Undisclosed Desires

Eight

Hermione stepped out of the ladies bathroom, cursing Ministry diktats and Ministry garden parties. All afternoon she had been trying to surreptitiously regain the company of Severus Snape with no success. Minerva McGonagall seemed glued to his side. For some reason, Hermione was mildly put off by the formidable presence of the Headmistress, so she cursed her, too.

She was also taking great care to avoid bumping into anyone from the Department for Births, Deaths and Marriages. Whilst she had been assured the process was confidential, she knew there must be some staff who were aware of her situation, and more specifically, who she was in that situation with. And though her friends knew she had been drawn into the scheme, she had told no one of her active participation. For the time being, she hoped to keep it that way.

If she was lucky, and her efforts this week had borne fruit, the matter could be consigned to history very soon. It had taken a few risks and some denting of her pride, but she had done what she had needed to do. No more, no less. Her ear had been pressed to the ground ever since and there were rumours swirling about a certain imminent press release. If it would be any day, Hermione reckoned it would be this day. Burying the news whilst one of the largest social events in the social calendar was underway seemed like a typical Ministry move. She would not get her hopes up, however.

Making her way back onto the lawns, she scanned the throng again for her erstwhile companion. So much for their earlier decision to cut short their attendance. They had barely spoken all day. Never mind satisfying the Ministry's requirements, her irritation pricked at the wasted opportunity. Wild imaginings had distracted her all afternoon—where they could go, what they could do.

She thought of how he had looked at her, earlier; such intensity took her breath away. She could have looked right into him at that moment, it seemed. All at once, tempting and alluring, but daunting too. If she did look, she was quite sure she might never be able to look away. Well, she was ready for it. Whether he was, she could not be sure, but her chance was bearing down on her quickly, it seemed. It would soon be the proverbial now or never.

Scanning the crowd again, she spotted him easily this time. Hermione clenched her fists when she saw the Minister himself had now accosted him. So she cursed Minister Shacklebolt too, for good measure. A tray of champagne flutes levitated past and Hermione reached out to grab one. It might have been her third or fourth of the afternoon she realised belatedly. Fuck it, she thought.

'Get it down yer, dear!' laughed a voice behind her.

Hermione cringed, before turning around slowly. 'Are you enjoying yourself, Professor McGonagall?'

'Immensely,' the elder woman replied, eyes directed to where Hermione had been looking only seconds before. 'He looks well,' she mused. 'Don't you think, Hermione—doesn't Severus look well?'

Her throat momentarily strangled, Hermione merely nodded.

'Would you join me for a turn about the garden, dear?'

'Oh, of course.'

The Headmistress led the way from the main hubbub towards a walled garden filled with flowerbeds. There was silence and Hermione knew she would do well to take control of the direction of the conversation at the outset, but, nevertheless, she remained quiet.

'You and Severus seem to get on.'

There it was. And though expected, Hermione still felt a subsequent rush of blood to her face that she hoped was not as vividly replicated in her cheeks as it felt.

'Oh… Do we?' she queried doubtfully. 'I never thought… Well, he agreed to assist me in my studies…'

'I think you know that you do,' McGonagall pressed.

Hermione bristled a little. Did she know the whole story? All of it.

'What of it?' Was she going to warn her off? That would be ironic.

'Do not mistake me, I would like nothing more than for Severus to have friends, Hermione—someone with whom he can trust enough to be his true self. But he has enemies, former friends, acquaintances, and only one friend—me. And I have given myself that title. Severus, himself, might resist it, because it is in his nature to shy from friendships and… attachments. It is what he was forced to do.'

'I would happily be his friend,' Hermione murmured, her throat clenching around the half-truth.

Minerva came to a stop suddenly. 'My dear Hermione, I am absolutely certain you do not wish Severus ill. But I am not convinced you fully understand what you could be cultivating.'

'You think he has formed an attachment?'

'I have known Severus for a very long time and I notice things when he does them differently. The Severus I know never lets anyone, and I mean anyone, assist him when it comes brewing. Plenty have asked for his guidance over the years and they have all been given short shrift. The Severus I know does not spend afternoons drinking in beer gardens. The Severus I know does not usually attend garden parties, but if he does, he certainly does not attend them looking so… refined.'

Hermione bit the inside of her lip. McGonagall was right, she thought, refined was absolutely the word.

Minerva smiled down at her gently. 'My dear, he has also been trying to ditch me all afternoon, and when he thinks I will not notice, he is looking for you.'

Hermione pasted a look of surprise on her face. 'You must be mistaken—'

'I know how a man looks at a woman, Hermione. My dear, I am sorry to put this on you. I know who I really should be having this conversation with, but I cannot say these things to him.' Minerva breathed a sigh. 'Pray do not reveal to Severus that I have said anything. I have no wish to pry, but I simply want to make some things clear to you. Please do not hurt him—'

Hermione dropped her mouth open, ready to protest, but Minerva hurried on.

'Please. Consider now, if you cannot finish what is started, then mark that line in the sand now, before it goes too far.'

At the kindly expression on the elder woman's face, Hermione decided it couldn't hurt to reassure her with a grain of truth. She reached out and gave Minerva's arm a squeeze. 'Professor McGonagall, I can see you have Severus's best interest at heart, but I assure you, I know exactly what I am cultivating. I'm starting to think it is growing quite nicely, too. Do not worry.'

Without waiting for a reply, Hermione smiled at the mild surprise on McGonagall's face, before turning on her heel and leaving the garden. Straightening her dress robes, she marched with purpose back into the throng of people, scanning once again for a dark head. Not having much luck, she headed towards the bar. He wasn't there. Beyond it was a large marquee, providing cover from the elements to a series of tables with impressive, but garishly upholstered chairs.

She spotted him soon enough, off to one side, in a quiet corner, and to her relief he was alone. As she approached, she could see he lounged elegantly in the chair, feet crossed at the ankles, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, supporting his head. He was reading, she noted in surprise.

He glanced up at her approach. Uncomfortably, she felt every nerve-ending in her body start to burn from that simple eye contact.

'Hello,' he said.

'Hello to you, too,' Hermione managed. There was an empty chair beside him and she took it gratefully. 'You brought reading material? I'm impressed.'

'It was the only way I could think of to deter people from approaching me.' He gave her a pointed look. 'Evidently, it didn't work.'

'Funny,' she remarked, rolling her eyes.

He set about marking his place in his book, before shrinking it down to place it in his pocket. Whilst he was occupied thus, Hermione turned her head to watch him. In doing so, it occurred to her that she had mentally catalogued his features long ago, but while she had previously done so with scientific interest, when she looked upon them now, there was a swell of something entirely different.

She slumped back against the chair, closing her eyes and sighing.

'Something wrong?' He asked. 'You look flushed.'

With her eyes still shut, the soft words felt like a tickle against her face. Hermione shook her head, smiling a little resignedly. 'No,' she replied, tilting her head to look at him. 'Just too much champagne.'

'Mm,' he acknowledged, reaching for his own glass of wine.

'And by the way, please, do not pause your reading on my account.'

'I didn't,' he scoffed, a bit too quickly.

'Very well,' she acknowledged, perhaps too obtrusively observing him. Her thoughts returned to the matter of their earlier preoccupation. McGonagall's validation of her own suspicions seemed to have unlocked that which she had tried to suppress or ignore. To look at him now brought her an admittedly quite foreign physical response. The only thing she could reasonably liken it to was the heightened buzz of fear that had dogged her during the months on the run. Only this buzz was not of fear, but it made her hair stand on end just as equally.

She watched his fingertips, poised around the stem of his glass, the splay of his delicate fingers, totally and unjustifiably intriguing. The cuff of his shirt, tightly buttoned around his wrist, covering the length of his arm, but she could easily recall the planes and angles of his forearm, if she so wished. His shoulders rested against the back of the chair, his head turned to direct his attention to her—his dark, strong features peculiarly innocent-looking in his obliviousness to her train of thought.

When he set the glass down on the table and returned his forearm to rest on the arm of the chair, Hermione matched his action with her own, except she turned her palm face-up, stretching her fingers towards his.

The movement caught his eye and he looked at her cautiously. Hermione twitched her fingers expectantly. 'There's no one about,' she urged.

Jaw clenching, and somewhat indecisively, he flicked his hand over the top of hers. Swallowing a smile of triumph, Hermione curled her fingers around his, smoothing her thumb carefully along his skin.

'Fuck knows what the Ministry will make of this,' he muttered irritably.

'You know, I have a feeling we won't have to worry about the Ministry much longer.'

Hermione couldn't help the large smile that spread across her face.

His eyes scanned hers with confusion. 'Whatever do you mean?'

The time was now, she thought. She must tell him everything. His eyes on her, full of interest, gave her courage. The feel of his hand gave her inspiration.

'There is something I need to tell you, Severus.'

'What?' he prompted, looking mildly concerned.

'Not here, anyone could be listening. Shall we go to your office? It's the closest.'

'The office? Hermione—'

Hermione stood, still clutching his hand. She tugged on it to get him to stand with her. 'I'll meet you there in ten minutes, yes?'

'Very well,' he murmured.

She squeezed his hand, before dropping it and hurrying off to make her excuses to her friends. Next, she hurried to the Atrium and Disapparated to reappear in Diagon Alley. Making for the nearest news-stand, she quickly picked up the freshly printed edition of the Evening Prophet and glanced at the front page. Laughing happily, she dropped a Galleon into the hand of the seller and set off down the alley.

Snape was waiting for her on the doorstep to the offices of the Practical Potioneer, when she arrived. Leading the way inside and into his study, he turned to her expectantly. 'Well?' he demanded a little impatiently. 'What is all this?'

Hermione held up the Evening Prophet in front of his face. Eyes widening, he snatched it from her. He quickly sank into a chair and lowered his head to read.

Hermione allowed him a moment, before clasping her hands together and squealing, 'Isn't it wonderful?'

Emblazoned across the front page was news of the Ministry's ill-fated matchmaking scheme gone up in smoke. Scrapped. Abandoned. Dead in the water.

His head slowly lifted. 'So, it was wrong.' He looked mildly stunned. 'The matching of you and me was an error…'

Hermione watched him carefully, noting the progressive hardening of his expression and the tightening of his jaw. It filled her with happiness to see it. Instinctively, she wrenched the paper from his grasp and knelt before him. Her hands reached out to clasp his face and he seemed far too surprised to forestall her.

'No, not wrong,' Hermione whispered. 'Not about us.'

His eyes scrunched in confusion. 'They admitted it was flawed. We always knew—'

Hermione was shaking her head vehemently. 'It was right. I knew it was right. I always knew.'

Through her hands she could feel his whole body freeze. He stared at her, before pulling her hands away roughly and pushing himself to his feet. He moved to stand several paces away from her. 'What are you talking about, Hermione? There is no need to persist with this now; the system was flawed, as we knew from the start. You should be grateful not to have to be lumbered with your much older former teacher.'

She smiled at his choice wording. 'What if I told you that I have greatly enjoyed spending time with my much older former teacher? That I might like to be lumbered with you? Or that I, actually, never thought of you in those terms?'

'You said them,' he argued tightly.

'Because it was what you wanted to hear!' she huffed back. 'Severus, the theory the Ministry used was my magical theory. My research; my work.'

He looked suddenly aghast. 'Yours?'

Hermione nodded, speaking more nervously now. 'After the war, I was at a loose end. I had no idea what to do with my life. The Ministry was keen to get me under their employ, as they did Harry and Ron. I never wanted to be an Auror, and in truth, they didn't know what to do with me. Instead, they sent me into the Department of Mysteries and gave me carte blanche to start a research project. I couldn't believe my luck.

'I discovered there were hundreds of failed or unfinished projects to look into and I amused myself for some time, with some success. It wasn't until later that I realised the Ministry was not interested in my work and my role was simply an indulgence. Anyway, there was one particular research brief that I considered as a side-project. It was regarding what some might, ah, term soul-mates…'

Hermione paused, quite sure he had paled at her words.

'Wait,' he muttered, 'soul-mates, what on earth are you talking about?'

'To me, the theory of soul-mates seemed a fanciful one. I scoffed initially, that there could be one person with whom you might connect with on such an existential level, but… If it was true, the idea that magic could potentially identify this person, well, what a thrilling concept.'

'A dangerous concept,' he corrected quietly.

'It amused me for a time, thinking it was simply a vanity project. I worked at it, continuing the formulae work that had already been started years ago. Did you know that the Ministry retains personal details and information on all magical citizens? That when births are registered, they take a record of your magical lifeblood? I was allowed to feed that information into the calculation and that's how the match was derived.

'Obviously, I used myself as the test subject. I thought I would be the control subject, because I would already know the outcome.' Hermione shook her head, smiling painfully at the recollection of her naivete. 'I checked and re-checked, and I checked again, but no matter how I twisted the numbers, the only name to come out of it was yours.'

He blinked repeatedly. 'Mine?'

He looked furious. Hermione nodded, her throat starting to close with a feeling of dread.

'You were wrong,' he hissed after a long silence. 'You are wrong. You and I are not soul-mates, whatever the fuck that means. The idea is preposterous!

'But we are—'

'No! Absolutely not!' He nodded towards the discarded newspaper, clenching his fists. 'This little escapade is now over. The Ministry is off our backs, we got what we wanted, so—'

His voice cracked and, suddenly, Hermione could no longer look at him. It was a long time since she had last seen his composure noticeably unravel. Evidently, he did not like it either, for he suddenly fled the room. Only when the sound of the front door closing reached her did she release a cry of frustration.

He hadn't even let her explain it all.

Her knees feeling a little weak, Hermione sank down into a chair. She stared into the ether, wondering what she should do. There would be no point in following. He would be long gone, she knew, and where he would go was a mystery she would not be able to solve right now. She had always known telling him of their connection would be difficult. It was why she had waited so long. She thought recently he might be finally receptive to it, but she had obviously misjudged.

Grimacing, she realised she would have to be happy with doing nothing, for the moment. Time would hopefully resolve some of his upset. Time would hopefully allow him to see things a little more clearly. No doubt he would feel anger too, at her duplicity. She had intended to apologise for that, and to explain herself, but evidently he was in no mood to listen.

He would listen, eventually, however. She could be sure of that. She had not waited all these years, burdened with this knowledge, stifled by this information, to simply let him dictate matters. But he could have this moment, for now.

Hermione reached out and picked up the newspaper. There was still something to be thankful for, though. Ministry-manipulated match-making was dead in the water owing to their flawed compatibility calculations. She sighed, what convincing that had taken. And subterfuge. Who knew it would be that difficult to convince someone she had made a mistake? That she wasn't perfect?

It was worth it. For now, a reprieve, at least.

Until the next hare-brained scheme, of course.

AN: Thanks for reading : )