Seven for a Secret

Chapter 7: Seven for a Secret

The days passed quickly for Hermione. Snape had made no further mention of his whispered promise, and Hermione might have thought she'd imagined it, if not for the fact that she could recall the incident with such perfect clarity. There seemed to be a sort of uneasy truce between them now, though. There were still arguments, but they'd managed to find a way to live together for several weeks without killing each other, and Hermione thought that was surely progress.

Hermione had always spent her evenings with a book in front of the fire, and Snape soon began to join her in this. It appeared as if he was determined to work his way through fourteen years' worth of periodicals as quickly as was humanly possible. But it actually made for pleasant evenings filled with companionable silence and even a few brief discussions on something he'd read. Hermione sat in her large chair while Snape occupied the sofa, his papers and books spread out before him on the coffee table.

As the nights grew longer, Hermione noted with some irritation that her attention to the book she was reading would begin to wane, and inevitably, her gaze would be drawn to Snape. She'd watch his eyes devouring the words before him, and she'd study his hands as they made rapid notes on the pieces of parchment. After a bit of time had passed in this manner, Hermione would grow angry with herself for being so easily distracted and depart with a hasty goodnight to him. Then she'd lie in bed with sleep eluding her and feel inexplicably annoyed with Snape. He wasn't doing anything wrong, but she'd begun to feel edgy and unsettled around him, and she couldn't put her finger on what was causing it.

On Sunday evening, Hermione was sitting in front of the fireplace with a large pile of essays to mark in her lap. She'd assigned the topic of crocodile heart without fully appreciating how extremely boring it would be to read twenty-odd parchments about the ingredient. She had scanned over the same paragraph four times without really reading it when she found her eyes drifting over to watch Snape.

He had removed his robes and overcoat, and he was lounging on the sofa wearing a crisp white shirt and reading a small book, his long legs crossed casually before him. Hermione stared in silence as he reached forward and picked up a small crystal glass that contained some amber liquid which looked like whisky. She allowed herself to admire the way the material of the shirt stretched against his broad chest as he raised the glass to his lips and drank. Her eyes lifted to his throat as he swallowed, and she could see the shiny scars on his neck from where Nagini had nearly killed him so many years earlier.

"Problem?" he asked without looking up.

Hermione jumped guiltily and looked at his face. "No..." she stammered.

Snape set his glass back on the table and turned his gaze upon her. "I am not a specimen to be examined each evening."

"No... of course not," she agreed, horrified that he'd been aware of her silent appraisal each night. "I was... I was just..." she stuttered, not knowing how to explain.

Snape drew in a great breath and exhaled deeply through his nose as he set his book aside. He folded his arms across his chest and said, "I suppose I should feel fortunate that you've managed to wait this long before assaulting me with your inane questions."

Hermione just shook her head.

"Go on then," he told her with a droll look. "Let's hear them."

Hermione did actually have quite a lot she wanted to ask him, although that hadn't necessarily been the reason she'd been watching him so intently. Nevertheless, she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity, however begrudgingly it had been granted.

"Does it hurt?" she asked with a glance at his neck.

"Not anymore."

"Did it hurt? All that time... when you were in the Shrieking Shack?"

"Only until the antivenin began to work."

"Antivenin?" Hermione hadn't heard anyone mention this.

"Yes. I began taking regular doses of the antivenin I developed after Arthur Weasley was attacked at the Ministry. A preventative measure that proved invaluable ... eventually," he explained.

Hermione wondered briefly at how awful it had to have been...a lifetime of spying on Voldemort while constantly trying to remain one step ahead. It made her shudder to even imagine it.

"What was it like at St Mungo's... those fourteen years?"

"Tedious."

Hermione waited, but he obviously wasn't going to elaborate. It was not the exchange she'd been hoping for, and she struggled to form a question for him that couldn't be answered monosyllabically. A soft knock on their door interrupted her thoughts, and Hermione left her chair with a frown, Vanishing the door as she strode towards it.

"Oh. Hi, Neville," she said when she saw who had knocked.

"Speaking of tedious," Snape mumbled behind her.

Hermione ignored him and hoped Neville hadn't heard the remark. "Come in," she said to her friend.

Neville took one step into the room but stopped abruptly when his eyes fell on Snape. "Oh, good evening, Professor Snape," Neville told him.

"Is it?" asked Snape unkindly.

Hermione noticed the uncomfortable look on Neville's face and tried to set him at ease. "Would you care for some tea?" she asked him. She followed Neville's gaze and noted the glower on Snape's face. "Or perhaps something stronger? Have a glass of wine with me, Neville," she added impulsively.

"No, thanks... I can't stay," Neville told her, and a flush began to appear on his pale face. "I just came to... to give you these," he mumbled quietly, holding out four perfect flowers.

Hermione took them with a delighted smile and exclaimed, "Ooh... Your night poppies opened! They're beautiful, Neville!!"

She buried her nose in the blooms and breathed in their heavy perfume. Hermione adored night poppies; they were exceedingly rare, blooming only in November and then only at night. Each flower was the size of a dinner plate, sporting five hand-sized petals that slowly changed colours from white to lilac to dark purple before repeating the pattern.

"I've never grown the purple ones before," Neville informed her. "They turned out nice."

"They're more than just nice, Neville. They're absolutely gorgeous," she gushed. "Thank you so much!"

Neville cast an uncertain glance towards Snape, who had been watching the entire exchange from the sitting room with his arms crossed stoically. Flushing again, Neville mumbled, "You're welcome," and then walked to the door.

Hermione followed him and asked, "Are you sure you can't stay for a drink?" Bringing her the night poppies had been incredibly sweet, and she resented the fact that Snape appeared to make Neville so uncomfortable.

Neville turned back and said quietly, "No, thanks... I really just wanted to bring you those while they were open. I thought you'd like the colour," he finished, looking down.

Hermione placed her hand on his arm and said genuinely, "I love them, Neville. Thank you." She watched Neville's retreating back as he slumped through the Potions office. Hermione reinstated the door behind him and turned around to see Snape watching her with an amused smile. Not caring to learn what he found so funny, she strode into the kitchen and rummaged around for a jug in which to put the night poppies.

Snape followed her into the kitchen, and Hermione set her jaw, annoyed by the fact that he obviously wasn't going to ignore this opportunity to mock her.

"Ah, l'amour," he intoned, confirming her assessment.

"Not that it's any of your business," she began haughtily, "but Neville and I are merely friends."

"Perhaps one of you is," he supplied.

"Don't be ridiculous," she told him, rolling her eyes. The timbre of her voice had risen with her indignation, and the words sounded shrill, even to her own ears.

Snape shook his head at her and said with a knowing smile, "Tsk, tsk... And they said you were the brightest witch of your age."

"Neville and I have known each other for more than twenty years," she reminded him, finally finding a jug and turning to the basin to fill it with water. "We're friends, and that's all."

With her back turned, Hermione considered Snape's insinuation for a moment and dismissed it quickly. It was true that Neville had often done nice things for her, like bringing her flowers or picking up books for her in London. But they shared friendship and a common history; she was certain that was the extent of their relationship. And surely Neville felt the same way. She had a sudden image of his face surfacing in her mind and realised that he had been spending an awful lot of time blushing around her lately. Hermione shook her head determinedly and snapped off the water tap. Snape had to be imagining things.

Feeling resentful for making her question Neville's motivations, Hermione turned her anger on Snape.

"And you could try to be a little nicer to him!" she said imperiously. "He did come to visit you every week."

"Well, pardon me if I appear a little less than grateful for having no choice but to listen to Longbottom droning on for fourteen long years," he said bitingly.

Hermione set the jug of flowers on the kitchen table with a dull thud and came to stand before him, her eyes flashing. "I happen to think it was nice. Especially considering how much you always tormented him."

Snape searched her face carefully before asking, "Is that why you never came?"

Hermione flushed and looked away. "I... I came a few times," she stuttered.

"I never heard you," he told her.

"I never spoke," she said quietly.

"How very unlike you," he said sarcastically. "What on earth could cause you to miss such an opportunity?"

Hermione swallowed hard but couldn't raise her eyes. "I didn't..." she began and nervously bit her lip, afraid to tell him the truth. "I didn't know how to apologise."

Snape was completely still but said, "And what, pray tell, did you need to apologise for?"

Hermione felt her stomach tighten as the old guilt came sweeping back. "For leaving you in the Shrieking Shack, for telling everyone you were dead," she began quietly, "and for not being the one to notice that your portrait was missing from the headmaster's office."

And for looking at the memories you gave to Harry, she thought, but didn't dare say.

When he said nothing for a very long time, Hermione raised her eyes to his face and tried to read his expression. It was impossible: his eyes were guarded, and the only part of his face that moved was a muscle in his temple. "I am sorry... Very sorry. 'Brightest witch of her age,' indeed," she finished miserably, speaking the words very quietly before looking back down.

Finally, he spoke, and Hermione was surprised that he sounded almost bored again. "As much as it pains me to do this, I fear I must exonerate you."

She looked up at him in surprise, and he continued, "Although I might enjoy having this to berate you with, it would be exceedingly unfair. Everyone thought I was dead; surely someone would have figured it out before I was buried."

Hermione looked down again and said, "But perhaps if I'd been faster..."

"It would not have mattered. The effects of the venom were instantaneous: eight minutes or eight hours made no difference." When Hermione still wouldn't look up, he reached out his hand and placed the side of his index finger beneath her chin, lifting her face and forcing her gaze to meet his bottomless black eyes.

"I happen to know something about regret, Hermione," he told her quietly. "Do not waste your remorse on me."

Then his eyes travelled down to where his fingers still cradled her chin. His thumb had been sticking up at an angle to the rest of his hand, and she was amazed when he touched it to her cheek and gently brushed it along the skin there. He was staring intently at the spot, seemingly mesmerised by the sight of his thumb caressing her face. His gaze seemed to darken when his finger slid closer to her mouth, pausing at the corner of her lips. Then he gave an almost imperceptible start, as if he suddenly realised what he'd been doing. His eyes snapped up to meet Hermione's, which were wide with shock, and he jerked his hand away quickly. He looked down at her with an angry expression.

"You had pollen on your cheek," he told her curtly.

Then he spun around and left the room, leaving Hermione to gape after him in shock over the small moment of tenderness, and the inexplicable anger.

The chilly days of November were rapidly dwindling, and life inside Hogwarts Castle had arranged itself into a familiar routine. Within the cold, grey dungeons, the Potions professors had fallen into a reliable (albeit uncomfortable) rhythm of avoiding and ignoring each other, interrupted only by the frequent moments of each pretending they weren't secretly watching and studying the other.

Hermione found herself increasingly troubled by nightmares and began relying heavily on a Dreamless-Sleep potion that Snape had made for her. At first, she'd been touched by the kindness of his gesture when he had thrust the small bottle at her one morning.

"Use this," he had told her curtly.

"That's very kind of you," she had told him, trying not to blanch when he had snarled at her. "But I find it gives me a headache."

"Then take a headache tonic with it," he had ground out. "I have no desire to be continually woken by the nocturnal ramblings coming from your room."

"Right," Hermione had told him with a frown, hoping she had hidden her embarrassment. "I should have known."

The potion kept the nightmares at bay, but her sleep was still troubled. Hermione suspected that her Saturday sessions with Bertram Aubrey were a major contributing factor to this. It had been easy to relate the early stories of Voldemort since most of them had come second-hand from Harry. But as Bertram's book progressed, he was eager to learn about the activities that had taken place during their year of searching for Horcruxes, leading up to the final battle. Hermione found these sessions far more difficult and often left with a pounding headache.

It didn't help matters that Bertram still wouldn't permit her to inform anyone of what they were actually discussing. It was often very late after their meetings when she would finally return to her living quarters, only to find Snape scowling at her in disapproval.

"Did you have a nice time with Bertie and his little 'project' tonight?" Snape would often ask her in a tone that clearly indicated he thought "project" was a euphemism for something else. Which, she supposed, it was. And although the truth was that she had been having quite a terrible time, she often found herself smiling sweetly and saying something like, "Oh, it's actually quite a large project," or, "Yes, his project is simply amazing!" just to irritate him.

The time she spent alone with Snape was becoming more and more stressful, and she was unable to find a satisfactory method of soothing her restless, jittery nerves. To combat this, she began spending more time at work setting up the new research department, although she had a feeling this was also contributing to her sleepless nights.

Hermione had just finished a final round of tests on an electron microscope and stood up with an aching back. As it was Saturday, she'd been able to devote her attentions to the lab all day, and her back and neck were protesting. She surveyed the laboratory with a sense of pride...it had taken weeks of endless spells and charms in order to make the complex scientific equipment operate within the strong magical boundaries of the castle. But as she stretched her arms above her head and rolled her aching neck around, Hermione realised she was ready to give it her blessing at last. She had finally managed to set up a functioning laboratory inside Hogwarts Castle.

Taking a seat behind a long table, Hermione pushed aside a stack of Petri dishes and opened a scroll of parchment. Now that she had a lab, she needed to decide what exactly she was going to research. Her hand shook slightly while she pondered it, unable to take this step without remembering the mistakes she'd made at Arglist Industries and what it had almost cost.

With determination, she told herself that she was smarter now, and she knew how to be more careful. This time, she would start out with simple projects, and she'd make sure she questioned everything. She had learnt the hard way that it wasn't enough to prove that something could be done...it was far more important to know whether or not it should be done.

With that thought in her head, Hermione abandoned the parchment and instead walked to a solitary chalkboard in the back of the room. She wrote two words in large letters: "could" and "should." Then she drew an "x" through the word "could" and underlined the word "should" twice. She stepped back to admire her handiwork and nodded at the results, certain this would help remind her each day to avoid the mistakes she'd made at Arglist.

"Well, well... If it isn't Dr. Frankenstein," came Snape's mocking tone from the door to the lab.

Hermione spun to face him, stunned. The comparison was eerie, given the direction her thoughts had taken her. She knew that the monster in Mary Shelley's story was as much the creator as the creation. And how often had she thought of herself as a monster after leaving Arglist?

Hermione watched Snape carefully, not trusting how much he might know and remembering all too well his curiosity about Arglist. He had entered the room and was walking up and down the long rows of tables, eyeing the equipment suspiciously.

Turning back to her, he asked, "So this is where magic meets science?"

Hermione frowned at him as he approached her. The phrase "where magic meets science" was very familiar to her: she had written it herself in several papers at Jagiellonian University. Noting a spot of colour against Snape's black robes, Hermione approached him and was startled to see a green book tucked behind his crossed arms. She could make out enough of the gold lettering to know it said "Brukowski-Granger Principle" on the cover.

"Where did you get that?" she asked him.

"I took it from a first–year yesterday; I hardly consider it appropriate reading."

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, and the image of adoring grey-blue eyes staring up at her from the face of the gangly little Gryffindor girl sprang into her mind.

"Emilia Woodhouse," she said aloud, opening her eyes.

"Yes, that's the one," Snape told her. "Rather obnoxious... Complete know-it-all... Actually, she reminds me of someone," he said to her dryly, his lips lifting upwards slightly at the corners of his mouth.

"Hmm. I can't imagine who," Hermione told him with a small laugh. She held out her hand for the book, saying, "I'll take it. I can keep it here in the lab where it's more 'appropriate,' as you say."

He watched her carefully, and Hermione knew at once that she'd appeared too eager.

"That's quite all right; I'll hold onto it," he told her, surveying her face with a slight frown. "No doubt it will be a perfect fairy tale for late-night reading."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him and then turned away at the sound of soft tapping coming from the window. A majestic eagle owl was hovering outside with a scroll of parchment. Hermione opened the glass and allowed the bird entrance, shivering in the blast of cold air that accompanied the intimidating creature. She untied the large scroll and noted the letters "H.G." penned to the outside. Unrolling it casually, she saw with puzzlement that the entire, large piece of parchment was completely devoid of words–it contained nothing more than an enormous question mark. A soft piece of paper fluttered out, and she bent to pick it up with mounting curiosity. It appeared to be a very small clipping from a newspaper.

Jagiellonian University announced today the appointment of Alexsi Dipikov as Dean of the Potions Department, replacing the recently departed Mikolaj Brukowski. Brukowski, famed for the invention of BruBier and the controversial Brukowski-Granger Principle, departed Jagiellonian University last month after twenty-two years of service. He is currently installed as the Head of Research and Development for Arglist Industries in Germany.

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face as she finished reading the miniscule print. Her mind raced back to her lab at Arglist Industries: surely she had destroyed everything. Brukowski was one of the few people who might be able to come close to duplicating the methods Hermione had used for her work at Arglist, but surely methods weren't enough. They'd need samples, and specimens, and notes, and...

Hermione stopped her frantic thoughts and realised that Snape was still standing before her, staring at her with open curiosity now.

"Bad news?" he asked sardonically.

Hermione crumpled the small newspaper clipping and stuffed it into her pocket, shaking her head. "No, not at all," she lied.

"You're a dreadful liar, Hermione," he informed her matter-of-factly.

"Yes, I know," she said, forcing a smile onto her face.

Grabbing a quill off the desk, she drew a large "x" through the giant question mark on the parchment. She rolled it back up and tied it onto the owl's leg, rummaging in her pocket for an owl treat. She was painfully aware that Snape continued to watch her the entire time, and she hoped he wasn't going to start asking her questions. Somehow, she just knew that she'd be unable to lie to him for very long.

"Hey, you two!" came a friendly voice from the doorway. The owl flew away as Hermione closed the window before turning to smile at Bertram Aubrey.

"Hello, Bertram," she said, grateful for the distraction. Snape did not bother to offer a greeting.

"Ready to go?" Bertram asked Hermione.

"Oh... um... okay," she told him. Actually, she was longing for a hot bath and a chance to think about the disturbing news she'd just received. The thought of spending several hours discussing Voldemort and his reign of terror filled her with dread. She thought about cancelling, but she hated to go back on her word. Bertram had shown her nothing but kindness since she'd come to Hogwarts.

"I thought perhaps we'd go into Hogsmeade tonight. How does dinner at the tavern sound?" he asked her.

Hermione realised with a pang that she hadn't eaten since breakfast; she'd been so wrapped up in her work at the laboratory.

"That sounds great," she told him with feeling, making up her mind. She looked over at Snape, who stood with his arms folded over her book and his back turned to the door. There was a surly expression on his face as he regarded her silently. Hermione suddenly felt immensely irritated with him, resenting his disapproval. She was a single woman, Bertram was a single man, and if they wanted to go have dinner together it was none of his damn business. On top of that, he should have given her the sodding book when she'd asked him for it.

With one final glance at the green volume in his arms, she said flippantly, "Good night, Severus. Don't wait up for me." Then she strode past him with an air of satisfaction.

In retrospect, her statement would have been an excellent parting shot, if not for the fact that Severus Snape was amazingly quick and somehow managed to snake an arm out to stop her as she passed. Holding on tightly to her elbow, he dipped his head towards the side of her face and leant so close she could feel his warm breath against her hair. In a whisper only she could hear, he said, "Watch out for the Firewhisky, Hermione. I wouldn't want you to lose control... again."

Quickly releasing her, he looked down into her eyes pointedly and with such intensity that Hermione's heart seemed too intrigued to remember how to beat normally. Then his searing gaze dipped to her lips, lingering there for a moment before returning to her eyes with an expression that made her very glad Bertram had remained in the doorway.

A/N: As always, I give thanks to Karelia and little_beloved for being extraordinarily wonderful beta's, and to lettybird who Brit-picks with pride.