Confessions

Saturday morning found Harry and Ron lying on their backs in the grassy middle of the Quidditch pitch. They'd just finished a rousing game of "catch the snitch," and it felt good just to lie back for a moment in the autumn sunshine. It seemed the two young men were resting in companionable silence, yet one was simply working up the nerve to begin a discussion he'd been avoiding all week.

"Harry, why is it that you never tell me how Hermione is doing?" Ron asked. "I know you've seen her every day, but you never tell me about it."

Harry gave a resigned sigh. "Listen Ron, I know you care about Hermione as much as I do...and I should've probably told you about...things. Honestly, I've had my hands full with Sirius and I was only trying to avoid any more shouting in my life."

"Harry, I'm not a temperamental thirteen year-old anymore. I can't make any promises, but I will at least try not to shout at you. Did Snape...did he treat her badly, then?" Ron asked softly.

"No! Not at all. I'm afraid that's why I thought you'd start shouting. I...er...think he rather...likes...Hermione."

Ron didn't exactly shout; his voice raised a notch and became a bit high and squeaky. "Likes? What do you mean likes? Are you telling me the git fancies Hermione?"

"Look, I don't know! It's not like he's going to tell me, is it--the boy he wishes he could get expelled? It's just obvious he likes her, that's all."

"How do you know? Has he been making passes at her? Did he try to snog her? Because if he's acting like that we ought to tell..."

"It's not like that, Ron," Harry said in exasperation. "He's her Professor and an Order member; it's not like he's going to make a pass at her. He's just been...well...he's been nice to her."

"You must be joking!" Sitting up, Ron gave Harry a frankly incredulous look. "That man isn't nice to anyone! What's he been doing?"

"Don't worry, it's not too bad. He still acts the git a bit, or so Hermione says. But he...well, he lets her read all his books; he lets her use his things and his desk. Hermione said he threw an absolute eppy when he found out Dumbledore decided to use his study without asking him, but he yelled at Dumbledore--not Hermione--and then he told Hermione she could make herself at home."

"Do you suppose he's turned into one of those pod people? Like that Muggle movie you told me about?" Though it seemed a silly question, the expression on Ron's face suggested he might be considering this as a serious possibility.

"I think it's far worse than that. I think he really likes her. And I'm beginning to suspect we don't really know him all that well. There's another thing...er...how is the not shouting going?"

"I'll manage," Ron growled.

"Hermione said he lets her hug him when she's upset," Harry said in a rush.

"He WHAT?" All right--a little shout. Not too bad really. Harry can't be too upset with that...it was a bit of a shock. Calm...stay calm. "Uh...does he hug her back?" Ron asked, getting a trifle nauseous at the thought.

"No. And what's more, I'm a bit concerned about the fact that Hermione sounded a touch disappointed when she told me he didn't. She says he just pats her shoulder a bit and acts as if he's never been hugged before."

"That's not hard to imagine," hissed Ron, abruptly lying back and closing his eyes.

"All right, Ron?" asked Harry. Ron was not reacting as expected and Harry was a bit worried.

"Shut up, Harry. Let me think!" was the only response. Ron lay in silence for some time. Restless, Harry sat up and stared at his red-headed friend. With a sigh, Ron at last opened his eyes and sat up, regarding Harry seriously.

"Look Harry," he began quite calmly, "the thought of Hermione with Snape rather makes me sick. He's old...he's ugly...and I still think he's a right bastard--no matter how nice he's been to her lately. But even with all that, it might be for the best, as far as Hermione's concerned."

"How can you say that!" This time it was Harry's turn to shout.

"Just hear me out. I've been worried about Hermione. It's hard times, Harry, and there's no telling how bad it's going to get. It's dangerous times for Hermione especially. Not only is she a Muggle-born, she received top grades in the whole school on her O.W.L.S. She'll probably do just as well on her N.E.W.T.S. Can you imagine what the Death Eaters think about that? She's a poster child for why their whole cause is complete and utter tripe! Add that to the fact that she's best friends with 'The Boy Who Lived' and she might well be a walking target. She's pretty safe here at Hogwarts, but even here she isn't completely safe."

"What has that got to do with Snape?"

"As much as I can't stand the greasy git, he's a bloody powerful wizard and sly as hell. If he really does care for her--and from what you've told me, it seems he may--then we couldn't ask for a better watchdog. Anyone who wants to get to Hermione will have to get through him, and he's damn formidable." Ron still didn't look like he liked the idea, but he seemed resigned to it.

"I hadn't thought of it like that, Ron," Harry said quietly. "I don't like the notion any more than you, but if it helps Hermione..."

"If it helps Hermione, then we'd better get used to the idea," finished Ron with a grimace.

***************************************

By lunchtime, Ron and Harry heard the Firewalker had arrived. So it was no surprise to see Professor Snape taking lunch in the Great Hall. Ron and Harry exchanged a look, but they couldn't discuss the matter of Hermione's 'illness' in front of the other students. While Harry kept his speculations to himself, he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering up to the black-robed Professor at the Head Table. Ron's right, Harry thought, the man wasn't pretty, and he certainly has distinct bastard tendencies. Yet even now, when Snape wasn't doing anything more dashing than stabbing half-heartedly at his salad, Harry still found him a touch oddly attractive. It was rather distressing.

"Harry," hissed Ron, "I think you'd best stop making eyes at Snape. Your boyfriend is looking daggers at you."

"I was NOT making eyes at Snape!" Harry hissed back. He snuck a look at the Slytherin table. Damn! Draco was indeed trying to catch his eye--and he didn't look at all pleased. As Harry finally looked at him, Draco stared a moment, then slicked his hair back with his right hand. Not a very sneaky signal, but then, they were only supposed to pretend to be sneaky. "Looks like I've got a fight scheduled in the Quidditch shed," Harry sighed.

"Give 'im hell, Harry," Ron mumbled around a mouthful of chicken.

When Harry entered the Quidditch shed and closed the door, he quickly found himself pressed against the door--and not in a good way. Wand already drawn, Draco hit the door with both a locking and silencing charm before he turned angry eyes on Harry.

"Just what the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Potter?" he snarled.

Harry pushed Draco away and stepped farther into the shed. "Look Malfoy," Harry said angrily, "there's really no reason for you to be upset, I haven't done anything! You've no call to get jealous."

Draco's eyes widened in surprise. Making a valiant effort to stay serious--which failed miserably--the blond-haired young wizard dissolved into a rather girly fit of giggles. "Jealous? You thought I was jealous of Uncle Severus? That's the most hysterical thing I've ever heard! Here I thought you were trying to get Snape into trouble again, and instead, I find out you've finally discovered my uncle is a bit dishy!"

Instead of defusing the situation, Draco's raucous laughter only proved to make Harry both confused and angrier. "What the hell are you on about? I never said I thought Snape was...anything!" he finished a bit lamely.

"You didn't have to say anything, you daft hinny!" Draco said with affection. "But true or no, you are going to have to keep your eyes off him if you can't manage a decent sneer." Crossing to where Harry stood glowering, Draco wrapped his arms firmly about Harry's waist and brought his forehead to rest against the Gryffindor's.

"So, Draco," Harry began, pouting prettily, "exactly why is it that you aren't jealous to find me ogling another man?"

"I'm hardly going to go ballistic over a little ogle. Now if any of those imbeciles dares touch you I'll happily hex their balls off. Not that I have to worry about that with Snape; he's the straightest wizard I know. But honestly Harry, you can't let Crabbe and Goyle catch you looking at him like that. You're supposed to hate him, and he can't afford any more trouble right now."

"Is it bad then, with Voldemort?" Harry asked seriously.

"It's always bad with that bastard. He hasn't really trusted Snape since he came back this time. He's always finding some reason to punish Uncle Severus at the meetings."

"Is Snape brave?"

Draco laughed. "He's the bravest man I know, but if you're asking if he acts all strong and brave when Voldemort uses Cruciatus on him, the answer is no. He's far too smart for that. If he acted all manly about it, he'd be punished more and the Dark Lord would trust him even less. Voldemort doesn't want people around who threaten his power; he wants a bunch of spineless yes-men. Snape can withstand Cruciatus for twenty minutes without making a sound--I've seen him test it--but Voldemort would never suspect he has that kind of strength."

"You must be joking? Twenty minutes? Most wizards don't last five! What does he do then, when he's punished?"

"Uncle Severus could've been a Muggle actor...he's fucking brilliant. He pretends to try to withstand it for about thirty seconds, then throws himself to the ground writhing and screaming. I don't think he's had to do more than a few minutes, no matter how angry Voldemort is. Then Voldemort gets off on telling Snape how weak and stupid he is and Snape doesn't have to spend a week recuperating from it when he's got work to do."

"It's getting more dangerous for both of you, isn't it? I know our supposedly fake relationship has convinced them to hold off giving you the dark mark--so I won't get 'suspicious'--but maybe it's too dangerous, Draco. I wish you'd just stay here and be safe. The Order has Snape spying for them, why do they need you as well?"

"Harry, Snape's been spying for seventeen years. He's damn good and he's damn clever, but every day his life hangs by a fucking thread. If he's found out--which is a growing possibility--I'll be the only spy the Order has left." Tugging Harry's head down to rest on his shoulder, Draco continued, "Besides, so long as I'm feeding them information--or misinformation, as the case may be--on the insufferable Harry Potter, I'll be safe enough."

"Do you have the portkey I made you?" Harry asked softly.

"Always."

"You promise me, Draco...you promise me you'll use it if you have to."

"You bet your sweet arse I will," replied Draco, giving the body part in question a squeeze. "I'm not stupid, Harry. I want to do my bit--it's important to me--but when that final battle happens, I don't want to be dead from some Death Eater meeting gone wrong. I want to fight by your side, love, where I belong."

****************************************

Using his unexpectedly free Saturday to catch up on some potion work for Madame Pomfrey, Severus kept himself too busy to spend much time musing on the events of the past week. When he found himself thinking about the young Gryffindor, he chopped, sliced, or ground a bit more intensely, until his mind was once again focused on the task at hand. Twice during the day his knife slipped, piercing a long pale finger rather than the intended ingredient. The second time, Severus stared at the wounded digit as blood ran down his hand, puddling on the table top. His expression was both puzzled and distracted. Severus couldn't remember a time his knife had slipped, now he'd done it twice in a single afternoon. The most recent slip had sliced through the pad of his index finger, clear down to the bone. Eventually Severus raised his wand and closed the wound with an offhand motion. Surprised by the amount of blood on the table, he dealt with it in the same distracted manner. Taking a silver pocket watch from his trouser pocket, he noted the lateness of the hour. Perhaps it was time he called it a day; he was obviously tired--it was the only explanation for his unprecedented clumsiness.

Once in his dungeon chambers, Severus ignored the door leading to his study. Miss Granger is no longer any of my concern, and that is for the best, he told himself. As...tolerable...as Miss Granger's company is, there is absolutely no sense in continuing an...acquaintance...that can have no possible future. Damn and blast! This is ridiculous! How in the hell can it be possible for me to miss her company on one bloody day's separation! Why should I? The girl is an obnoxious, opinionated, noisy, distracting, bossy, foolish, Gryffindor know-it-all. Damn. Unfortunately, a completely different set of adjectives came to mind, describing her equally well: brilliant, kind, humorous, lovely...FUCK! This isn't helping.

In an attempt to calm his thoughts, Severus took what solace he could from preparing a pot of tea. He neither conjured a cup nor floo'd the kitchens; fine tea must be brewed as precisely as the most delicate potion, if one wants to experience the tea's flavor at its best. He pre-warmed the china pot before adding the hot water and loose tea leaves from a tin of his favorite Darjeeling. While most of England favored the China black teas, Severus preferred the more delicate, and yet more complex, flavor of the India teas. Oh, he liked the china greens as well, especially Gunpowder, and he liked the semi-fermented Formosa Oolong, but when disheartened, he always reached for the calming familiarity of the Darjeeling. To the solitary man, the routine motions of the brewing--as well as the comforting scent and taste--were more like a form of meditation than the simple preparation of a beverage.

Tonight his tea brewing ritual did not bring him any peace. Severus sat on his bed, leaning against the headboard in his plain black dressing gown, and allowed himself to think about the matter he'd done his best to avoid all day. Why is it that suddenly this situation has become a problem? I've had feelings for the chit since about half-way through her sixth year, but I've never had any trouble keeping it buried in the back of my mind. Is it because she's of age? I really don't think that's it; the reasons I cannot allow myself to pursue Hermione have nothing to do with her age and those reasons still apply whether she's seventeen or not. It must be harder to ignore simply because I've been forced more into her company...and maybe the cuddling...and the hugs. Those damn hugs! I don't think I've ever been hugged before in my life. Oh, certainly I know the feel of a woman's arms around me--though there's been precious little of that since Voldemort returned--but a simple hug? An embrace that is meant solely to give or receive comfort rather than some type of foreplay? Not even Minerva hugs me, though she does give me a peck on the cheek or the forehead from time to time. I'm not really all that huggable, I suppose, yet Hermione doesn't seem to realize that. She's hugged me four times, and I think one of those she meant for my comfort instead of her own. And just look what it's done to me! One day, without her voice...without her smile. One blasted day without one of her stupid fucking hugs and I feel like busting down the door to my study and demanding...demanding what, exactly? Demanding she waste her time on a bitter old man who is as good as dead? Demand she give me her heart so I can leave her bereft and alone when I do not survive this thrice cursed war? No. I can do that no more than I can be selfish enough to endanger her life by allowing anything to happen between us. I've lived thirty-eight years without hugs. I believe I can manage this last one as well.

Finishing his tea, Severus removed his dressing gown and slid beneath the cool sheets. Hours passed before he at last slipped into a fitful sleep haunted by disquieting dreams.