Na Noite

Disclaimer: I am not talented enough to pretend I've written seven world best-sellers about a teenage boy with a hero complex and a magic stick...

Hmm. Interesting word choice, CC.

Chapter Ten: Na Noite

~*~

Quickly escaping the doldrums of the ball, Severus Snape strode quickly past the punchbowl, past all the snacks and the hors d'oeuvres, past the lusty teens who were currently displaying, quite publicly, the affection they held for each other, right in front of the champagne fountain no less. And he slipped out of the teachers' entrance. He made an immediate right and then a left, but instead of heading into the bowels of the castle, he sought out the clearer, fresher October air outside.

He took a breath and exhaled slowly, standing on the last stretches of grass where he had stood two days ago, awaiting the soggy arrival of one Ronald Weasley, the offensive taste in Severus' mouth, destroyer of Hermione's confidence...who would probably dog him until the end of the year. What the boy had said had struck a nerve, and the Potions master found himself questioning his fascination with the Head Girl. Weasley could have him sacked if anything ever happened...not that it would. He knew he was being paranoid because he would never compromise his job, but somehow it bothered him that a dunderhead like Weasley had him figured out well before he sorted it out on his own.

Why? Why does this sort of thing happen to me?

"There you go again, basking in self-pity," he muttered to himself.

No, I'm pathetic. This is self-loathing.

"Call it what you will, and still..."

Why do I always find myself drawn to the most inaccessible, unattainable, unrealistic, and unfortunately untouchable goals?

"The whole idea of it is unreservedly ludicrous," he said into his fists.

"I thought you rather enjoyed the sport of it all, Professor." She approached him from down the shore a little. He started at first, but was drowning entirely too deep in his current anguish to stand up and look at least dignified, or recover to his usual, sulky self. "You know, the hunt for snogging couples..."

He looked up, unsurprised to see her on her own.

--

A sad pang shot through her body when she remembered this herself. Harry had Ginny, vice versa, Ron was permanently scorched from her family tree, Luna was... well, Luna, Neville was Neville, and Snape...the man lounging casually in front of her, boots dug a bit into the pebbly sand, his arms resting on his bent knees, his long dark hair falling against his cheeks...was untouchable, inaccessible, impermeable. In short, she would never be a friend to him nor he to her. The idea was preposterous.

"Quite the opposite. Finding the students I teach everyday in compromising positions is not something that I like to relive." He did not look at her, but continued gazing at his hands, twined together and resting atop his knees.

"You volunteered."

"I thought we went over this, Miss Granger."

Hermione giggled inwardly as her mind's eye envisioned his contorted expression as he discovered two unsuspecting sixth years entangled in one another. She blushed, but was sure he could not see it for the darkness. The only light was from the castle, seeming to set the surface of the lake afire with eerie radiance.

"The headmistress," he continued, "loves to inflict as much pain and suffering on her subjects as possible."

"I would have to argue that guilt is usually the perpetrator."

"Always the perpetrator." He corrected acerbically, looking up at her this time, and she swore she could see something behind the dark obsidian of his eyes. It was gone in an instant, as their gaze broke when he returned to observing his hands. She was left with an unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach as he looked away...she didn't want to leave him. Alone. With his guilt. She wanted to heal him. Take it all away. So much for breaking your stereotype, Hermione.

Hermione decided to sit, noting the cleanliest place to rest her regally-clothed bum, and did just so, curling her dainty legs under herself, smoothing the hem of her dress and resting her small hands on her thighs. They sat.

--

"I am assuming you and Mr. Weasley have not relapsed into your 'casual'... relations," he spoke to the sand, hoping she would not become uncomfortable. He was quite enjoying the company. Feeling lonely was better than feeling lonely and alone. "Given your present solitude."

"Believe me, there was nothing 'casual' about it." She looked at him and then out over the still water, an indifferent expression writ across her visage. "And no, that hasn't continued, nor will it ever, now that he knows."

"Knows what, exactly?" Severus prodded, and he knew she was aware. But she did not recoil into herself or gasp at his indiscretion when the words came from his lips.

"Of my... 'predicament', as Hagrid so deftly put it. That, and he thinks I'm involved with my Portuguese host from this summer," she paused, "who is most decidedly homosexual, apart from being hundreds of miles away."

"I see." He looked at her, sitting prettily in her gorgeous gown, the shiny indigo fabric pooling around her folded legs, reflecting glints of gold from the light of the castle. Her profile revealed a long, slender patch of creamy back that curved in such a sensuous line that Severus was surprised he didn't reach out and trace it with his fingers, brush lightly against it with the back of his hand, run soft kisses up her spine...

He shook his head violently, only to attract more attention to himself. Never had he allowed these thoughts to enter his mind. But then he found himself glancing toward her again, as she was the only other thing to look at other than the lake, which he had seen quite enough of the other night.

She was sitting up, a regal posture that only made her seem imaginary, like the naiad that had plagued his dreams for a good while now. They sat in a surprisingly comfortable silence, for him at least. Her presence was soothing, and he did not want her to leave, although she was sitting at least a meter away.

"Forgive me for prying, but... could you...would you tell me about it?"

"About what?" she asked innocently, having been lost in her own thoughts not a moment ago.

"You are unable to bear children," he said flatly, getting it out before he regretted it. But he did regret it because she looked immediately defeated, lost in despair. He wanted dearly to take that delicate face, run light kisses across it...

"I...No, I can't. It..." She broke off, looking him straight in the eye, pleading for understanding. He nodded. "It was a spell." He cursed lightly under his breath, as she continued, "The battle, I mean...we were both there...it was terrible. Things falling left and right all around you, hexes grazing your cheeks as you shouted every single curse known to you in haphazard directions, every minute thinking that this... this could be your last second on earth. It was Macnair, I think... who did it. Tumesco Sanguis."

"Nonverbal." He muttered as utter guilt racked his nerves. He wanted to grab her and wrap her in his arms to say he was tremendously, dreadfully, terribly sorry, but he did not.

"I thought you would know." She played absentmindedly with the heel of her shoe, but a smirk played across her face.

"I ought to know. I invented it."

The small half-smile that had warmed his heart vanished and she looked at him. He was ready for censure, for accusation, for frenetic finger pointing...but no. This Hermione Granger was unpredictable, contrary to common knowledge. "Do not blame yourself..." she paused, "Professor. It was most definitely not your fault."

"Many things are."

"This isn't. Now, I will continue with my story because you asked, and now that I'm telling you, I don't think I will be able to stop until I've spilled my heart out to you."

"Yes, please... Go on."

"The curse hit around my middle." She placed her hand around her lower abdomen. "The immediate effects of the curse were to thicken my blood until my heart could no longer pump it...but my uterus was also effected. And, respectively, completely shot."

"I...I'm sorry..."

"Oh, will you let me finish!" She glared angrily at him and continued, "The Healers at St. Mungo's were able to support me with blood thinner and other available nutrients, but..."

"Internal organs directly affected by the blunt force of the aforesaid curse will inevitably lose all prior function..."

"Textbook response, sir." She smiled sadly. "We are not so different...you and I."

He gave a noncommittal grunt and wove his fingers through his hair to keep his head from falling off. He, by his irrational and experimental and dark and sick ways, had done this to her.

A swift breeze blew a refreshing pocket of cold air their way as they again sat in silence.

A/N: But wait, there's more? Part Deux is up next. I couldn't leave them out in the cold, could I? I mean, Herm's in a backless ball gown in Scotland in late October! No. No, that simply would not do, so I added another part. Well, actually, it was all one chapter, but it got kinda long, soooo I snipped it. :) Special thanks go to ladyinthecloak for her fantasmical beta skillz! Ooh, and a Happy Valentine's to you all!

-CC

title translation - into the night OR in the night