Ogre Battle

Ogre Battle

'Tonight, we shall be practising the art of physical evasion,' Snape stated to the students gathered before him for the first meeting of the Duelling Club in the new term. 'Many of you are accomplished at this skill already, but in wizards' duels there is more to evasion than simply dodging out of the path of an oncoming spell. The more finesse with which you can, jump, bend, and twist, the more impressive a dueller you will become.'

Directly in his line of sight, Stephen Corner smirked.

'Despite the acrobatic theatrics some of you may have in mind,' Snape continued silkily, focussing his piercing gaze on the young Ravenclaw, 'this is not a game of Quidditch. The goal of this exercise is not to achieve showiness. It is to achieve grace.'

One of the Gryffindors at the front of the group raised her hand eagerly, and Snape was reminded irresistibly of Hermione at the same age. 'Please, sir,' the girl said, 'could you demonstrate for us what you mean?'

'Certainly,' he assented. Lifting his eyes to the very back of the group, he looked at Miranda enquiringly. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and he remembered: she only wanted to duel against Hermione. 'Perhaps,' he amended, 'Professor Silva and Professor Granger will offer you a demonstration.'

It was difficult to miss the enthusiasm with which many of the students greeted this suggestion, but Snape, suddenly disturbed, was unaffected by it. For, while Miranda smiled in agreement, there was something hard and implacable in Hermione's face that, in Snape's opinion, did not bode well for the evening's activities. In truth, he had been surprised to see her attend the meeting at all, so assiduously had she been avoiding him since before Christmas. He knew Hermione well enough, however, to suppose that she was not the sort of individual to allow personal discomfort to interfere with her professional duties.

He waited with some trepidation as each woman climbed onto the high table and bowed in the other's direction, but it seemed that his worries were unfounded. Hermione and Miranda duelled without Shield Charms, and though this necessarily meant that their hexes connected more often than usual, they seemed to have decided independently of one another not to cast any particularly dangerous spells. Snape allowed himself a wry smile: despite their fierceness, clearly neither woman enjoyed the idea of being truly injured.

And then, as if his very thought had triggered it, Hermione lashed out at Miranda. So quickly that Snape almost didn't register what had happened, she fired off two spells in rapid succession: a nasty jinx that Miranda dodged gracefully, leaping up and arching her back out of the path of the bolt of light, and a Disarming Charm, which slammed into Miranda while she was still in mid-air. She sailed off the end of the table, crashing into the wall behind her, and slid to the floor in the very same place where she and Snape had consummated her curse. Her wand, wrenched from her grasp, soared through the air and landed with a clatter on the stone floor some ten feet away.

A collective gasp arose from the onlookers; for a moment, nobody moved. Then, with the suddenness of a tableau unfreezing, several Ravenclaws ran to Miranda; another group of students, Gryffindors, hurtled toward Hermione; and Draco darted from the Great Hall, presumably to fetch Madam Pomfrey from the infirmary. Snape, too, made his way toward Miranda, wading through a sea of Ravenclaws to reach her prone form. When he was close enough to see her, he noted with relief that she was alert and moving her arms and legs gingerly. Nothing appeared to be broken. She looked up at him with the same small smile from that night and said, 'I'm going to have a lot of bruises.'

'Can you make it to the hospital wing?' Snape asked.

'In a minute.'

Turning, he addressed the students: 'Return to your common rooms, all of you. This meeting is rescheduled for Sunday night.'

Looking disgruntled, most of the students left the hall. With a promise to inform them about Miranda's recovery, Snape was obliged to drive off the Ravenclaws himself, all of whom shot dirty glares at Hermione as he herded them from the room. Carefully, he assisted Miranda into a standing position, but she refused his offer of support while she walked. Instead, she limped over to Hermione, who was still standing by the high table, looking, in Snape's opinion, somewhat absurdly confused.

Without speaking, Miranda assessed Hermione for some time, her expression clinical and appraising. Hermione stood up to this scrutiny resolutely, allowing Miranda to look her fill, leaving Snape to wonder when the shouting was going to begin.

He should have known better, however; neither of the women was much given to displays of temper. Eventually, Miranda spoke.

'I see,' she said quietly to Hermione.

While Snape would have interpreted this statement as the beginnings of a threat, Hermione did nothing of the sort. Instead, she responded, 'I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.'

In the same quiet voice, this time with another small smile and a rueful tone that Snape found difficult to interpret, Miranda said, 'No, it was called for.' She limped away toward the door. Hermione followed her stiffly, leaving Snape alone in the Great Hall.

As he rearranged the tables and benches into their configuration for breakfast the following morning, he analysed what had just passed between Miranda and Hermione. The realisation hit him abruptly that all the secrets between them were in the open now: Hermione knew that Snape was carrying on with Miranda, and Miranda had obviously divined Hermione's feelings for Snape. And then another insight popped into his head, one that left him so faint with self-disgust that he was unable to force himself to continue standing.

Flicking his wand at the doors of the hall, he closed them securely, unwilling that anyone should witness his weakness, and dropped onto one of the benches and put his head in his hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Breathing deeply, he opened his mind to what he had thought a moment ago and admitted that the cause of his recent distress, and the distress that Hermione, and now Miranda, had suffered, was himself. He had pursued a sexual relationship with Miranda despite the fact that she had used him, despite the fact that she was married, despite his interest in and affection for Hermione. He had allowed himself to believe that Hermione was uninterested in him, that she would judge him for succumbing to a curse, that she would not forgive him for an indiscretion that was no fault of his own. And he had used this belief as an excuse to carry on with Miranda, an excuse to hide things from Hermione, an excuse to justify his loss of temper with Draco on New Year's Day. And he had done it all because it was easier than the alternative. After a lifetime of standing up to Voldemort and Dumbledore and suffering for the sake of his pride and his loyalty, he had fallen at the first minor hurdle because he did not have the courage to stand up to himself.

Sickened, he lurched from the Great Hall and climbed the stairs to his rooms, locking the door behind him and groping his way into the bathroom. After a moment of hanging his head over the toilet and willing himself not to be sick, he switched on the taps and ran a bath. Sinking gratefully into the hot water, he pondered what course of action he should pursue. If it were shameful of him to have spent so much time deceiving himself, he thought, it would only worsen the problem to go about with his tail between his legs now. He could not go to Hermione, cap in hand, and expect forgiveness at this point; nor could he break things off with Miranda for reasons he should have told her at the start of their relationship. He would not compound cowardice with more cowardice, he decided. This was the bed he had made; now he would lie in it. He owed Hermione an explanation, but he would not insult her by asking for the indulgence of her pardon; he owed Miranda an explanation too, and if, after she had heard it, she wanted to continue their arrangement, he would give her his best effort and his respect.

***

The next morning, Snape went to Hermione's office and asked to speak with her. Solemnly, she invited him in and sat behind her desk, offering him the students' chair facing her. She steepled her fingers together and didn't speak as he took his seat.

Uncomfortable, but nevertheless determined, Snape finally said, 'I owe you an apology.'

'Go on,' she offered, not unkindly.

'I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you about Miranda. I should have told you what was happening several months ago.'

Hermione leaned back and looked thoughtful. For a few moments, she stared at a spot somewhere above his head, then responded, 'Yes, you should have. Why didn't you?'

Forthrightly, he said, 'It was simpler not to say anything.'

'Go on.'

'I've never been particularly at ease with other people's emotions. I couldn't face yours, whatever they might have been. And I'm especially reluctant to face my own.'

'Why are you doing so now?' she asked curiously.

Snape sighed. 'Because I decided it's better to do what is right than what is easy.'

Hermione smiled. 'Dumbledore used to say that.'

'I know.'

Silence fell again. Hermione didn't appear to have anything further to say, so Snape continued: 'I'm prepared to give you an explanation of what has been going on, if you wish it.'

'Yes, I wish it.' She looked at him expectantly.

Slowly, but without hesitation, he told her about the Lassi requiescamus, his reaction to Miranda afterward, and his altercation with Draco. Hermione listened patiently, holding his gaze with her own. Out of stubbornness, he refused to look away; that, too, in his estimation, would have been evidence of cowardice. He dearly would have preferred, however, to hide under a rock than to look her in the eye – not out of shame, but out of humiliation for having put himself into a position where apologies and explanations were necessary at all.

Hermione seemed to realise this: when he finished, she did not smile again, or offer any suggestion that she enjoyed or approved his humility. Instead, she asked, 'Do you love Miranda?'

'No,' he said.

'Does she love you?'

'I shouldn't think so.'

Hermione considered this intelligence, tapping her wand against the blotter on her desk. 'Since we're in confessional mode,' she commented, 'I should tell you that I think Miranda wants something from you other than casual sex.'

Snape raised his eyebrows involuntarily. 'Oh?' he said, surprised. 'Do you think she does love me?'

'No.'

'Then what does she want from me, Hermione?'

She shrugged, a maddening gesture Snape would have been happy never to see again. 'I couldn't even begin to guess,' she said. 'But she's not after you for you because then I doubt she would have so little concern for what has gone on between you and me.'

'How do you know that doesn't concern her?' Snape enquired curiously.

'She told me so,' Hermione said simply. 'Last night in the infirmary.'

'Did she,' he said slowly, thinking out loud. 'Why would she tell you that?'

'I suppose because it's true. Perhaps she was trying to make me feel better about treating her so unjustly at the Duelling Club.' Hermione flushed, clearly ashamed at her vengeful behaviour the previous night.

'Perhaps,' he allowed. 'I have always understood that she has no emotional investment in our... relationship.'

At this remark, Hermione looked faintly disgusted, but soldiered on: 'I'm right, then. There's something else she wants from you.'

'There could be,' Snape admitted.

'Do you know,' Hermione continued, as if she were having these thoughts for the first time, 'I suspect she wants something from me, too? Her behaviour toward me has not been entirely casual, and that seems... how shall I put it? Out of character, coming from her.'

'Oh?' Snape said again.

'I can't think what it might be, though,' she said. 'After all that's happened, any kind of friendship between us is more or less impossible.'

'Don't you think that's rather petty of you?' Snape asked sharply, unable to help himself.

She shrugged again, and his teeth ground together in annoyance. Standing, he decided to put an end to the interview, considering that he had accomplished what he had come here to do. She walked him to the door.

'Severus,' she stopped him, placing her hand lightly on his arm. 'Thank you for your apology. I'm glad you came to see me – I couldn't bear to lose you as a friend.'

'You're welcome, Hermione,' he answered. Returning to his chambers, he reckoned that their conversation had gone well, perhaps even better than he had expected; nevertheless, he was unsettled: first, by the thought that Miranda was taking some interest in Hermione – that struck him as somehow dangerous for Hermione herself – and second, by her parting remarks about losing him as a friend. Although he was grateful to be forgiven, he could not help but hear in her choice of words the death-knell of her romantic attraction to him. It did not occur to him that, for a woman like Hermione, friendship and romantic attraction were entirely compatible, and that, indeed, the first was a pre-requisite for the second.

***

Over the next few days, for reasons he could not identify, Snape's health deteriorated into what felt to him like the flu. His head hurt, his body ached all over, and he ran a fever that, though modest, refused to succumb to the potions he usually took for infections. On Tuesday morning he was forced to admit to the Headmaster that he was unable to teach his classes; Flitwick generously offered to cover his lessons and sent Madam Pomfrey to his chambers to see what she could do to help.

'When did these symptoms present?' she asked him, flicking her wand about his body.

'Saturday night,' he told her. 'That's when the headache began. The fever came Sunday night.'

'And nothing you've taken has helped?'

'No,' he admitted.

'Well,' she said, putting her hands on her hips, 'I can't see that there's anything seriously wrong with you, although the fact that your fever isn't dropping worries me. Get some rest today and drink plenty of fluids. I'll send Draco Malfoy round with a Cooling Draught to see if we can't bring your temperature down a bit. That should help with the headache, too.'

Snape thanked her weakly and fell asleep when she left. In the early evening he was awakened, not by Draco, but by Miranda, who had brought him the potion and a bucket full of ice water. She sat on the edge of the bed, dipped a flannel in the bucket, and bathed his forehead with the cold water.

'Are you feeling any better?' she enquired.

'Maybe a little.'

'Good.' She gave him the potion, and he swallowed it, grimacing at the bitter taste. 'You won't die,' she said, smiling at him. 'It's not poison.'

'What?' He looked suspiciously at the vial in his hand.

Miranda laughed. 'I suppose that kind of humour is out of place in a sickroom. I just wanted you to know I'm not angry with you.'

He stared at her in confusion.

'I know you apologised to Hermione,' she explained, refreshing the flannel in the bucket. 'You don't need to apologise to me.'

'I'm not in the mood for this, Miranda,' Snape confessed, massaging his temples. 'Can't we discuss this when I'm no longer ill?'

She took the vial from him and placed it on the nightstand, then stretched out on the bed next to him. 'Of course, but there's nothing to discuss. Whatever has gone on between you and Hermione is none of my business. I'm quite happy to leave it there, provided that she doesn't attack me again, which I don't think she will.'

'That's very generous of you,' he remarked dryly.

'It's not a question of generosity,' she said, lifting his head and cooling the back of his neck with the flannel. 'I'm just not very interested.'

'So if I went to Hermione now,' he said, turning on his side to face her, 'and made love to her, that wouldn't interest you?'

'Not much,' she admitted.

Snape considered this statement. 'I assume you wouldn't bother trying to lie to me,' he told her. 'If that's the case, and you're truly unconcerned what I do with Hermione, I feel compelled to ask why fidelity is so unimportant to you.'

'What makes you think I wouldn't lie to you?' she asked, evading his question.

He rose up on his elbow and leaned over her threateningly. Deliberately making eye contact, he said, his tone heavy with menace, 'I could open your mind like a book, if I were so inclined. I could peel back the pages of your consciousness and see every thought that has ever passed through your brain. I could be doing it right now, and you would never know.'

'Do it, then,' she challenged, her cold blue eyes meeting his unflinchingly.

'Answer my question first.'

To her credit, she didn't pretend not to remember. 'Fidelity,' she stated, 'relates only to ego and disease prevention. I don't think so poorly of myself that other beautiful, intelligent women threaten my self-esteem. I don't think so poorly of you that I believe you would endanger my health. So why should I insist that you be faithful?'

'And what if I loved her?' he asked in a low voice.

She regarded him curiously for a long moment, as if wondering whether he did love Hermione. Then she blinked and shook her head. 'No, I don't think that would bother me either – although I would certainly wonder,' she added, 'why you were sleeping with me.'

'And why should I sleep with you,' he pressed, imposing himself further into her personal space, 'if you care so little what I might do with other women?'

'Because you enjoy it,' she said simply. 'Why else would you do it?'

'You disingenuous fool,' he said wearily, rolling onto his back.

Miranda pulled back the bedclothes and ran the cold flannel across his chest. 'Why am I a fool, Severus?' she enquired, unoffended.

'People often do things for reasons other than because they enjoy them,' he said.

'Do people often have sex for reasons other than because they enjoy it?'

'Of course,' he snapped.

'What reasons are these, then?'

'Duty, boredom, revenge, intoxication, power... need I go on?'

'To alleviate a headache, perhaps?' she asked, smiling and bending down to kiss his breastbone.

'Well,' he responded, pulling her into a straddling position across his hips, 'we can but hope.'

***

Sometime during the night, Snape awoke to find Miranda still in bed with him. 'Miranda,' he whispered, shaking her gently. 'You should go.'

She burrowed deeper under the covers in response. 'No,' she murmured.

'You don't want to catch what I've got,' he told her, poking her in the bum with his knee. 'Go on.'

Flipping over, she pinned him by throwing an arm and a leg across his body and said indistinctly, 'Shut up.'

He sighed and slid her leg off his stomach, which was feeling rather sensitive, and positioned it over his thighs. 'Fine, but if you get sick, you have only yourself to blame.' She snuggled in closer, and he allowed himself to relax again, knowing that he couldn't force her to leave without suggesting that he, personally, wished for her to go, and thereby offending her.

Just as he was drifting back to sleep, he heard her mumble something into his shoulder. It was such an odd statement that, when he remembered it in the morning, he decided he must have dreamt it. For, to his fatigue-fogged ears, it had sounded as if she had said, 'What you've got isn't catching.'