Foundations

Foundations

“Too damn old for this,” he grated as a truly miserable headache heralded his return to consciousness.

“Never too old for anything until you’re dead,” a feminine voice said crisply. A damp, herb-scented cloth was draped over his forehead, and the pounding receded. “Though I agree this was overdoing it a bit. I wouldn’t’ve given you a concussion, you see, if we’d just been yelling at each other. But when you grabbed me… well, you just pushed all the wrong buttons. I overreacted; I apologise for that. Though you shouldn’t’ve grabbed like that in any case.”

“Now who’s acting self-righteous?”

It was probably a good thing that he couldn’t see her smirk at his comment. Typical Snape, shifting the blame— or at least the focus —onto someone else. But she was not going to let him. While she did feel a little guilty at the strength of her wandless magic, patching him back up repaid that debt. He should know better than to try force on anyone, let alone a woman with a post-war hair trigger.

But she was baffled trying to explain his presence here at all. If only he’d answer the damn question of why he was here!

“It’s a perfectly valid point,” she said mildly. “It’s not nice to hit girls, if you recall. I apologised for what I felt sorry for; I’m not sorry for hitting you back, just for hitting you harder than I ought. And I won’t lie to you and say I am.”

Severus’s lips twitched. “Point conceded.”

“Thank you.” Hermione shifted her balance to sit Indian-style by the couch where she’d put him. “Now let’s get down to brass tacks: Why are you so bloody insistent on knowing ‘what’s going on’? Tell me that and I may actually explain.”

“I… was worried.”

The look she gave him was blatantly incredulous. “You,” she reiterated flatly. “Were worried. About me. Because of a single, overheard conversation.” She shook her head disbelievingly. “You’ve got balls to expect me to believe that one.” Hermione took in his scowl. “Don’t give me that. We’ve barely been acquaintances for the last several years—less than that for the past few months. You couldn’t be arsed to tell me ‘Good morning’, let alone anything more.”

“So why am I here, then?” he asked bitingly.

“No idea. Your mind works in ways I wouldn’t even want to consider trying to understand.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” Severus said stiffly. “You will not speak without knowing my motive, yet you won’t believe me when I tell you.”

“Again, why the hell should I?” Hermione snapped back. “You’ve never given me the least reason to.”

“Ah. And my past record means I am inherently untrustworthy.”

“You mean your recent record. I don’t give a damn what you were doing thirty years ago, or even twenty. For the last ten, you’ve made it emphatically clear that you care fuck-all for the rest of the world— including me —even if you did save it.”

Snape silenced before he could began to refute her accusation. She was right. His own behaviours hadn’t changed much since Hogwarts—and indignation about his ‘probation’ often made him even more acidic. In sharp, bleak contrast were Granger’s actions: a thousand instances of respect, courtesy… the occasional smile, the odd conversation. And yes, the physical assaults. They were due to anger and temper… and for something he’d done. Not because she thought him disgusting or inferior or detestable. And her grudges were honest, never hiding behind hypocritical smiles. He always knew where he stood with her…

“You’re right,” he said simply.

Hermione gaped. Had she heard him correctly? Had Severus Snape just admitted that she was right? Perhaps she’d banged his head harder than she thought. Or the herbs she’d put in the healing potion were off. She surreptitiously sniffed the corner of the cloth she’d placed over his forehead and eyes. No, it was fine; he should be in full form within another minute. For that matter, he ought to be upright and frothing at the mouth already.

She shot another glance at the man. And realized that the cloth she’d snatched from her ragbag was that bloody grey shirt.

“Stop hovering, Granger,” Snape muttered, and Hermione started back.

“How—?”

His lips twisted slightly. “Your hair precedes you,” he explained dryly. “As my nose does me.”

“Oh.” She reddened.

He made an odd sound, somewhere between a growl and a sigh and moved to pull the cloth from his face. Hermione found herself watching his hand, which appeared to her in odd, stark relief; it was covered with various scars, scars she imagined were more benign than any others he carried. The round splatters, smooth-shining swathes, and hair-thin lines of thousands of potions’ worth of simple slips and misjudgments.

“Hermione Granger.” Seated properly on the couch, hand dangling the damp T-shirt, Severus gazed, eyes expressionless, at the younger woman. She watched him back, her expression a mix of curiosity and incredulity… and something else.

“Do you have any idea, Miss Granger, how many people have ever given more than a Cruciatus-laden damn about me?” He continued before she could answer. “One. And that ‘one’ never understood, never tried to understand, and never, ever, even tried to forgive.

“So is it any wonder that I ‘care fuck-all’ for a world that has made its opinion of me so abundantly clear?”

“I see,” Hermione said quietly. “Do you.” His voice was neutral.

“Do you know how many times a child needs to be beaten before he realizes his parents will never love him? Or how many times a man must hear it before he realizes ‘I want you’ always means ‘I want something from you’?

“’Caring’ has never meant anything other than giving someone my feelings to be held as a whip over my head. I have chosen to minimize the damage.”

“Then why—”

“Because. I. was. worried.” Each word crisply bitten off.

Hermione suddenly found his explanation far more possible.

_{AN: This'll be the last for a while—though not the end, certainly. But RL's smacking me upside the head with several matters, and any writing time is going to be devoted to an original short(s?) in hopes of getting a spot in an anthology. (*^_^* Fingers crossed!)}