Small Steps

Small Steps

"Potter and Weasley should be hexed."

The comment startled a huff of amusement from her. "They were children, just as I was; they could hardly be expected to recognize and treat trauma while suffering it themselves."

"Very well; Minerva and Arthur Weasley should be hexed."

Hermione tried to stifle her grin. "It's long since done with, Severus. I've made my peace with it all. Here I am, after all—a little dishevelled, perhaps, but here, just as you are."

"If I'm your model," Severus drawled, "you must be cracked."

His lips quirked as Hermione's full laugh echoed throughout the flat.

"Well," Hermione said awkwardly, "that's it, really."

"Quite," Snape agreed tersely—and no less awkwardly, if one knew what to look for. Long fingers slowly manipulated grey fabric. He wished he could change the past, but that was a long-familiar, almost comfortable feeling, and he was well aware of its futility. He was appalled, almost furious, at the inattention of the people around her. Minerva, at the very least… her job had been to protect the children. He'd thought he could safely leave that charge in her hands.

And she'd nearly let this brilliant light put itself out.

Anger was futile, he'd learned. What mattered was the immediate. "Come," he ordered imperiously, and such was old habit that Hermione was almost instantly on her feet.

"Where?" she asked baldly. "Why?"

"You obviously require someone to look after you," he replied, using that (rather annoying) trick of looking down his nose.

She gave him a wry look. "Says the man recovering from a concussion."

He said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow and summoning her cloak.

She allowed him to settle it over her shoulders, and added, indicating the grey swatch still in hand, "You should leave the shirt here."

Overpowering sunlight made Hermione blink, and she found herself acutely aware of the solid presence of the man beside her, his hand at her back guiding her down the street. He said nothing as they walked, as Hermione absorbed the light and crisp air, as she realized they were heading towards the nearest Apparition point—a fair distance, with the wards she had in place.

She allowed herself to dream, to move his arm around her waist, his warmth alongside hers. Her head against his shoulder. The romantic dreams, she realized with exasperation, of a love-sick girl.

Still… she dreamed.

Hermione's expression became vague, and Severus wondered what she was thinking of. The research that had filled her recent life? Details of the past that she hadn't shared with him? His lips twisted in self-mockery; for all he knew, she might simply be dreaming of a large plate of bangers and mash.

What did he know, after all—what had he tried to know, before that sharp shock of sexual awareness weeks before? She'd been a simple, invariable constant at the edge of his life. Now… he was seeing in her a woman he could truly respect, could possibly…

…respect.