Christmas Wine

_{AN: Warning: Serious AU alert. This was written long before we knew anything of Snape's past/family situation, so his history from here on out is of my own pure brain. Also, Hermione's assessment of Snape is based partially on the PoA movie; you'll know which scene when it comes up.}

14 - Christmas Wine

Hermione's feet were silent as she crept down the stairs; it was barely dawn and she didn't want to wake anyone. She had always risen early on Christmas mornings, filled with the excitement of the day to come, but had learned that her parents, at least, did not appreciate five am wake-up calls. So she simply enjoyed the hushed, expectant atmosphere by herself.

To her startlement, she realised as soon as she entered the parlour that solitude would not be a part of her morning this year. Her professor was at the window again this morning, this time staring out at the snow-covered lawn.

"Good morning, sir," she said quietly. He tensed at the sound of her voice, but did not turn around. "Happy Christmas." She made her way carefully across the room, avoiding the piles of gifts as she took a place on the windowseat beside him.

"You have arisen early today," he remarked.

"You are up late," she countered gently, well aware that he would not be here unless he had not been to bed in the first place.

"Christmas morning is not something I generally care to wake up to," he answered dryly.

"I'll try not to be annoyingly cheerful, then." Hermione matched his dryness. "I make no promises about Genie, though, and I warn you: it will be soon and terrible. Perhaps you should escape now before she gets you."

"If you wish." Snape half-rose before Hermione grabbed his arm.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" she hissed. "Now sit down, you silly, obstinate man." He glared at her, but allowed her to guide him back to his seat. She sighed as she dropped back onto the windowseat. "I meant what I said last night," she reminded him quietly.

"I don't belong here," he said simply.

"You do if you want to." This wasn't a time for fancy words. "Do you?" He merely shrugged in reply and they lapsed into silence. After long moments, Hermione commented, "It's beautiful out there."

"It is cold and wet out there," Snape corrected.

To his surprise, she laughed. "No one would ever accuse you of being romantic," she teased.

"Hardly," he drawled. "Not even my mother would have accused me of that one. I suppose it was not in her list of perfections."

Hermione saw her opening and pounced. "What was she like, your mother?"

Snape raised an eyebrow at her. "I imagine you wonder what sort of person could spawn something like me?" At her scowl, he shrugged and became pensive, eyes drifting to gaze at the emptiness beyond the window. "She was... beautiful," he said finally, "but fragile. Rather like a spun-sugar dancer. And as damnably easy to break." Hermione said nothing. "You're nothing like her, you know," he added maliciously.

She realised he was trying to bait her, distract her, so she didn't feel insulted. Besides, why deny the truth? "I shouldn't think so," she replied idly. "I'm the good, old-fashioned farmer's daughter, after all. Strong like ox, stubborn like mule. And with the corresponding features. Stocky, with the snub nose and stubborn chin..." She raised the latter. "I'm surprised, really, that I didn't get the freckles and cow eyes to go along with everything else."

Hermione never realised that lifting her chin had brought another feature into prominence. And if she had, she would never have thought it of interest to Professor Snape. So it came as a shock when he took advantage of their proximity and lowered his lips to hers.

Warmth. Like spiced wine: sweet, heady, comforting, with a touch of something more... promising. It swept around and through both of them, creating a realm entirely divorced from everything they knew.

But a slight intrusion, no more than the sound of Crookshanks leaping onto the sofa, was enough to pour cold water on this illusion. Snape pulled away instantly, as though burned. Hermione blinked owlishly at the man who had just kissed her, her fingers tentatively exploring her still-sensitive lips. She watched Sna... Severus... focus on her with an expression that was indecipherable, before he practically threw himself to his feet and rushed out the door. Still in shock, she lost valuable moments, only shaking herself out of her stupor and into a temper when she heard his door open and close. She then began to swear, fluently and with great inventiveness, when she heard the lock slide home. Two bloody steps forward, three fucking steps back. Well, damned if I'll let him get away with it. Determined, she got to her feet and quietly stalked after him.

Alohomora wasn't an option, but it didn't make a bit of difference; it was her room, after all, and she knew where the spare key was. And she'd also be damned if she knocked. With some consideration for the others still sleeping, she yanked the door open, then shut it softly. The scene that met her eyes pissed her off even more.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she hissed. His travelling case was centred on the bed, and clothes were rapidly disappearing into it.

"I should think that was obvious, Miss Granger, even to you."

"Ah, I see. Running away, are we?" Hermione's voice was sickly sweet. "The Big Bad Wolf's kissed a girl and turned into a chicken?"

"Hardly." Though the words were said in his customary drawl, a slight flush appeared on his cheeks. "What just happened was entirely inappropriate. Removing myself from your home is simply a matter of prudence."

"Inappropriate?" she snorted. "Tell me, what was so inappropriate? You can't tell me it's our difference in ages; many wizarding couples have up to fifty years in age difference. A mere twenty-odd is hardly an obstacle. Nor can you tell me that it's unethical for a student-teacher relationship to form. I've read the school rules, Professor. As long as the couple is open and aboveboard and complies with a few minor regulations, Hogwarts is perfectly accepting of such. In fact, no fewer than twenty couples have resulted in the last century. Besides which, we haven't even decided if one bloody kiss is going to result in any sort of relationship." She finished with a snap and glared at him, daring him to say something.

He was turned away from her, but she could see his shoulders rise and fall as he took several deep breaths, attempting to control whatever emotion she had stirred.

"I'm not good enough for you," he began. "The things I've done... "

"Bullshit," she interjected rudely. "If anyone has a high opinion of you, it's yourself. I've watched you for nearly seven years, Snape; that attempt won't wash. The only problem you have with your self-opinion is that you've been trying desperately for someone to share it. Well. You've got what you wanted. Someone to recognise your talents and gifts and applaud you for them. Huzzah. Now try again. Come on. Or is one little Gryffindor too much for you to handle?"

She continued, sniping at any little thing she could think of, trying to find something that would make him tell her the truth. Finally, his emotions got the better of him. His fist slammed down on the desk with such force that it was surprising the wood didn't crack. "I will not become my father," he hissed. He refused to look at her.

"That's a rather enigmatic statement," Hermione said carefully. "One that I think requires some elucidation if you want me to accept it." Behind the screen of hair, she could just barely make out thinned lips and pinched nostrils. She waited.

"My mother was barely sixteen," he said eventually, speaking more to the wall than to her. "My father forty-two when he married her. He took advantage of her youth, her innocence, her naïveté in every possible way he could think of. She was dead by age twenty-three. And I will be damned if I do the same."

There was silence for a long moment before Hermione moved carefully to sit on the bed in front of him. She took his hand in hers; he watched her emotionlessly. "Severus." He looked away. "Severus," she repeated more firmly. "You are not your father."

"I know what I am capable of."

"So do I, Severus," she reminded him. "I am not an innocent, especially not in that respect. I know what you are capable of. But I also know that you would die for me, if need be."

"What?" He looked at her incredulously.

"Third year. The night Professor Lupin changed. You put yourself in front of us, Professor. You didn't have your wand; there wasn't anything you could have done. But it was your first reaction. Not to run or to fight, but to protect."

"You were... are... a student. It was my job," he replied harshly.

"And has that changed?" she asked sensibly. "I'm still a student. You're still trying to protect me." She lifted herself onto her knees on the bed, bringing her face almost level with his. "Would that change because I care about you? Would that change... because you care about me?" Hermione shook her head. "I can't believe that. I can't believe that the man I know... the man I've come to know... would change so completely."

"You don't know me, Hermione."

"All I'm asking for is the chance to!" she protested. A frustrated sigh escaped her. "Look, don't think I don't appreciate what you're trying to do, but this is the twentieth century, not the tenth. I don't need some damned chivalrous knight to protect me and I sure as hell am not going to settle for some fucked up version of courtly love just because you're too damned scared to take the risk!"

A tiny smile curled the corners of his lips. "I am too old for this rigmarole, Hermione Granger."

"You're never too old for anything until you're dead," she shot back.

"That may be taken care of before long," he remarked, suddenly sombre.

"I know," Hermione said calmly, lifting her hand to cup his cheek. "There are no guarantees for either of us. But no matter what happens, I want memories, not regrets, Severus."

Severus said nothing, but mirrored her own gesture. He then pulled her close; promises don't always require words.