humor slipped off her face.
He spun out of the grate to find Poppy waiting for him. She had her dressing gown on, her wand sticking out of the pocket, and sturdy shoes on her feet. The skin under her eyes was thin and wrinkled, but her eyes were brightly alert as ever. As often as he felt he was always on call, it was part of her job description to be. He couldn't count the number of times she had patched him up as a student and later as a teacher.
"Not a word–"
"Yes, yes," Poppy said, waving her hand. "Now be gone so I can send these on."
He returned to his sitting room, grasping the mantle as he reemerged. He was somewhat dizzy from two floo trips in such a short period of time. Granger stood behind the table half turned as if she had been pacing, clutching her stomach with an anxious look on her face.
"We should have news by morning," he said, trying to reassure her.
"News? What was this all about?"
He stopped pacing and stared at her.
"For Arthur Weasley," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Her eyebrows rose so high on her forehead, they look as if they might fly off completely.
"What happened to Mr. Weasley?"
The panic in her tone was emphasized by her shaking hands as she reached up to push her hair out of her face. It had been braided back, but several strands from around her face had come loose, either while sleeping or while brewing. The sleeves of her jumper were too long, half-eclipsing her hands, and the hem fell past her hips, exposing an inch of striped pajama shorts. How had he not noticed how ill-dressed she was–for brewing, for the dungeons, for safe residence in a wizarding world attacked by a dictator who wanted to eradicate her blood?
The knowledge settled heavy upon him like a stone sinking into water: no one told her. Which meant–he grimaced–he must.
Shite.
She opened her mouth again, no doubt preparing to spill forth more panicked questions, but he surprised even himself and stepped forward, grabbing her trembling wrists and forcing her to sit down on the sofa. He sat on the table, set so close to the couch that his bony knees jutted out high over the sides of hers, enclosing her in the space. He pressed her hands onto her knees. The shaking in her hands transferred, and her knees began jiggling in anxiety.
"At around midnight," he said in a low, measured tone. "Arthur Weasley, on duty for the Order, was attacked by Nagini. Potter and the Weasleys have gone to London to await news."
Her hands twitched under his own, as if she wanted to bring her hands up to cover her mouth. He held onto them firmly, and they ceased struggling, like a bird realizing it had been caught in a snare. Her mouth dropped open, full pink, worried lips parting in shock. Her brown eyes darted frantically over his face, as if seeking out proof of a lie.
Severus tore his eyes away, looked down instead, but then he saw her knees, realized they were bare, realized his large calloused hands had been resting on the smooth skin for several moments.
"But he'll be alright, won't he? Mr. Weasley can't…he can't d–" But she couldn't finish the word.
Hardly aware of his actions, he squeezed her hands once more before settling them on her own thighs. Standing quickly, he went to the drinks cart, welcoming the cold that came with the physical distance between them. He poured a small measure of amber liquid into one glass and water into the other, then returned to the couch, pressing the latter glass into her hands. He waited until she took a drink and set her glass down on the table before seating himself. After taking a drink, he spoke.
"I have not known of anyone to be bitten by Nagini before," he said quietly. The girl's round eyes were fixed on him, and her fingers twined together as he spoke. "She is no normal snake. The Dark Lord has augmented her with dark magic. The biggest obstacle is the anticoagulant properties of her venom. I have made my best estimation in devising this potion."
"And your best estimation…" she said.
"Is a very good guess," he said, a slight edge in his voice.
She shrank into the cushions of the sofa. When she spoke, her voice was small. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to question you, I just–"
The tension in his shoulders loosened. "You're nervous," he said. "It's alright. Drink your water."
But the next moment she gave a small cough and pressed a surprised hand to her mouth. In her other hand was clutched not her glass, but his. He sat, stunned for a moment, but found himself too tired to be disapproving.
"Taking advantage of the situation, are we, Miss Granger?"
Severus gave an exaggerated eye roll. Her own eyes stared at him in shock. Then they pinched at the corners, her mouth twitched, and then she was giggling behind the hand she had pressed to her mouth.
"I'm sorry," she said, trying to tamp down on her laughter. "I wasn't paying attention."
Severus made a noncommittal humph and got up, retrieving the bottle and a new glass.
She gave a half smile. "Well, I am of age…" she mused.
Severus paused as he approached the sofa again. "What are you talking about? You turned sixteen–"
"In September, according to, as far as I am aware, every written record," she confirmed, but then colored. The next words she addressed to her lap. "However, I actually turned seventeen sometime at the end of July."
Severus sat down hard and faced her. "Explain."
She traced the rim of his…her…glass with her thumb.
"Well, in my third year I wanted to take every course offered. So I was granted the use of a Time Turner…"
"Which you were meant to use to attend your lessons. Only," he interjected. Her head jerked up in surprise. "Yes, I knew. I think all the staff who Dumbledore didn't deign to inform figured it out by Christmas. All except Sybill. I don't think she ever knew or suspected."
"I…right, well…" She shifted in her seat, then drew up her feet, bending her knees in front of her chest. "What good is it turning back time to attend lessons if you don't also turn back time to do the homework set in those classes?"
There was a short silence after her admission, but something unsaid still hung in the air. She bowed her head, staring into the depths of her glass. He filled his glass and took a drink.
Hell.
He swallowed, then tipped the bottle over her own glass. Avoiding her gaze, he cleared his throat and said, "Or the studying."
She looked at him then, eyes glowing in the firelight. A rueful smile spread on her face. "Or the studying," she agreed. "Or the additional research... Or the sleeping."
They sat in the moment, in the shared knowledge, knowledge he felt quite certain she had shared with no one else. When had rule-following Granger ever admitted to authority a moment when she had broken the rules? He still doubted that she had gone looking for that troll on her own…
He caught her eye and the question within them. No, he wouldn't tell. But then, he only considered it one of the many things on a list longer than he was tall of things he would never tell. Still, there was a sense of relief in the air between them, as if something had been released. She gave the barest nod.
Her hands trembled, but only a little, as she brought the glass to her lips. He tried not to–tried to find something interesting to look at in the sitting room he had possessed for half his life–but he watched her profile as she drank. Her lips parted, the whiskey trickled into her mouth, and she swallowed. She coughed twice, three times, and then, face a little pink, she drained the rest of the glass, this time without coughing. The hollow thunk of the glass striking the table reverberated in his head as he drained his own glass. He stared at her.
"Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?" he asked.
It was a sign of his exhaustion, for the alcohol couldn't have acted so quickly, that her first name slipped out. She turned to look at him, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes, and smiled a small, tremulous smile. The sparkle of humor in her eyes, the faint pink in her cheeks, the self-conscious smile…it was all too much vulnerability, too much trust for him to bear. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he filled their glasses once more. Her fingers–a little cool to the touch–brushed against his own as he moved the bottle away. She leaned back, curling her feet up underneath her and cradled the drink in her hands.
They took small sips and stared into the fire. He examined the remaining finger of liquid in his drink, wondering absently if any of the shades of bronze were the same he'd just seen dancing in her eyes. Something about that felt like a memory…
The girl sniffed suddenly beside him. Severus's head snapped up, horror widening his eyes. A tired and trusting girl in his rooms was one thing, but an emotional one as well? A single tear, shining and pearlescent in the firelight, carved its way down her cheek.
"Why?" she asked. "Why wouldn't they tell me?"
The glass in her hands had been emptied. He gently pried it out of her fingers and set it on the table. As he leaned back to settle into the couch, all his senses were assailed: a blur of brown, another louder sniff, the scent of jasmine, and warmth, so much warmth that he felt he'd just been plunged into a bath. Hermione Granger was curled against his side. And something, the alcohol perhaps, certainly not him, made him shift, freeing his right arm and settling it across her shoulders.
"I'm s-supposed to be their f-friend. How could they not tell me what was h-happening? I c-could have helped."
He had calmed many a homesick first year. He had healed injuries of students too frightened to explain the origin of their wounds to anyone, and so had come to him, knowing his discretion. But he had navigated such moments with Slytherins, people who knew, even at a young age, not to reveal the depths of their vulnerability.
Granger was not a Slytherin. As her body shook beside him, he knew she would require a more direct approach. Stomach twisting uncomfortably, he found himself patting her shoulder.
"You have helped. You and I may have just saved his life."
"You and I may as well be chopped liver as far as they're concerned." she snorted, and he felt a rush of warm air against his neck.
Which meant her head was on his shoulder.
Merlin.
He held himself as still as possible. But that only served to make him all the more aware of her physically: her torso moved with breath against his, her fingers picked at a cuticle in her lap. He was insane, utterly insane. He should have withdrawn. He should have stood and ordered her to bed. He commanded his body to do so, but it stayed still and, to his shame, trembled with barely maintained control every time her lungs inflated.
"I do all this work," she said, and her voice was steady now but heavy with either irony or disdain. "I'm the one who figured out the monster in the Chamber was a basilisk. I'm the one who figured out Lupin was a werewolf. I make sure they study and that Harry eats. I convince people he's telling the truth."
Unconsciously, she had curled her hand into a fist and struck for emphasis on the final word. He looked down at the movement. She hadn't seemed to realize that it was his leg, not hers, that she had hit.
"And then there's everything else I'm doing now that they don't understand. Brewing and creating identities and getting interrogated when I write to international allies. And what do I get? I get left behind."
The bitterness and pain in her voice made him wince, made him ache with familiarity, made him want her not to break down again.
But why? a voice asked in his head. Instead of answering it, he raised his glass in a toast.
"To the left behind," he proclaimed dryly.
She laughed into his collar, and the vibration traveled all the way down his body.
"To the left behind," she echoed, then propped herself up somewhat, slipped his glass right out of his fingers and drained it.
Severus stared at her, at first in shock, and then because he couldn't look away. She beamed at him, bright as the sun, eyes dancing in the firelight. Her smile softened, her expression changing from humor to something like affection. Or trust. He could count each freckle on her nose.
"I think I'm a bad influence on you," he said quietly, and there was just enough of a tremor in his voice and a fidget in his body that he felt fifteen again, staring into another set of eyes, green eyes that used to laugh with him right up until the moment his insults hardened them forever.
"I don't think so."
Her voice brought him out of his strangled reverie. He blinked. The eyes were bronze again, half-lidded with exhaustion. How much sleep had she gotten before he summoned her? When was the last time he slept?
"I think you're good for me."
Numb shock flooded his body as she settled her head on his shoulder again. "Good" and "Severus Snape" did not belong in the same sentence. Not according to any student, not according to Dumbledore, not even according to his own mother. He swallowed thickly, looking at the fire without seeing it as other images danced before his eyes of all the times he ever tried to do the right thing. Asking the Hat to let him into Gryffindor with Lily, but being sent to Slytherin instead. Making friends with the only boys who showed interest in him after a night in the dueling club, which became his first step toward the Death Eaters. Asking Dumbledore to save Lily, but finding her dead on the nursery room floor. Saving her son again and again, but receiving only glares in return. He was, and perhaps always had been, the villain. It was an easy role to play, he found, as he had to do very little other than let others cast him as such. To be the villain was to be lonely, miserable. Except, lately he hadn't felt so miserable…
He turned his head back to the witch at his side and only then noticed how deep and long her breathing was as her upper back swelled with breath under his hand. Her knees were bent and pressing into his thigh. Her left arm was pressed into his own, her hand curled awkwardly in her lap. Her other hand loosely gripped the folds of his shirt over his stomach. He had no idea how or when it had gotten there.
A curl hung in front of her face, shivering with each exhale. A warmth due neither to the whiskey nor to the warm body beside him flooded him and, hardly daring to breathe, he raised his left hand and softly brushed the curl back into place behind her ear. His fingers brushed the edge of her jaw as he withdrew. She hummed, turning her face to press her cheek against the movement. He held his breath, keeping his body perfectly still. Her skin was soft as velvet. Then she sighed and settled more firmly to his side. Carefully, he dropped his hand into his lap.
Severus, what the hell do you think you're doing? a voice in his head castigated. Kick. Her. Out. Kick her out of your rooms now! This is insanity. This is madness. Your job, your livelihood, your reputation are on the line.
"But she's so warm," he whispered.
The fact that the words broke free from his lips, in addition to the longing with which he said them, stunned him. With those words, he despised himself. Yet his usually frigid room felt almost sweltering with her pressed to his side. When was the last time someone had touched him like this? When was the last time someone had trusted him enough to fall asleep in his presence? When was the last time he had felt so exhausted, so thinned out, yet so at ease?
The girl did not stir.
That's exactly why you should kick her out. Have a soft, warm little plaything, but don't let it be one of your students.
She trusts me, he argued back, this time internally.
She doesn't know you. If she really knew you, do you think she'd spend one second in your company willingly?
Ice stabbed at his heart. No, no of course, she wouldn't. She would run for the hills, screaming. Or for Dumbledore's office, anyway. He'd just steeled himself to shake her off of him, to yell and curse until she fled his rooms never to return, when she shifted against him again. Her lips were almost at his throat.
"Sev-rus…" she breathed.
He froze, throat dry, and waited for her to say more. But she was silent, heavy puffs of exhales signaling that she had fallen back into a deep sleep. And with that single word, that mangled pronouncement of his name, the earth tilted.
Hermione woke with a start in almost complete darkness with a strong desire to be sick. She pushed herself up from bed, except...she wasn't in bed. She was on a sofa, and the last embers of a fire cast dim light on her surroundings so that the shadowy shapes in the room slowly came into focus: a table, a dark stone wall, a pile of books. A heavy gray blanket slipped down her shoulders. Just as her slow brain was adding up all the pieces, a door next to the fireplace opened.
"Stay still," Severus Snape said as he approached her, a tall line of black with something bright yellow in his hand. He swept toward her and seated himself on the table, holding out the bright yellow something to her with the tips of his fingers. It was a vial of potion. "Hangover relief," he said. "Trust me, you'll feel better once you've had it."
"'Course I trust you," she mumbled, and then downed the vial before anything else could come out of her mouth. Almost instantly her stomach settled and the headache she didn't realize had been building behind her eyes evaporated. She sighed, content, and handed the vial back to him. Only once his fingers touched hers did she fully realize where she was.
"Oh, Merlin." She sprang to her feet. "Sir, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to–I didn't think–"
Snape rose slowly before her, overwhelming in the small space, his chest only an inch from hers. Instead of casting her out, he laid his hands gently on her shoulders and pushed her back down. After doing so, he sat next to her, further away than he would have been if he'd sat back on the table. A swooping disappointment went through her, and then she blinked.
Why would I be upset he's sitting further away?
"Miss Granger," he began, but he stopped suddenly, and, feeling her own mouth drop open in alarm, she knew why.
The fireplace glowed green. She had just enough time to turn to him to…well, she wasn't really sure what…when she saw him wave in a complicated way at her and whisper under his breath. She felt herself launched from the sofa and she braced for an impact that never came. Instead, she felt the cold of the air as she whizzed through it. She had a second to think "I'm flying! Oh no, I'm flying," and then she landed with a soft tap on glass. Thankful for the hangover potion, which no doubt was ensuring she didn't vomit after that experience, she opened her eyes and her mouth dropped open again.
She was looking at Snape's sitting room, but it was larger, a hundred times larger. Snape still sat on the couch, but he was giant sized. He wasn't looking at her, but at the fireplace, as a figure began to emerge from it.
"Ah, Severus, already awake. Or should I say, still awake?"
Hermione gaped as Dumbledore, also giant sized, stepped into the room. A faded pink paisley dressing gown was cinched at his waist and on his feet he wore carpet slippers. His voice was several decibels lower and he seemed to stand so high from her perspective that his head almost touched the ceiling.
From her perspective…
Hermione looked about her and realized she wasn't alone on this glassy surface. Large bottles towered over her that looked suspiciously like…no, they were! She gaped and took a few steps around one bottle to read the full label, which was taller than she was: Ogden's Old Firewhisky.
He Alice-d me, was her last coherent thought, before reason caught up with her and she dove behind the bottle where she was sure to be hidden from view. Above her, louder and deeper than would have been normal, the conversation continued.
"My boy, don't you ever sleep?" Dumbledore asked.
"I sleep enough," Snape responded shortly. "What news?"
"Alas, not much. He is somewhat stable, no doubt thanks to your antivenin, but they continue to pour blood replenishers down his throat every half hour. The stitches were working for a time, but the venom keeps dissolving them. Still, it could have been worse. Much worse." Dumbledore sighed and looked around the room. "Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"
Hermione's heart stopped, and she shrank further back.
"No," Snape said blankly, almost rudely. His arms were crossed over his chest. "You've just told me I should sleep more. I don't find myself fit to entertain."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Right you are," he said. "Well then…" And he turned to go.
"What about Granger?" The words burst from Snape's mouth and Hermione watched as Dumbledore paused and half turned back.
"What about Miss Granger?"
"Ought she not be informed? When she wakes up with no Potter and no Weasleys, don't you think she's going to have questions?"
Dumbledore's brows rose on his head. "That's rather considerate of you, Severus. I had no idea–"
"Drawing attention to the event will help us in no way," Snape interrupted. "Especially if she starts interrogating people in a public setting like breakfast in the Great Hall."
"True…" Dumbledore said slowly, one hand stroking his beard. "I'll send Minerva to her in an hour. Good morning, Severus."
This time when he turned to go, Snape didn't stop him. Hermione let out a sigh of relief once Dumbledore was gone and the fire returned to its normal coloring. She scrambled to her feet and reemerged from behind the bottle. Snape was already walking toward the drinks cart.
"Ah, there you are, Miss Granger," he said.
She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "You shrunk me?" she yelled.
A smirk so wide it may have been a grin erupted on his face. "You know…" he said, leaning down until their faces were approximately level. His voice was even lower and when he spoke, mint-scented air breezed toward her. She smelled something else, too. Herbal like potions ingredients but with something musky underneath. "I could just leave you like this. Shriller than usual, truth be told, but I may be able to get used to it if it means I can plausibly deny seeing your hand in the air."
"Ha ha, very funny," she deadpanned. "As if you needed the excuse."
His eyes danced with laughter before her, and she felt a reluctant smile pull at her mouth.
"No? Well, if you're sure…"
He took a step backwards and twisted his hand again. She felt herself simultaneously growing and being pulled until she stood on the rug once more. She landed off balance and stumbled forward. Snape's hands shot out and gripped her elbows and she half fell into his arms. She was surrounded once more by that scent, less pronounced, perhaps since she was her normal size again, but strangely intoxicating. Hermione looked up into Snape's face. His brow was slightly furrowed and his eyes scanned her face.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "Nauseous? Dizzy?"
She shook her head but then peered at him. "How do I know you've made me the right size?"
He rolled his eyes and let go of her elbows. When he straightened, she imitated him automatically.
"Because you only come up to my collarbone, see?"
And he took a fraction of a step closer to her. Her eyes were level with his chest and she smelled rosemary and lemongrass. The scent was familiar, as if she had dreamt of it… She inhaled slowly, but then he stepped away.
"Now," he said. "It's time you got back to your dormitory. You do want to look as if you actually slept there, after all."
"Sir," she said as his fingers plunged into the floo powder. He stopped and looked at her. She smiled. "We did it. He's going to be alright."
His face was blank for a moment and then his features softened, making the tired, tightened skin at the corners of his eyes all the more evident. "No one–"
"I know, I know," she said, stepping closer to the fire. "No one can know. But we'll know."
And then, without really thinking about it, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. She gave herself two seconds, three, to enjoy the softness of his robes, to feel the steady pump of his heart beneath her cheek, and then she withdrew.
"Thank you, sir," she murmured.
He let the dust fall from his fingers. She called out "Gryffindor Tower" and stepped through.
Back in his rooms, Severus exhaled.