Project: Empty Heart

17 December 2005

Dear Diary,

When I was at school, I didn't have crushes on other students. Except for Ron—and we both know how well that turned out. I fancied the teachers. First was Lockhart. He was my lesson in valuing substance over flash. Then Lupin, who was an excellent instructor, kind and safe. Until I found out he was a werewolf, which put a bit of a damper on things for my thirteen-year-old self. I even fancied Hagrid a little, as he was always there for me, even when Harry and Ron were not.

Then came fourth year and Viktor Krum. Who was dark, and passionate, and moody. But I didn't realise he was an unsatisfactory substitute for the real object of my affections. Until said object bared his forearm to the Minister of Magic in the school infirmary. So bravely, so contemptuously. Such anger and bitterness and... restraint. By the end of his speech, my knickers were damp. It scared the crap out of me. Which was probably the reason I gravitated back to Ron—he of the teaspoon-ish complexity.

The day Draco married Astoria bloody Greengrass, I went to Hogsmeade. I told myself it was a shopping excursion, but really, I just wanted to be as far away from London as possible. By this time, I was mostly over Draco—it had been nearly two years since we broke up, after all. But I kept running into acquaintances who were in town for the wedding, and it's all anyone was talking about. When they weren't looking at me with pity on their faces. Or smug superiority, like Pansy Parkinson, the pug-faced bitch. Who really shouldn't have, considering Draco dumped her for me.

After looking round a bit—nothing new except for a bistro called Bane's and an apothecary called Apothecary, very original—I ended up at the Hog's Head. Because I knew Aberforth was never in the mood for a chat and I just wanted to be left alone. I'd had three firewhiskys and was considering putting up for the night at the Three Broomsticks, since their rooms were clean and didn't smell of goat, when my fourth-year crush billowed in, surly as ever.

To my surprise, he billowed straight over to me.

"Miss Granger," he said. "Is this seat taken?"

Too tipsy to be coherent, and gobsmacked to boot, I gestured at the chair in what I hoped was polite welcome.

He sat down and sneered at me. I was tempted to blow a raspberry at him, but I took a sip of my fourth firewhisky instead. Aberforth brought over a bottle and placed it at Severus's elbow. He Conjured his own glass.

"Foolish wand-waving," I muttered and barely managed to smother a giggle.

"What was that?" Severus asked with an amused glint in his eye. We both knew he'd heard me just fine.

"Nothing," I replied with an airy gesture that mimicked his Conjuring perfectly. His teeth flashed white as he smirked. His hair was clean and soft-looking. He was also kitted out in handsome bespoke dress robes. "Was it a lovely wedding?"

He snorted. "Bloody ostentatious. The Greengrasses have more Galleons than taste." He looked me over in silence. "How drunk are you?"

I put my finger to my nose and tapped lightly. Not numb yet. "Just a little tipsy," I enunciated carefully.

"Fancy a fuck?" he asked. He stood and tucked the bottle under his arm, Vanishing the glass he'd just Conjured.

I snapped my jaw shut. "You what?" I asked dumbly.

He rolled his eyes at me. "Must you continually ask questions?"

"Yes," I answered, scrambling to stand up and put my travel cloak on.

"Ah, well." He sighed. "I suppose I can gag you if need be."

"No. No, I meant—" I stopped babbling when he raised an eyebrow at me. The eyebrow.

Are there knickers made from sea-sponge? If there aren't, there bloody well should be.

That was five months ago and it's all we've been doing since. Fucking. Not that I'm complaining, precisely. Because the fucking is great. Certainly better than Ron. Better than that one time with Blaise Zabini. Better than Draco, even. It's just that, up close, that eyebrow isn't expressive. It's a defense mechanism. And all that bitterness and anger and passion?

Is bottled away somewhere—maybe in his lab.

I think sometimes that he's still pining for Harry's mum and I'm the poor substitute, like Viktor was, for him, to me.

I've tried most everything I could to get Severus to open up. His favourite meal, a weekend away, calm conversation, screamed accusations. His response? Withdrawal. Or sneering condescension. He's even gagged me a couple of times. That hadn't been a joke. But his preferred method of shutting me up is fucking my brains out. And it's getting—dare I say it—old.

So last night was my final attempt at breaching the fortress walls that guard Severus's hairy heart. Hairy. Harry. It was actually Harry's idea. To give Severus a traditional Christmas with all the trimmings. I spent all day trimming his house while he worked at the Apothecary. Never one to do things halfway, I covered nearly every square inch of his abode in fairy lights, tinsel, ivy and mistletoe. Screw the nargles, I thought. I was listening to carols on the wireless as I worked, so I didn't hear him come in.

"What the fuck is this?" He growled as he slammed the door shut.

"It's a wreath," I replied. And then I turned back to the tree I'd been decorating with silver and green ornaments. The tree skirt was made from crimson velvet.

He billowed over to me. "What the fuck is all this doing in my house?"

"It's Christmas," I said. "Must you continually ask questions?"

He got very red at that. Mockery was his speciality, apparently. He waved a hand and Banished everything I'd put up in the blink of an eye.

"Hey!" I exclaimed. "I worked hard on that. All day!"

"You may do as you please in your flat, Hermione," he drawled, and then Banished my clothes as well. I might have gone a bit overboard with the knitted reindeer jumper. "But this is my house, and I despise this overblown, Gryffindorish, fake sentimentality. It's complete shite, and you bloody well know it."

He tumbled me onto the sofa and unfastened his trousers, pulling them down. He was already hard. He kneeled over me and slid a finger between my thighs, grunting in satisfaction when he encountered slickness.

The wireless was still on, and "I Want a Hippogriff for Christmas" started playing as he pushed into me, our bodies straining towards completion in rhythm with its cheery march-like refrain. He surged in and out, rubbing against my g-spot with every stroke. I was completely full, and yet I've never felt so empty in my life.

Molly once said something to me while I was dating Ron, towards the end of our relationship. At the time, it deeply upset me. I nearly threw away every sweater she'd ever knitted for me. In the end, to make things less awkward for everyone, I pushed it out of my head. But I know now it was the beginning of the end of Ron and me.

"Hermione," Molly said. "Do you want a project or a man you will love for the rest of your life?"

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Many thanks to Corianderpie for the beta ;-)