Run and Hide

Chapter Six: Run and Hide

He stared at the toothbrush in his bathroom with a weird sense of dread, noting the splayed bristles and the decidedly un-Slytherin-like color: red. He wondered if today was the first day it had made an appearance, or if she had smuggled it in earlier in the week and today was only the first day he had actually noticed it.

She had a habit of doing that – sneaking things past him – and, by the time he realized what she was doing, it was normally too late to put a stop to it. She had taken over half the drawers in his dresser just a few days ago, filling them with underwear and the lacy bras she bound her firm young breasts in, along with a few pairs of those infernal Muggle jeans and t-shirts she favored. She had even hung a couple of her apprentice robes in his wardrobe. When he had cocked an eyebrow at her upon discovering this, she had merely shrugged and grinned, "It's easier if I have some things here to put on fresh in the morning, instead of rushing back to my chambers to dress."

When a replicant of the desk in her room appeared in the small nook next to his larger desk, she had said, "It's better to have all my notes here. I'm here all the time anyway and I prefer having my reference material at my fingertips in case I need to ask you something."

When her red silk dressing gown joined his own dark green on the hanger in the bathroom, and her myriad hair products began cluttering the side of his large tub, she had just smiled at his look of astonishment, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him until he forgot about them...at least, until he next took a shower and managed to knock them all over the floor.

He couldn't quite figure out what it was she was up to, but he knew she was up to something. Pretty young witches like Hermione didn't just sleep with men such as him for no reason. He had thought, for a while at least, that she was looking for some sort of leverage over him. After all, a Slytherin would have no compunctions about using sex as a bargaining tool or even as a weapon, but Hermione was not like that. Nor would she let him use her body because she pitied him, which was something a Hufflepuff might do. She wasn't with him because of what he could offer her – he had already accepted her as his apprentice before their affair began – and besides, a motive like that would be too clinical and Ravenclaw for her.

And, despite her declarations of love, he didn't really believe she loved him either. Yes, she was a Gryffindor, but even Gryffindor's wouldn't be so foolhardy.

He found himself thinking of her at the oddest times – when he was marking essays, or berating some dunderhead, or docking house points – she was always there, in the back of his mind, a little niggling conundrum that wouldn't go away. For the first little while, he questioned why...why was she with him? She had nothing to gain from any of this, did she? Gradually, the question had changed to what...what was she doing with him? She could certainly find someone better.

Lately, the question was this: How? How could she claim to love him? Was it true? When he thought no one was watching him, he would take this glimmering question out and study it; admire its' sparkle and allure, all the while wondering if he was being tempted by fools gold.

It was a Tuesday morning, between classes. He was watching her absently as she placed fresh cauldrons at each work station, trying to puzzle through the mystery of her when she was suddenly in front of him, standing on tip toe and kissing him. He blinked as her sweet fragrance invaded his senses and cocked an eyebrow at her when she pulled back slightly and grinned at him.

"What was that for?" he murmured.

"You just looked so...sexy...slouching against your desk," she replied saucily, "I couldn't help myself."

"Hermione," he started to reply, but was cut off when she kissed him again. He hadn't realized he would ever be a man who would enjoy kisses, but he found himself oddly enthralled by hers. Her lips were always so soft and moist, the damp cave of her mouth hot and surprisingly tasty, the feel of her tongue and teeth highly erotic. This morning she tasted of cinnamon buns and strong tea. Her hands gripped the lapels of his robes, and his were slowly caressing her arms when a startled "Holy fuck!" and the sound of a cauldron hitting the stone floor surprised him.

Pulling himself away from the sweet ambrosia of Hermione's mouth, he met the startled gaze of Barnaby Bitts. The sixth-year Gryffindor was gazing at them with something akin to stupefied horror, his mouth slack with shock. He imagined the same shocked expression must have been on his face as well.

"I'm..." the young man gulped, the hot blush that had taken over his face leaving just as abruptly at Snape's glare, "I thought...I just wanted to get to class early, sir. I didn't mean to...that is, I didn't know..."

Snape glanced quickly at Hermione, who was looking rather amused.

She found this amusing! She found HIM amusing.

"Get out of my classroom," Snape snarled at Bitts. "Isn't it enough that I have to deal with you dunderheads all day long? Class does not start for another ten minutes – the next time you arrive so early, you will regret it."

Bitts scurried from the classroom.

"Severus, really," Hermione murmured, "was that necessary?"

"Indeed it was," Snape replied coldly, trying to ignore the small grin playing about the corners of her mouth. "I will not be made a fool of, Miss Granger."

Her grin faltered slightly at his cold tone. "Whatever are you on about now? Who's making a fool of you?"

"You are, for one, and I've had quite enough. Do you suppose that 'kiss' -" he sneered the word – "will be enough? Do you think it will be that easy to rehabilitate my image?"

"I'm not trying to rehabilitate your image," she retorted, "I was merely kissing the man I love."

"You don't love me, you annoying wench, anymore than I love you. You're just sowing your wild oats and slumming."

"Slumming?" Hermione replied, aghast.

"What else would you call fucking the pariah of the Wizarding World? Does it please you, Miss Granger; does it excite you? You were always such a wound-up little bushy-haired know-it-all prude when you were a student here – but perhaps, deep down, you longed to do something wicked...something that would shock and titillate all your friends..."

He was looming over her as he spoke, gripping her shoulders so tightly he could feel the fragility of her bones. Her eyes were wide and shocked, and he tried to ignore the little jolt he felt when they filled with angry tears. As suddenly as his anger had hit him, it fled, leaving him feeling empty. He roughly pushed her away from him, turning his back on her as he slumped over his desk. "Just get out," he muttered.

"Severus..."

"Leave me, Hermione. Just leave."

"Severus..."

He could hear the tears in her voice, but he couldn't look at her. He didn't want her to try to fix this – to try to fix him – and he knew that was what she would attempt to do. "Think of your reputation, you silly girl. It will be all over the school before the end of the day – it will be in the Prophet tomorrow! This isn't a game, Hermione. It was harmful enough to you when people only thought we were involved."

"Severus..."

He flinched at the sound of his name; his chest was aching with the cold inside him. "I can't be the man you seem to think I am, Hermione. That's not me. A leopard doesn't change its' spots."

"I don't want you to change," she sighed, "If you did, you wouldn't be Severus Snape. My Severus Snape." She moved towards him as she spoke, her hand drifting out to his shoulder, touching it briefly, before falling back to her side. "I don't think you are anything other than what you always were; just a man. A brilliant, sarcastic, man who's been damaged by life but still manages to survive. I love you for that."

He didn't respond. How could he? Instead, he turned away from her and picked up the quill lying across his desk, running his fingers across the feather, trying to block out her words. She sighed again, and was about to say something else, but the sound of students coming down the hallway stilled her tongue. He knew he should have been relieved when she turned away from him and headed to her small desk in the corner of his classroom, but he found himself strangely bereft. He missed the sound of her voice already.

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A/N:

And now, for a song. This one is from Paul McCartney's newest disc, and is just beautiful. The first time I heard it I immediately envisioned Snape in my mind – my Snape, that is. Not the Snape currently being (character) assassinated by JKR (although I do have my theories, and still believe in his inherent

goodness).

At the Mercy

At the mercy

I can think of nothing more to say.