Chapter Five: Growing up and growing in

Chapter 5 – Growing up and growing in

Antilitigation Charm: Nothing you recognize belongs to me. All characters are property of JK Rowling and not me. If they did belong to me, Severus Snape would be alive and well and snarking his way through Hogwarts even as we speak.

After being presented with my choices, I returned to teaching Potions the next term. I had not been asked to return as Headmaster, and found myself perfectly happy with that decision. Messrs. Potter and Weasley returned to Hogwarts to continue their disrupted education. I tolerated them. Hermione begged me to. Of course, she came back to complete her final year. I begged her to.

To the average Hogwarts student, I had changed very little. I was mostly the same snarky, dour, petty, unpleasantly greasy git I had been before Tom Riddle's demise. I only treated people differently because of Hermione. How could I not? I was almost helpless without her. In completing my magical soul, she had become part of me now.

That's not to say I didn't have unpleasant moments, however. Hermione told me that during Muggle wars, soldiers would sometimes develop what was commonly known as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A load of bollocks, I sneered. You do what you have to do, you survive, you move on. If you fall apart, it's because you choose to.

The first time it happened I was simply droning on, teaching second years how to brew Pepper-up Potion. Suddenly, my heart started skidding around in my chest. I was gasping for breath, sweat pouring off me in rivers, and I thought I was going to pass out. While the students looked on in growing dismay, I staggered out of the classroom and headed for the Infirmary, terrified.

On the way, I spotted Ginevra Weasley walking toward me. She blanched when she saw her once-hated former Headmaster, holding onto the wall, flushed and clutching his chest.

Compassion overruled her memories of the past year, and she ran to close the distance. She looked horrified as she drew near. "Merlin, Professor Snape, what's wrong? Is there anything can I do?" she bleated, and her fear ramped mine up a notch.

"Hermione." It was my protective charm, my litany, my mantra. "Hermione." Miss Weasley fled back down the hall as I leaned against the wall, shuddering, praying for the first time in my life not to die. I heard the sound of feet running toward me, and I turned, panting like I'd run a marathon. It was Hermione, with Miss Weasley not far behind.

Hermione. Bless her. She knew exactly what was happening and stood there with me in the hall, her arms around me, gentling me, until the anxiety attack passed. She spoke to me of love, and joy, trust and completion. She spoke of the future, and inane, silly things, like potions and cross-word puzzles and books we'd enjoyed together, the mouse her ugly familiar had rustled for dinner last night.

She stroked my back soothingly. She kissed my cheeks and ran her hands through my hair. She spoke of how silky it felt now that I regularly used her shampoo, how much better her cuticles were since I'd made her the special salve for her chapped hands.

She told me how Potter made Weasley laugh so hard during lunch, pumpkin juice came out his nose. She told the most moronic joke I'd ever heard, courtesy of Mr. Longbottom. I laughed unwillingly, and the iron band around my chest started to loosen.

Hermione poured her love and respect and devotion into my starving heart, and I lapped it up gratefully. I wondered if I would ever be sated with her outpouring of affection. We stood like a tableau for almost fifteen minutes while classes changed and students and teachers alike walked by, looking but keeping their comments to themselves.

It wasn't a common occurrence, but when it happened, during a class or while I was attending a staff meeting or restocking shelves, I would hasten to whichever class she was currently attending, throw open the door and look jerkily around until I could spot her, already leaving her seat to attend me.

I suppose we became a familiar sight in the hall. The Big Bad Potions master, clinging to the diminutive Gryffindor, her soft voice loosening the vice around my throat and heart. I didn't feel guilty about taking her away from class.

My darling little swot was so far ahead of everyone she could have snored her way through the remainder of the year and still made perfect scores on her N.E.W.T.s. I justified the disruptions by telling myself I needed her more than they did.

In fact, I never felt guilt anymore, full stop. I spent so many years in guilt-enforced solitude, pretending it was my preference. Having someone to depend on seemed like the most natural thing in the world. No one chastised me for it. In fact, once Minerva, bless her, got over the shock that her favourite little lioness was sharing the Head of Slytherin House's life and bed, she became our staunchest ally. That felt good. It felt like vindication.

Since she was technically still a student, Hermione took her meals with her friends at the Gryffindor table. I had to eat at the Head Table, but I rarely took my eyes off her to make sure she ate well. I touched her in Potions class, sometimes delivering entire lectures with my hands resting on her shoulders.

Some muttered about 'getting a room'. Others sneered I was being a mite possessive. Still others whispered about the student currying favours. I blasted that one by having other professors check her work. I wasn't about to jeapordize that.

The truth was I was leaning on her for strength. My grasping hands spoke of my need for assurance, not the other way around. I might have been a little possessive. She never denied me. She loved me. And before you, dear reader, accuse me of going soft, so what? Where had being a hardcase gotten me all those years?

I walked with her through the school halls like a mastiff escorting a kitten, her tiny hand enclosed in mine. In truth, she was escorting me. It was for my peace of mind, not hers. I would take my leave at the classroom door, kiss her forehead, and be waiting when class ended to take her to the next.

She always understood my motivations. For a man starved so long for affection, I was greedy and jealous that even her classes had the audacity to take her away from me.

At night, she would regale me with her studies, her discoveries and her accomplishments. I praised her cleverness and commiserated with her frustration with 'the boys' and their lack of focus. I told her I didn't mind if they came down to my chambers to study with her occasionally. I tried even harder to mean it. What good is being a changed man if you don't change?

Students observed us surreptitiously and rarely commented where we could hear. Hermione defended me when less than charitable phrases were flung our way. The staff left me alone. What could they say? We were both of age. We were war heroes.

I eventually had to take my resentful and sheepish Slytherins aside and remind them that harassing Hermione would mean the end of their schooling at Hogwarts. They were not happy with me. They no longer respected me, but I was not as upset with this as I thought I'd be. I chose to ignore most of my House's muttered, disparaging remarks.

I was my own man now. Well, I was Hermione's man now, and I found myself perfectly at ease with that thought.

At night, I reveled in our newly discovered sensuality. Hermione was a fearless little wanton in my bed, and I spent half of my Potions classes dreaming up new delights to try with her. "I had a thought today..." I would begin, dropping my voice to the low timbre that made her squirm so charmingly. She always responded with enthusiasm. She never said no. She inspired me.

She loved the sound of my voice, and to that end, I said things to her during the throes of passion I've never said to another living soul. She encouraged me to be vocal. I loved the way she responded to me. I took shameless advantage of it, of course. Just because I was a changed man didn't mean I wasn't still a Slytherin.

I was emboldened by my unreserved need of her, and her unquenchable desire for me. We wrote our passions across each other's bodies with tongues of fire.

And we weren't furtive or dirty about this, thank you. No grubby fumbling in alcoves or distasteful trysts in public places. We're talking about the woman I love, if you don't mind. My intentions were honourable, even if the fantasies we shared weren't. The day I knew I was in real trouble was when she sat in my lap, put her arms around my neck and whispered huskily, "I had a thought today..."

Apparently, Miss Granger had been a very bad girl that day and deserved a detention. Punishment to be served across my lap. Oh, the sweet, naughty little games we played. I learned I could make my little lioness purr with a few carefully chosen words, whispered in her ear just so. I also discovered I could make her roar, if those words were accompanied by a single, tenderly administered finger. And each night I would fall asleep exhausted, thinking, Oh Merlin, I'm going to have to start getting in better shape for this...

I live to serve.

-o0o-

That Hogsmeade Weekend was cold and bright, and Hermione and I walked down the street hand in hand. I didn't care about gossip anymore. If the Wizarding world didn't approve of the Brains of the Golden Trio with the Bastard of the Dungeons, hard cheese. People's opinions would eventually change. The world had changed. I had. Yes, I could still be a bastard in the classroom, but I wasn't unreasonable.

The ring sat in a box in a small pocket of my robes, and I was going to do something that, had you told me two years ago I would be doing, I would have hexed your bollocks off and sabotaged your Floo ride to St. Mungo's to get them reattached. I was going to do the whole romantic, down-on-one-knee thing to her that evening.

Ironically, of course. Yes, I was going to ask the witch to marry me. I knew she would say yes, but I wanted to make it special. I confess a bit of smugness at the thought of her lovely eyes lighting up at the romantic gesture, her soft eyes misting with tears as I slipped the ring on her finger.

There was a light snow falling, and Hermione was skipping lightly, kicking the drifts from our feet. She loved snow; being from the South of England, she had not experienced it much, and here in Scotland it always surprised her. She was smiling at me and telling me about a new shop opening in Hogsmeade she wanted to visit. Now that the war was over, Wizarding Britain was experiencing a boom, and new shops were opening almost daily. I was being very indulgent; nowadays with Hermione I found myself doing that quite a lot.

We rounded the corner, and I had just bent down to hear her better, when the first Expelliarmus knocked me off my feet. My wand skittered across the icy ground. I struggled to get up, my head reeling, and saw MacNair round out his arm for the next curse. I saw the glint of masks as he and three more ex-Death Eaters surrounded Hermione and me. This was the Slytherins' revenge. Just because Tom Riddle was dead, it didn't mean that there were not remaining disciples who sought to carry on his work. As the Traitor and the Most Hated Mudblood (their words, not mine), we were prime targets now.

"Accio wand!" I shouted, and my wand slapped into my open palm. "Reducto!" My hexing power was as strong as ever, but I was slower than in previous encounters. The rigors of testicle-shriveling fear that sharpened my reflexes throughout the war years were no longer part of my life.

In other words, I missed MacNair by a mile. The long months of recovery from my injuries, an improved appetite, and loving, steady sex meant I was as indolent as a cat and sluggish with my timing. MacNair ducked the hex easily, and my Slytherin brain made me promise to start practice dueling again, if I managed to survive this.

Pulling Hermione to me, I shouted for the other students around me to get down, and to my secret pride, several of them raised their wands in our defense. I heard hexes and curses being thrown left, right, and centre, and I was afraid in their fervent desire to defend us, they would curse us or each other instead.

I needn't have worried. Ginevra Weasley blasted one of the Death Eaters so hard, he was thrown against the brick wall of the shop. He didn't get up. The other three were returning fire, albeit rather gingerly. There were quite a few of my Slytherins in the crowd, and the Death Eaters didn't fancy harming their own.

Using the agility that had made him such a formidable opponent in the war, MacNair managed to duck under another stream of hexes and curses, firing off Crucios to as many students as he could. I heard screaming in the air as children under my watch fell to the excruciating pain that gave the Unforgivable its name.

Hermione and Miss Weasley canceled the spells as quickly as they could, but Hermione mainly kept a shield on me while I fought my ex-compatriots. The tide turned, as one by one the Death Eaters were brought down. I may have been a bit slow, but I still could still hex like a sonofabitch.

I should have known better, but I heard a cry to my left, and took my eye from Hermione for one second. MacNair honed in, as fast and deadly as a viper. Hermione screamed my name as he rounded his wand on me for the Killing Curse, and before I could catch her, Hermione rushed in front of me.

With a demonic smile, Macnair shifted his aim and bellowed, "Animam Kedavra!" A bright purple light flashed from his wand and hit Hermione squarely in the chest. She fell to the ground amidst the heaviest silence I have heard since my own trip to the land of death. It was as if the world stopped, and the only sound was my own rasping breath.

"Hermione?" I whispered, lowering my face to hers. "Open your eyes, Hermione. Open your eyes now. Ennervate!" I distinctly remember commanding her. She always indulged me, so why should I think she wouldn't now?

Others stood around us weeping. I don't remember seeing anything but Hermione. I cradled her lifeless body to my breast, sobbing and pleading, "Wake up, love. It's me. It's S-Severus. P-please wake up for me, please... please." I looked down at her face and screamed my pain at her peaceful expression. Not again, I thought. No, no, not again.

The world went black as the last hex MacNair would ever throw flew my way. It knocked me out cold before a barrage of curses from reinforcements in the form of Potter, Longbottom and Weasley hit him full on. There wasn't much left of MacNair to send to Azkaban, but they managed to get him there before he regained consciousness. He would never be allowed to leave, I was told. They were too afraid I would get to him before the Aurors did.

-o0o-

I will tell you I simply hate waking up in the Hogwarts infirmary. Merlin knows, I've done it more times than I care to admit, and Poppy Pomfrey probably knows my body better than even Hermione. Hermione. Realisation hit me as I regained consciousness, and my harsh sound of grief brought Poppy to my bedside.

For once, she didn't cluck over me like a mother hen. She sat down beside me and silently handed me a Pain Potion. I drank it down quickly, hoping it had something to numb and fill the empty space in my heart where Hermione had been.

"Severus, I want you to prepare yourself," Poppy said quietly, and I could see she was having trouble looking me in the eye. "I don't know how to tell you this..."

"She's dead." I was almost surprised at how flat and calm my voice sounded. You could barely hear the tears that choked me.

Poppy put a warm hand on my arm. Taking a deep breath, she said, shaking her head, "No, she's not dead, Severus."

I rose from the cot so quickly a wave of nausea and dizziness almost made me vomit. I mastered it and cried, "Where is she? I need to see her."

Poppy's eyes automatically darted to the double doors at the end of the hall. I swallowed. I had been sequestered behind those doors before, in my spying days. Only the most critical and terminal patients were there. I started walking.

"Why isn't she in St. Mungo's?" I fumed.

Poppy was all but running after me, trying to match my longer strides. "She's just as well off here, Severus." She pulled on my arm to stop me as I reached for the door.

"There's nothing that can be done, Severus." She dropped her hand from me and looked away. Her voice shook slightly as she said, "I'm sorry."