Eight

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I intend no infringement and am making no profit.

***

Ginny met me as I was just about to enter the Great Hall. She murmured a quick offer to accompany me in, but I shook my head and motioned for her to go forward without me. "I have to do this myself," I insisted softly, swallowing hard and squaring my shoulders. "It's going to be like this the rest of the year."

"Are you going to write the Prophet?" she asked. "Set everything straight?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, praying they wouldn't begin to water again. "No. It's partially true, isn't it?"

"Hermione..." She put a hand on my shoulder, and I saw that her eyes were watering too.

"No, Gin, I have to live with it. I'd look like a stupid child throwing a fit if I wrote in and complained. That's the last thing I want him to think about me. Now go."

She nodded and advanced through the doors. I took a brief step to the right so that no one would see me and inhaled sharply. I'd already passed several students in the hallway thus far, all of whom had stared at me with a strange mixture of fascination and repulsion. It was obvious that the first few people to read the article had quickly passed along the gist, and now everyone knew I harbored feelings of an alarmingly sexual nature for the most reviled teacher in the school.

Life was fantastic, wasn't it? I reflected wryly to myself. I'd been having enough difficulty imagining how I would continue to face Severus on a daily basis, and now the Prophet had graciously provided me with an additional couple hundred people with whose scorn I would have to gracefully coexist. I had no idea how Harry and Ron were going to take the news; they would likely see it as a betrayal of trust that I hadn't told them first. I cringed, envisioning them finding out in the middle of a mouthful of porridge that their best friend had been secretly harboring a crush on a man they both patently despised. I somehow doubted they would calmly let the matter drop if I peevishly pointed out that I hadn't wanted anyone to know; I'd fully intended to take the secret to my grave.

I lifted my head, told myself to keep my gaze focused ahead and ignore the others' stares, opened the door, and strode into the room. I had the strap of my book bag slung over my right shoulder, and when I saw that the gaze of every being in Hogwarts, both living and otherwise, was indeed plastered on my body, my palms grew sweaty. My breath quickened, and I concentrated on my steps...one foot before the other, calmly, rhythmically...until I finally reached my place at the Gryffindor table. The Hall was oppressively silent. The sound of my book bag hitting the table seemed to resonate throughout the entire castle.

"Morning," I said to Harry and Ron, reaching for a slice of toast and some jam. Ron's mouth was gaping open, its half-masticated contents fully on view. I cringed and snapped, "Ron, chew with your mouth closed. Harry, would you pass me the butter, please?"

Both boys did as they were told, their eyes impossibly wide. Finally, after what felt like hours, as I liberally applied strawberry jam to my toast, the usual breakfast chatter amongst the House tables resumed, though at a markedly lower volume. People were still shooting me what they apparently considered covert glances. In reality, everyone took turns swiveling in their seats and gaping at me in the most ridiculously rude manner. They would then turn back to their friends and whisper as though I hadn't clearly seen their actions, thinking they were being totally unobtrusive.

"Hermione..." Harry began. Ginny elbowed him in the ribs, and I giggled. She gave me a small, conspiratorial smile and then glowered at Harry, who had the good grace to look chastened. Ron looked alarmed at the emergence of such a foreign sound from me.

"No, come on, Ginny, she has to tell us what's going on." Ron let his fork fall back to his plate, clattering unpleasantly, and commenced with the interrogation. "Hermione, how could you say those things about him? Were they true?"

I paused mid-chew and stared at him while Ginny snorted and shook her head. "Ron," I said in a calm, measured tone, applying more jam to my toast purely out of mounting nervousness, "if you'd read the entirety of the article...which is precisely what you should have done before thinking you had any right to interrogate me, I might add...you'd know that I was put under Veritaserum. Of course they're true."

"So you're serious, then. You're in love with Snape." Harry's eyes were flashing dangerously, but his voice remained surprisingly calm. I had the distinct impression his ribs were afraid of further retaliation from Ginny's elbow if he became too vehement with me.

"No, I'm not."

"But you said..."

"I know what I said, Harry, and I did not say that I was in love with him. I most certainly am not." I bit into an apple and chewed thoughtfully, turning toward the teachers' table and staring out the large windows at the far end of the Hall. It appeared to be a beautiful day outside: bright blue and absolutely cloudless. No doubt it would be quite warm as well. Mentally I began to pencil a late afternoon walk into my schedule, directly after my last class and before supper.

As I allowed my gaze to wander back to my friends, it crossed Severus', purely inadvertently, of course. I was shocked to find that there was no malice present in his expression; he was regarding me with an almost appraising look as he sipped at a mug of what I assumed to be tea or coffee. A thrill of purely feminine satisfaction ran through my chest, and I hoped that I had succeeded in acting like a mature young woman who handled the situation gracefully rather than the petulant child who was still residing in my mind, pounding and wailing to be let out.

I wanted revenge. I wanted to exact my vengeance on Dolores Umbridge with a passion so intense I could feel it sitting there in my gut, a constant presence that was very much physical. I suppressed it and turned my attention back to Ron, who was floundering to explain what he still viewed as a cosmic impossibility.

"So... You like him, but you're not in love with him," Ron finally recited, his eyebrows furrowed like large, fuzzy red caterpillars. It was woefully clear that he'd spent the whole five minutes he'd been silent struggling to solve the apparent contradiction I'd become overnight. Harry looked equally confused, and an angry expression once again overtook his dark features. He opened his mouth to say something, but I interjected.

"Brilliant use of deductive skills, Ron." I downed the remainder of my milk, clamped down on my apple, and rose to my feet. I took it out of my mouth again just long enough to tell them that I would see them in Transfiguration and left the Hall feeling oddly satisfied with myself. I let the door bang shut, dousing the malicious whispers that resumed circling the moment I left my seat, and headed for the Transfiguration room. Now I had to hope that the other instructors would be reasonable...or at the very least, as dumbstruck as my friends.

***

Though I often thought it was an immense mistake not to approach Severus...Professor Snape...and apologize for the unsavory manner in which the rest of the world had been apprised of my affections, I felt it best to remain quiet and allow him time to cool down. In class he was as unrelentingly nasty as ever, but I simply murmured, "Yes, sir," and corrected my technique per his instructions. I never talked back, never raised my hand, and most importantly, I never sought to address him unless he addressed me first. I was, in short, a model student, and before long my classmates' petty insults became irritation on my behalf. No one understood why he saw fit to continue with his execrable treatment of me when clearly I was doing nothing to provoke his reactions.

Fall drew to a close, and the transition to winter came upon us suddenly. Between my duties as Head Girl and my focus on my studies, I rarely saw Harry and Ron outside of meals, and they were wholly absorbed in their girlfriends; with the exception of a few nasty remarks from Harry and disgusted looks from Ron, neither appeared to have the time or the desire to harass me. They had undoubtedly deemed it a passing infatuation that would disappear once I regained my senses. Not wanting to upset the delicate truce, I refrained from mentioning him in any respect other than as my Potions instructor, which seemed to keep the boys' horrified expressions at bay.

In mid-November talk amongst the Gryffindor seventh years was dominated by the progress of our independent NEWT Potions projects and the upcoming Yule Ball, which Professor McGonagall had decided to resurrect partially to raise students' morale and partially in recognition of Harry, who had yet to be formally congratulated by the Ministry. Minister Scrimgeour was by all accounts furious that Harry had scorned his aid and then made a wild success of bringing down his enemy without the Ministry's support, and none of us had any doubt that the official gratitude of the Ministry of Magic would be a long time in coming, if indeed they ever proffered it.

My NEWT-level Potions class contained very few students, and most were consulting with older siblings or relatives in completing their projects. As I had no such help and was still desperate to learn to brew the Wolfsbane, I went first to Remus, who had been reinstated as Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. His post-war status as a hero had warmed public opinion considerably, and no one had seemed to put up much protest before the Board of Governors when Professor McGonagall had announced the appointment in July.

He pronounced it a brilliant idea and one he was certain I would be capable of pursuing, but he also admitted that he was hardly the one from whom I should seek advice. He must have noticed my stricken look at this pronouncement because he then hastily added, "Don't worry, I wasn't going to suggest that you ask Professor Snape."

It hung unspoken between us: he was really the only one capable of brewing such an immensely complicated potion and procuring the finest quality of ingredients. I had filed him away as my last resort, but I continued to tell myself firmly that if it became necessary, I would make a formal request for his help via Professor McGonagall so that my motives could not possibly be construed as anything other than legitimate.

"What about Madam Pomfrey?" Remus suggested over tea that afternoon in his office. "I don't know that she's ever brewed it, but I know she occasionally helps Professor Snape get ingredients. And she had to be pretty proficient at Potions in order to pass her exams, so..."

I brightened immediately and dashed off to visit Madam Pomfrey, who seemed thrilled at the prospect.

"Mind you, I've never done it myself," she told me after I had turned down her enormous plate of cookies for the seventh time in the past ten minutes. "It will be a learning experience for both of us, certainly. And the ingredients will be difficult to find...you'll have to ask Professor Snape to order some of them for you since they're controlled substances. I don't know if he'll have enough in stock for both of you to be brewing at the same time."

We began our brewing sessions Tuesday and Thursday evenings. After supper we would meet in one of the unused laboratory rooms in the dungeons, which Madam Pomfrey explained were typically used to increase brewing area if large numbers of students suddenly became ill and emergency brewing became necessary.

I found the potion itself to be amazingly stimulating but also frustrating in a way I'd never before encountered. Regardless how many times I read through the directions, they would never become truly cohesive in my mind. I would recite the steps to myself and struggle to fill in the gaps. It seemed virtually impossible to remember all the brief instructions to be performed in the milliseconds between larger stages, which, if neglected, would render the potion useless. At several critical points I would put myself at enormous risk if I didn't add the proper ingredients in the indicated manner.

Nevertheless, I persevered. I spent every available moment with my head shoved in the pages of countless textbooks, all brimming with information pertaining to lycanthropy as a condition, medicinal ingredients, and other related topics. The library became my primary base of operations. While conducting my evening rounds, I would recite ingredient lists to myself, mentally cataloging them and cross-referencing them with the particular point in the brewing process at which they had to be performed. When Harry and Ron found me curled up in the Gryffindor common room with Nearly Headless Nick, who was quizzing me with a set of flashcards on which I'd written the name of each ingredient and the proper dose and stage, they concluded that I'd let slip the last vestiges of my sanity.

Madam Pomfrey and I began by practicing the brewing of the base. After two weeks of relentless research, study, and memorization, we successfully brewed the base of the potion, an incredible exercise in endurance. We began Saturday morning at ten and did not finish the final processes until nearly one o'clock Sunday morning. We had completely lost track of time and were spiritedly discussing one of the more difficult steps when powerful footfalls in the hallway caused us to jump.

I didn't even need to wonder who it might have been. As I was bent over the cauldron, studying the subtleties of the base's hue with complete concentration, I heard Madam Pomfrey greet him as he walked into the room. I glanced over and found him in my peripheral vision, standing near the workbench with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I think you've done it properly, dear," she cried happily, patting me on the shoulder. "You were right, obviously...stirring a bit more gently was the better choice. Look at that color! Absolutely perfect." She hauled a gigantic textbook off the workbench and thrust it at Professor Snape's face. He did not flinch...he simply stood there, impassive...but I noticed his dark eyes flicker to the picture she was attempting to show him.

"I do not need a picture to determine whether the brewing has been done properly, Poppy," he murmured, his voice almost too low for me to hear. Then he began to advance on me. Alarmed, I drew back sharply, and when our eyes met, I noticed something akin to regret flickering in his for just a moment.

He leaned over slowly and examined it with an exacting eye for what felt like ages. Finally he announced in a firm tone, "Your shredding should have been more precise. The color is very slightly off. However..." He stirred it slightly, watching the viscosity of the liquid as it flowed. "Everything else appears to have been done correctly. It will be effective."

I couldn't contain a gleeful exclamation, and Madam Pomfrey laughed delightedly and hugged me. "We'll have to start on the next step tomorrow evening," she reminded me, handing me my book bag. "And now I think you'd better get back to your rooms...I've kept you up far too late, even for the Head Girl!"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for all your help." I began to shove my notes and quill back into my bag, my fingers shaking as I frantically wondered what I should say to him. I wanted to thank him for his appraisal, but I had no idea how to walk the precipitous line between being too impersonal and too effusive. Finally I settled for meeting his eyes and saying, "Thank you, sir."

I thought he gave a short, brusque nod, but I couldn't be certain. I fled the room before his eyes could draw me in too deeply.

***

November led into December with astonishing speed. I hadn't seen much of Harry and Ron, or anyone from my year, admittedly; I spent all my spare time in Madam Pomfrey's office or the lab, discussing the latest stage in the brewing process. When curfew fell and my rounds were completed for the evening, I would generally retire to my rooms for the night; the girls in Gryffindor were constantly chattering about nothing but the Yule Ball, even Ginny, and I had no particular desire to spend any amount of time in the common room.

Just over a week before the ball and the beginning of our holidays, I was working on the third trial of one of the more difficult stages. I had gone immediately to the lab after dinner and begun to work at shredding and dicing the ingredients with absolute precision. I had already told Madam Pomfrey I would speak with Professor Snape that weekend about ordering several items we would require over the holidays, as I had decided to remain at Hogwarts in order to continue working with her. However, before long I had lost track of time, utterly absorbed in the rhythm of chopping and stirring.

Nearly an hour before, my casual humming had progressed to outright singing. There was never anyone in the dungeons on a Friday evening. Even Professor Snape, who doled out a notoriously large number of weekend detentions, generally lingered over supper or had a meeting with the other teachers, so the possibility of being overheard wasn't exactly foremost on my mind.

I was in the middle of a particularly heartfelt rendition of the chorus, all the while stirring the cauldron and keeping a watchful eye on the level of the flames, when I felt the distinctly disconcerting sensation that someone was standing directly behind me. I knew it had to be him, and though my voice wavered for just a moment, I didn't want to show fear or back down. I continued singing and stirring as I had been, adding the next ingredient at precisely the right moment. He did not move. I couldn't hear him breathing over the hammering of my heart.

We stood that way for what felt like ages. I finished the song, adjusted the flame, and then stepped carefully away from the cauldron. I walked over to the workbench with my back remaining toward him and resumed chopping ingredients.

"The flame must be less intense."

My small knife slipped, and I nearly chopped off my left thumb. I had never heard him speak without at least the barest suggestion of mockery or contempt, but neither were present in his voice. His tone was simple and quiet, and the timbre of his voice when it was not impeded by unpleasantness sent an involuntary shiver coursing down my spine.

Reluctantly I turned toward him and walked over to the cauldron. I wanted to replay the sound in my mind until I was driven mad with wanting. Instead I forced myself to forget it and bent down, altering the height of the flame almost imperceptibly.

"There?"

"Yes."

I returned to the workbench, trying to maintain an outer facade of calm despite the fact that my hands were beginning to tremble very lightly. Grasping the small knife and resuming the rhythm of my work helped to calm me somewhat. I heard the slight rustle of his cloak as he leaned over to examine the potion. When I turned to steal a quick peek, I found him crouched over on one bended knee, examining the cauldron more closely than I'd ever seen him stare at anything. I lingered in my observation; his hair had fallen forward to obscure his eyes, and I had no doubt that he could not see me as I regarded him.

Just as swiftly as I'd heard him kneel, he rose back to his feet. His voice, when again he spoke, was still remarkably neutral. "You will soon be requiring several items Madam Pomfrey cannot furnish you."

I nodded and didn't turn from my position. "Yes. I made a note to find you and ask you about them this evening, but I sort of got lost in all this." I motioned to the stack of plants to which I had yet to attend, feeling myself blushing.

"Got lost?" he drawled. Something about the way he caressed the words as he spoke them made me flush.

"It's very... meditative. I tend to lose track of time. Maybe that's just me." Terrified that I might begin rambling, I focused instead on adding the final ingredient for the night and preserving the others.

He made a noise that almost sounded like an expression of assent. "I agree."

My hand slipped again, and I nearly dropped the container I'd been holding. He agreed with me?

The Professor Snape to whom I'd become accustomed after so many years did indeed appear to be absent that evening. It was Severus who'd examined my potion; Severus who had nodded and understood the amazing feeling I couldn't communicate, that complete dissociation from reality that was the natural extension of the slow, precise chopping and cutting. I found myself wondering if it was the reason he'd opted to pursue the field professionally. He had been a solitary creature his entire life, a progression I had been fortunate enough to witness, and the silence and the respite of potions preparation were unparalleled.

I had nearly finished cleaning, and he simply stood there, following my movements with his gaze. As I bent over to place a mild stasis charm on the cauldron, I could feel the heat radiating from his body and caught the slightest suggestion of the scent that always heralded his presence. It had to be aftershave, I realized...I had discovered that he shaved the Muggle way, after all.

As I drew up, we were face to face. Time stood still, and I couldn't drag my eyes away from the contours of his face, the dark shadows cast by his hair that covered his eyes and caressed his cheekbones. His lips looked impossibly soft and so very close...

"I will order your ingredients." I almost cried out in protest when he broke the spell and turned on his heel, stalking out of the room. His tone had regained its usual haughty air. Groaning when I was sure he was out of audible range, I muttered several curses and finished with my cleaning. I'd been too obvious in my admiration, and it had driven him away.

Way to go, Granger.

I could have had a rewarding conversation with him, but rather than take advantage of his presence for legitimate gain, I'd been unable to do more than stare at him like the lovelorn fool I was. It was going to make an even greater impression on him when he saw me at the Yule Ball, moping miserably in the corner because I couldn't dance with the only man who truly interested me.

Or could I?