Undisclosed Desires

Six

AN: There is a reference to self-harm in this chapter-it is not a graphic depiction.

Hermione stationed herself outside the gates of Hogwarts at precisely twenty-five past nine that Sunday morning. The gates were securely locked. She considered the padlock before turning around with a small sigh. Would he show? Or had he ditched her and was already inside the dungeons? She was not so desperate that she would have turned up an hour earlier in the hopes of catching him out. Nevertheless, she knew her disappointment would be acute if he had left her in the lurch.

The game she was playing was, potentially, a dangerous one. The stakes were stacking up, but she was starting to think it might be worth it come the end. The machinations of the Ministry were proving difficult to handle, but she needed to hold her nerve a little while longer.

Distantly, she heard the peal of castle bells as the clock announced it was half past the hour. There was no sound to signify the approach of footsteps or otherwise. Hermione paced a little in front of the gate, scuffing her feet on the path with irritation. She would give it five more minutes, but not a minute more. She scowled up towards the castle, thinking that he might even be up in one of the towers, bent double with laughter as he watched her pace back and forth.

She allowed herself a snort of self-deprecating laughter at the image. Pausing in her pacing, she peered down the path to Hogsmeade. Still nothing. She heaved a sigh and promptly jumped out of her skin when:

'All right there, Granger?'

Hermione twisted around to see Severus Snape standing behind the gates.

'Ah, there you are,' she replied cautiously, stepping closer.

'Indeed... Although, I am still deciding whether to let you in.'

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. 'I can't imagine you would be courteous enough to walk all the way down here simply to refuse me entry, therefore, you must intend to permit me.'

His head tilted to one side. 'Well, you got me there, Granger.'

Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped parcel. 'Anyway, I come bearing gifts—bacon cob?'

The sound of the lock moving began and then the gates were pulling apart. She shoved her arm forward and he took the roll with a twitch of his eyebrow, mildly appraising.

'Thank you,' he said.

'Told you I had something you wanted,' she murmured, pushing past before he could change his mind.

Without faltering, she continued on towards the dungeons, allowing herself a wide, satisfied smile that he could not see. There would be a lot to analyse later, she knew. It was a bit extravagant to say he had bent to her will, but nevertheless, she liked the sound of it. Things were beginning to move at pace.

When she could get her good humour under control, she glanced back to where he followed, a few steps behind. 'What time did you get here?'

'Seven.'

'But why? If you needed time to prepare, I would have—'

He shook his head vehemently and quickened his pace. 'I cannot have any interference in the preparation for these brews—the preparation is absolutely key.'

'But—'

'You will soon understand.'

Mildly put out, Hermione followed him into the dungeon and, this time, two long benches took centre stage. Twenty cauldrons were poised along their length. She shrugged on her robe and moved for a closer look. Set up in front of each cauldron was an array of prepared ingredients—all perfectly portioned out and positioned in sequence.

Hermione felt her bottom jaw slacken. 'This must have taken you ages.'

'Not really,' he muttered, with a shrug. 'Now, you will sit down at the end, there, and I am warning you, if you dare interrupt me, you can personally reimburse Hogwarts for the wastage.'

She narrowed her eyes, but nevertheless, did as she was told, sitting on a stool set back from the end of the benches. He followed her, but did not sit.

'Each cauldron will brew a standard quantity of Dreamless Sleep , on average ten doses or so. Twenty cauldrons will more or less last the school year.' He drew out his pocket-watch, whereupon he manipulated the dial for a moment.

'Ah, I wondered where the watch had gone.' Hermione bit her lip after she said it, belatedly regretting the jab.

He stilled, before giving her an impatient look. 'You will be able to speak after approximately twenty minutes from when the brew commences.'

Simultaneously, twenty burners suddenly roared into life and Hermione flinched violently in surprise. Severus sent her a glare of warning.

'Sorry,' she mumbled, gripping the stool tightly.

The watch was clicked into action and then, in a moment, twenty beakers of an infusion of wormwood began levitating into the air, each tipping their contents into their respective cauldrons. Hermione followed their progress with keen interest. When the beakers alighted back onto the bench, up lifted twenty sprigs of lavender that gently deposited themselves into the cauldron. Next, the glass stirring rods rose up and descended into the mixtures, after which they began stirring in unison.

The man directing this display started walking between the benches, observing the progress. He gave some cursory glances to the mixtures, and then to his watch, before coming to a stop at the far end. The stirring rods suddenly levitated high into the air, at which point he finally took out his wand. A cleansing charm burst forth, hitting each stirring rod in turn, after which they were returned to the surface of the bench.

The watch was consulted again, and then valerian root was being sprinkled in. This dance continued until the stirring rods were called into action once more. The progress of the brews was inspected again as he moved his way back down the aisle. After which, he clicked his watch and set it down. The stirring rods fell motionless but remained in their cauldrons, where the flames beneath were suddenly reduced in veracity.

'Twenty minute simmer,' Severus commented nonchalantly.

Hermione had watched the performance quite dumbfounded. 'I… I don't know what to say,' she spoke, shaking her head slightly.

He simply sat and said nothing.

'I suppose it is good to know one can still be surprised by magic.'

'Indeed,' was his only concession.

Suddenly, she folded her arms haughtily. 'I should admit to feeling vaguely undersold by my education, though. I distinctly recall someone decrying the use of foolish wand-waving and silly incantations.'

It was a moment before he replied. 'I stand by that. This is a basic brew—do not think this approach is always suitable; it is not.' There was a little huff of breath. 'Besides, not everything can be taught; and I have had a lot of time on my hands over the years.'

The stirring rods suddenly rotated twice, before stilling once more.

'I cannot claim all the credit, either. Professor Flitwick assisted me in developing the spells.'

Hermione filed that nugget away for a later date. Inwardly, she marvelled at how much concentration it must take to control twenty cauldrons at a time.

'I'm pretty sure they do not do this in the apothecary at St. Mungo's,' she murmured resentfully.

He chose to say nothing.

'May I?' she prompted.

After he gave a short nod, Hermione got to her feet and walked between the benches, looking into the cauldrons. In spite of her almost irrepressible need to master anything and everything, she found herself thinking she might never need to master this.

If it all worked out the way she hoped, in the future she might have access to her very own supply chain. She would have to find somewhere for him to brew, of course, but, in her mind at least, they would make a good team. She turned to peer into a nearby cauldron and chanced a quick glance at him as she did so.

He watched her like a hawk, his expression patently dour.

Clearly, he would need more convincing.

Later, they walked back down the gates in somewhat companionable silence. She had observed him complete the brew and then he had graciously allowed her to participate in the bottling and labelling. Which was quite the laborious task considering the amount of potion and the precise nature of the labelling required for the Infirmary. Still, it had been a relief to be able to focus her mind.

Outside, the afternoon was a glorious one and Hermione found herself desperate that their afternoon should continue. As much as she enjoyed working, she also enjoyed those opportunities to engage with him more informally. She was not blind to the reasons why he had brought her here—what he might be aiming to achieve with it. In her mind, it was superfluous.

He was re-building the locking charms when she suggested they should have a pit-stop in the Three Broomsticks . She hoped it had sounded more casually put to his ears than it did her own. He stilled before turning to her.

'Do you really think that is a good idea?'

Hermione unclenched her palms, feeling a release of tension. His reply meant one thing, that he wanted to, because, otherwise, he surely should have said simply, 'No, thanks .'

'No one is clock-watching us today,' she countered.

'How do you know that? The enchantment is probably still active as we speak.'

'Your point?'

'We should not be spending extraneous time together—we should not be providing fodder for the Ministry.'

'Then, why did you let me in earlier?'

His face immediately twisted with irritation. 'If you want the truth, Granger, I absolutely do not know… In fact, I have wondered if—'

He broke off quickly, but Hermione urged him to continue.

'—I have wondered if there is more to this enchantment than we might realise.'

Hermione blinked at him in surprise. 'You mean, some form of compulsion?'

At his stiff nod, Hermione felt her heart sink a little. Mentally, she berated herself for not anticipating this assumption of his. He wouldn't look at her now. He looked unusually self-conscious, which in turn made him look unusually young. Clearly, his self-belief required improvement.

'There is no compulsion, Severus.' She smiled gently.

'How do you know?'

'I just do. Let's go,' she ordered, setting off down the path to Hogsmeade.

It would not have entirely surprised her if he Disapparated away without a further word, but his footsteps soon fell in behind hers. They walked in silence until they reached the Three Broomsticks , and when she suggested they sit outside, on account of the pleasant sunshine, he scowled a little, glancing around the surroundings.

'Worried word will get back that we were here?' she posed, thinking she might try needling him for once.

'Back to whom?' He fired back, stalking towards a table, one which was partly in shelter by the presence of a large oak nearby. 'You haven't even told Potter and Weasley about this.'

He shrugged off his robe and picked the side in the shade, leaving her to sit opposite in the sunlight.

Hermione bristled. 'How do you know I haven't told them?'

'I could tell when I saw you in the Leaky the other day.'

So much for her attempt at needling. 'It's not what you think.'

'And what, pray, do I think?'

'That I must be embarrassed.'

He said nothing, but his look was quite hard.

'I am not embarrassed,' Hermione continued, managing to meet his eyes. 'I simply thought you would prefer it. Unless, you would have liked this saga to have been advertised?'

He grimaced. 'I would not.'

'Well then, do not look for double-meaning where there is none.' She punctuated that with a haughty smile, before spinning around and heading off into the pub to retrieve drinks.

On her return, she received a quiet 'Ta,' but not very much else. Hermione turned her head to consider the flowerbeds, hiding a smirk of satisfaction. It was quite enjoyable being able to be able to be stern with him. She could get used to it.

The silence was not unpleasant as they both drew into their thoughts. Hermione found herself thinking of the way he had commanded the cauldrons. And though outwardly she stared at the perfectly formed hydrangeas, in reality, all she could see was the silent orchestra of cauldrons and implements, conducted with nary a movement or a word.

Teaching never seemed a natural fit for the man, but she was reminded of his ability to expound in such a way as to be insightful, useful, and clear. Especially when he seemed to forget himself and who he was talking to. No one could ever accuse him of rambling. And it seemed obvious to her that he liked to expound, perhaps not to uninterested children, but he seemed to want to share knowledge, once he could forget his own abrasiveness. At the root of it all, must be passion, she thought pensively.

Abrasiveness notwithstanding, it had never been a chore to listen to him teach. Harry, amongst others, might very well disagree on that point, but even he had escaped most of the lessons unscathed.

She wondered what might have been achieved had he never been derailed by his experiences and choices? What kind of teacher could he have been without the permanently crafted facade of bitterness and contempt? One, which, even now, he seemed unable to fully dismantle to reveal the human being beneath.

Like so many lives touched by Voldemort, a waste. A waste of talent. Unbidden, she felt her eyes sting and she blinked rapidly. Hermione turned her head and was mildly surprised to find he openly observed her. Even as their eyes met, he did not seem perturbed. She wasn't sure if it was his own melancholy, or simply a reflection of her own, that she thought she could see in his countenance. Whatever it was, he blinked away first and busied himself with his drink.

Hermione clenched her fists under the table and willed herself to find her composure. Suddenly, there was an oppressive air and she clumsily sought to dispel it. 'What, ah, do you think they will have us do next?'

Even as he snorted, pained, and rubbed a hand through his hair, she cringed at her choice of ice-breaker. Hermione drew herself up straighter and sipped her wine.

'Merlin only knows what they have cooked up, Granger, but we are playing right into their hands.'

'So you keep saying.'

'We should be planning to have the worst times together.'

Hermione shook her head forcefully. 'It wouldn't be real, though, would it? I look forward to our time together.'

He seemed taken aback by her candour.

'It is what it is, Severus,' she added. 'We cannot fool them; we can only break the enchantment. Unfortunately, we have no idea what it is.'

She had an idea, though.

There was one other option left open to her, too. An option of last resort, which she was beginning to think the time might be right for. There was enough reason to believe she had achieved everything she needed by letting the Ministry have their way thus far. Still nothing was without risk, of course, and it was worth reminding herself that there was still much to learn and understand about the man opposite her. It would be reckless to think she could predict anything he might do or say, particularly under pressure.

The sun was starting to beat down on her and Hermione shifted uncomfortably, sending her companion a resentful look, which he missed. She turned back to the hydrangeas, hoping they could provide her with, if not clarity, then maybe inspiration.

'I think part of me is intrigued, despite myself, to see what happens if we get to the end of this.' She spoke the words quite unthinkingly and quickly looked to see what he made of them.

He was unmoving, attention focused on his glass.

Well, she'd said it now. Hermione shrugged mentally and gulped her wine.

'May I ask you a question?' He suddenly asked, in a soft tone.

'Of course,' she replied, apprehensively.

'Why are you not married, or otherwise entangled?'

This surprised her greatly, but she didn't mind answering. 'Still waiting for the one, obviously.' It came out a little more facetiously than she would have liked, but it was the truth—or at least an approximation.

'It wasn't Weasley?'

There was no inference to be made as to why Severus Snape should be aware of her romantic history—it had been splashed over newsprint enough that it was considered general knowledge. But Hermione decided she might do well to infer as to why he wanted this more delicate knowledge. She surveyed him carefully and decided there was genuine curiosity.

'You'd better get this recharged,' she stated, sliding her empty glass at him.

'Very well,' he agreed, only sounding mildly put out.

She was glad for his momentary departure, taking the opportunity to cast a cooling charm and adjust her hair. She also slightly adjusted the table to gain a little of the shade herself. If he noticed, he made no mention on his return.

After a fortifying sip, she spoke, 'It took me a while, but I realised Ron wanted in me what he never got from his mother.'

Hermione almost laughed aloud at the widening of his eyes.

'In his defence, Ron is not alone when it comes to men looking to be mothered in a relationship. And I, well, for reasons I won't go into now, it suited me and I was good at it. But, one day, I decided I just couldn't deal with it anymore. Sometimes, the things he would say or do, they would fill me with… utter rage .' Hermione paused self-consciously, biting her lip. 'Ron didn't deserve my contempt, and I didn't like they way it made me feel. The truth is, I mothered the both of them, actually, for long enough. Harry has Ginny now, of course, and it suits her.'

Her patience had simply run out. At times, it still left her feeling guilty. The merry-go-round of blaming herself for not setting her boundaries long ago, and then having to remind herself that she had been a child herself.

She shrugged a little sheepishly. 'Beyond that, relationships have not been a priority for me—I have had other things to focus on.'

He nodded imperceptibly, but said nothing.

Was she supposed to reciprocate the question? Absolutely not, if his sudden fidgeting was anything to go by. The sun had encroached into his space and he shifted along the bench, shoving his shirtsleeves up to his elbows in a probably pointless concession to the warmth. The action intrigued Hermione for several reasons. One, it was an unusually casual action for someone so perpetually buttoned, two, he had good arms, but then she knew that already. Thirdly, though, it was what she could see on the inner of his wrist.

She lifted her eyes slowly.

He looked at her and then at his wrist, snorting softly. 'I gave you my word that I would not do it again.'

Hermione swallowed uncomfortably, her eyes drifting back to the rugged scar that marred the faint, but still visible, Dark Mark.

'You did,' she acknowledged, her mind drifting to that night several years ago. 'And I never told anyone, as you requested.'

'I expect I have not ever expressed my regret that you witnessed my…moment of weakness. I assure you, I do not think to repeat it.'

She stared at him, feeling somewhat taken by his earnest tone. He had been convalescing at Grimmauld Place in the aftermath of the war. Shoved in an empty bedroom at the top of the house, with no one knowing what to do with him or what to say to him.

On that particular night, it had been a mere chance that she had happened upon him. She hadn't meant to be there. And she was sure he hadn't meant to be discovered. Just when she had thought she had seen enough of Severus Snape's blood, she had been confronted with more.

Even at the time, the coincidence of her presence had niggled at her. It was generally accepted that without her intervention in the Shrieking Shack, he would have died. And in the context of that night in Grimmauld Place, he had maintained he never intended any life-threatening damage by trying to remove the mark, but still…

In spite of the warmth, Hermione shivered.

He noticed. 'It makes you uncomfortable…'

He made to pull down his sleeve, but Hermione shook her head vehemently.

'Of course it doesn't.'

It was something she had had to wrestle with for a long while after, but he had been so adamant that she keep the matter to herself—had assured her it had been a lapse that he would not repeat. She had patched him up and had given her word. She was never sure whether it had been the right decision, but at the time, she was helpless to deal with her own demons, let alone the demons of others. In any case, soon after, Minerva McGonagall turned up and whisked him away. Some time would pass before their paths crossed again.

Still, it had always pricked at her. And as her own mental wellbeing had improved, she was often reminded to think of him and wonder how he was. In the end, it was partly the reason she had decided to become a mediwitch. She had wanted the tools to help people—to properly help people.

His attention was directed anywhere other than at her so Hermione let her eyes drop to his arm once more. She found herself studying it; his palm was flat on the table and the scars were no longer visible. No less fascinating, however. A prickle of heat rose up to her neck, which she quickly tried to douse with a gulp of her drink.

They really were nice arms.

AN: Thanks so much for your comments : )