Ruin It

I can still barely believe I’m finally posting the work I’ve done so far on this story. Thanks to my beta s and h forever as well as my Potter-obsessed friends who have always believed in this fic, even when I didn’t believe in it myself. I hope you all are enjoying it. I know these first chapters are short, but I promise they get longer! If you have the time, consider reviewing. Many thanks to those of you who have reviewed. Your comments have been greatly encouraging.

As always, I own none of this, but am ever thankful to J.K.R for devising such a wonderful world for me to twist around.

“So this is what I’m looking like these days? I’m all grown up, so full of hate. But I don’t want to let go of my age, ‘cause it’s the salt that brings the taste. So where am I to decide that I’m not right?” (Ruin It, by Alkaline Trio)

Severus Snape lingered in his classroom a moment before heading into his study for a drink. He had scarcely taught one class before wishing that the school year was already at its close. He eased into his chair, Firewhisky in hand, hoping to tear his thoughts away from one Miss Hermione Granger.

I shall conquer this... I shall.

Reflecting on the past five years, he couldn’t remember when his feelings towards Miss Granger — Hermione, as he suddenly and irrationally felt compelled to address her — had changed. At some point, the little overachiever he loved to hate turned into an intelligent young woman. Despite finding the notion absolutely preposterous, Snape admired everything about Hermione: her brilliant mind, her strong will, her natural beauty, and more. She was perfect to him.

Severus had only experienced this strength of emotion once before, and he knew the road down which it led. It was not a place he wished to visit again.

Making matters worse, his desperately unwanted sentiments concerned Hermione Granger. When he first noticed the way he was increasingly drawn to her, he attributed it either to indigestion or the onset of some sort of flu, but, grudgingly, he came to acknowledge that he was in perfect health. His mind was sound, at least, as sound as it could be, given his current circumstances. She was best friend of the boy-who-just-had-to-keep-on-living and his dimwitted sidekick. He hated Harry and Ron more now than he ever thought possible.

They don’t deserve her regard, he thought, they can’t even begin to comprehend how clever she is. I doubt they’d even be alive if not for her. Escaping the Devil’s Snare? Hermione. Potter uncharacteristically knowing where to find the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets? Hermione. Using the Time-Turner to save that prat, Sirius Black? Hermione. Snape’s mental notes of the debts Potter and Weasley owed her were stacking.

Severus would never admit to himself that he was in love, if that were indeed the sentiment he was experiencing; it wasn’t in his nature. He had found that, in his life, love did him little good. The only thing he knew was that he wanted to make Hermione his own, and that he hated himself for it.

For the past year, Snape had been attacked by his own feelings of devotion, pain, and guilt. His mind was racing at every moment of the day, his despair deepening by the hour. She could have someone so much better than him, Severus Snape, a broken man haunted by his violent past. A life with him would not be easy; he wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone. Hermione deserved all the joy in the world, and he was determined to sacrifice his happiness if it meant ensuring hers. He willed himself to stop feeling, but relief would not come.

Perhaps there could be some way... no, never, there is no hope, Snape argued with himself, an almost constant occurrence that plagued his days and robbed his nights of sleep. She would no more think of me than she would of Professor Flitwick... she’s too busy fawning over that twit, Weasley... at least I’m taller than both of them. Snape cringed at his own inarticulate thoughts, disgusted by his loss of control and the immeasurable power Hermione had over him. He would put an end to it once and for all, continuing with his plan.

During the time he spent safely hidden away from students throughout the past summer months, Severus had come to the realization that if he could not control his own feelings towards Miss Granger, he must control hers, giving her every reason to loathe him above all others. He had set his plan into motion that very morning in class, and, from the hostile manner of her exit, he assumed that it was working.

The warmth that flooded his soul when he saw Hermione walk into his classroom had been quickly overshadowed by the gravity of his situation. It tortured him to see her so angry, knowing, that in that single moment, all the hatred in her body was directed solely at him; however, he knew it was necessary.

After she had stormed out he wanted nothing more but to run to her and apologize for everything he had said. She deserved to know why he had hurt her, how he felt. But she could never be told the truth; too much pain would be caused for them both. For now he would have to suffer alone with his thoughts; he would do so gladly. Since when was he one to back down from pain and anguish? They had been constant companions through all of his life.

It did not serve Severus Snape well to hope; he failed to see the usefulness of such a virtue. During this war, many witches and wizards were clinging to hope; not Snape. He preferred to harbor his grudge against the world. It was impossible for people to disappoint him if he failed to expect anything from them in the first place. However, he did expect great things from Hermione.

If only I weren’t a bloody teacher... or twenty years older than her... or one of her best friend’s worst enemies... or — damn it, that witch is going to be the death of me... if Voldemort doesn’t kill me first. Snape’s argument of self-depreciation raged on in his mind.

He felt as though he were dying. His loathing of weakness was a close second only to his intolerance of stupidity, and he perceived his reactions towards Hermione as both stupid and weak; he could hardly bear it. He would almost prefer Voldemort to kill him than to admit his own vulnerability.

Grimacing, he took another drink from his quickly emptying bottle of Firewhisky, appreciating the way it loosened the vise-like grip his anxiety held on his sanity, before preparing for his next class of dunderheads.

It was going to be a long year.