Twenty-Two

Disclaimer: They’re not mine.

“Congratulations, Miss Granger!”

Mugs of butterbeer were lifted all around. Even Snape, Hermione was shocked to see, acceded to Professor Vector’s request, intoning his congratulations along with the others. Professor McGonagall, in particular, looked as though she was thrilled to be out of Hogwarts Castle and on the town, enjoying a drink with her colleagues and students.

“Thank you,” Hermione mumbled, her cheeks ablaze. She sipped quietly at her butterbeer, reveling in the pride and satisfaction washing over her in waves. Somehow, despite the many times she’d been convinced failure was just on the horizon, she’d succeeded not only in accelerating the healing process for Snape but also in gaining acceptance to university in London, after which she would begin an apprenticeship with Professor Vector at Hogwarts.

It was, she reflected, the single most wonderful day of her life. Surely nothing, not even marrying or having a child, could compare with the elation she now felt. Her future—more than that, her dream job—was a virtual guarantee.

“Such a lovely evening,” Professor Vector remarked, leaning back in the booth. They’d managed to squeeze the three women in one side while Snape and Professor Flitwick occupied the other bench. Hermione nodded in agreement with her instructor’s words, finding that she was rather amused by the contrast between Snape’s large, imposing form and Flitwick’s diminutive stature. She managed to stifle a giggle and decided she should cut herself off after her current mug.

“I had no idea that Mr. Potter was brining Miss Weasley here this evening.” The Headmistress’ gaze, ever watchful, had alighted upon the slim form of a red-haired girl several booths down and her dark-haired male companion, who was facing them.

Hermione had noticed Harry and Ginny immediately upon their arrival. She’d been suspicious of Ginny’s whereabouts the past two weeks, and her absence that day had only made the burgeoning feeling of dread in her stomach multiply and take over. Ginny’s behavior had been increasingly erratic, and Hermione didn’t know to what, or whom, she should ascribe it, other than Harry. Ginny had skipped several classes, sleeping late into the day and then disappearing in the evening, only to return at an absurdly early hour in the morning.

“I’m glad to see her here, actually,” Professor Flitwick squeaked, closing both of his tiny hands firmly around his mug. “I am rather… concerned about Miss Weasley, to be honest. She missed several of my class periods this week, as well as several of your class periods, Severus, correct?”

“Indeed.” Snape lifted his eyes from the wall he’d been observing, and his gaze met Hermione’s. She tried not to flinch, instead burying her face in her mug of butterbeer. Short of a brief and wholly professional reply to her owl in which he’d stated that he found her modifications perfectly satisfactory, he hadn’t offered a single word to Hermione outside of class. Her attempts to remain behind, lingeringly placing her quills and parchment away and cleaning her supplies, had always failed; he’d stalked out of the room abruptly or busied himself with grading, and she’d been left to assume that she was to finish her work and leave on her own time.

Hermione was struggling not to feel rejected. She knew, however, that she had to be patient. He’d felt something that afternoon two weeks ago in his quarters—she knew he had—but as Madam Pomfrey had warned her, his feelings and abilities where women were concerned were in dire need of patience, compassion, and rehabilitation. She longed to pull him aside and whisper frantically to him, beg him to end her suffering and confirm for her that he’d felt it too, but she couldn’t. Even if she hadn’t wanted to push things too quickly, she was still his student.

The sound of Professor Vector’s short slurp brought Hermione back to the present. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?” she was saying.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione said immediately. “I’m afraid I… wandered off there for a moment. What were you saying, Professor?”

“I was asking if you’ve found Miss Weasley’s behavior to be rather bizarre of late,” Professor Vector clarified. She didn’t look annoyed, Hermione was relieved to note. Instead, she flagged down a few more butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta, offering one to Hermione, who declined with a polite shake of her head. “It’s not fair for us to push our noses in the students’ personal lives, but it’s hard not to be concerned when they display such sudden changes in character. And if even Severus agrees…”

Snape glowered at her. “I am not wholly unobservant, madam.”

Professor Vector grinned wickedly. “But you are wholly intolerant of Weasleys, sir.”

Snape pressed this thin lips together disapprovingly. “Miss Weasley has never exactly epitomized the dedicated student, though she is”—he raised a finger to forestall Professor Vector’s objections—“a vast improvement over her siblings.”

“I suspect even you would cower if she turned a Bat-Bogey Hex in your direction, dear boy,” Professor Flitwick said with a chortle. “I wouldn’t speak too ill of Miss Weasley within her hearing.”

“She’s rather too consumed with berating her betrothed at the moment, I imagine,” Snape replied, taking a languid sip of his drink. Hermione had been surreptitiously inspecting the liquor all evening, and had finally concluded that he was a man who enjoyed his brandy.

“What’s this you say?” the Headmistress demanded, placing her mug of butterbeer down a little too forcefully upon the table. “Is she to marry Mr. Potter?”

“I ran into Arthur Weasley in London this week,” Snape murmured, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. Hermione noticed with glazed eyes that the muscle he’d begun to gain over the past few weeks appeared to be sticking to his frame; he looked filled out, healthy, and undeniably virile. “He informed me that Miss Weasley owled her parents with the news.”

“Did you know about this, Miss Granger?” Professor Flitwick asked her with a startled and shrill voice.

“Ye-es,” Hermione said hesitantly. “Is there a problem?”

“I can understand that they might get a bit carried away in the throes of romance, but a recent engagement is no excuse for missing classes,” Professor Flitwick explained, draining the last of his drink. “I meant no offense, my dear. I’m terribly fond of both of them, but I cannot condone gallivanting off together during the middle of the school day—”

“If indeed that’s what they’ve been doing,” Professor Vector interjected, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “They don’t look so cozy now.”

Hermione had noticed the same thing since laying eyes on her friends. Ginny’s posture conveyed barely contained fury; she was rigidly sitting in her seat, feet planted firmly, arms crossed. Hermione couldn’t see her face, but she could easily read the message her shoulders sent: she was regarding Harry as though just waiting to strike, both verbally and physically.

What followed immediately afterward, therefore, didn’t shock her in the least. Ginny stood bolt upright and hurled the remainder of her drink in Harry’s unsuspecting face. He, in turn, grew beet red with mortification and hissed in a tone audible to the entire building, “Ginny, sit down!”

“No!” she screamed at him, fists clenched at her sides. “I knew you would do this to me, Harry James Potter! I knew you would back out!”

“Back out?” he yelled, rising to his feet to bear down over her. “Back out? It was your bloody idea in the first place! If you’d just been willing to wait a few more years—”

“I don’t have years!” Ginny screeched. “Are you out of your mind? I see how you look at other girls! I waited years to get you to notice me, Harry. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to stand by while you ruined everything?”

“But you didn’t have to insist on marriage!” he bellowed. “I wouldn’t even have proposed if you hadn’t given me an ultimatum! It was meant to be a—a promise ring, not a commitment now.”

The entire restaurant had quieted, every patron watching them with breath held and gaze rapt. Hermione felt the sinking sensation of understanding. Ginny’s odd behavior, her alternating sullenness and absolute exuberance, her insistence on quick wedding preparations and her indignant response when Ron had mentioned that Harry felt otherwise—it all fell into place with an ominous thud.

“I can’t believe you!” Ginny was screaming. She’d moved out of her seat and was standing practically in the middle of the room, an accusatory finger pointed stiffly in Harry’s direction. “You proposed! You chose it! You said you wanted to do it! If you didn’t want to—”

“What choice did I have? You threatened to leave me!”

“Then you should have let me!” she shrieked. “You should have just let me go! I thought you loved me! I’ve been such a fool, thinking you loved me all this time when you were content just to get sex from me! Did you honestly think that this was all I wanted? That I was just going to sit at home and wait for you to come back from touring like some dutiful little whore? I want my own life, Harry! And I want a husband! I want someone devoted to me!” The malice in her eyes was frightening to behold; they glittered darkly as she berated him. “You’re pathetic, Harry James Potter. You’re immature, you’re selfish, you’re egotistical. Has it completely escaped your attention that the rest of the world doesn’t operate this way? That not everything can revolve around what you want for the rest of your life?”

Ginny seemed to have run out of breath. Tears were coursing down her face. Through muffled sobs, she could continue only brokenly. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe all the time and effort and faith I put into you. And for what? This isn’t how people who are in love are supposed to act, Harry. This isn’t what they’re supposed to do.” Her arms flew up, gesticulating toward the table where Hermione sat, frozen. She’d been earnestly praying that Ginny hadn’t yet noticed her presence. “Merlin, Harry. You’re so selfish. You haven’t done anything for me that wasn’t to get what you wanted. Hermione—” She choked on her next statement as though it had suddenly made clear to her the true depth of her disillusion. “Hermione’s been in love with Snape for bloody years, and look what she did. She healed him! She gave up everything this year to heal him, just to see him feel better. That’s love. That’s devotion. What have you ever done for me, Harry? Do you even know what love is supposed to be?”

Hermione wanted to feel pity and sympathy for her friend, but when she finally mustered up the courage to identify the emotions suffusing her body, there was only cold, pure hate. Every gaze in the room, including Snape’s, had locked onto her with palpable force; but Ginny, too consumed with crying and continuing her tirade, never even noticed.

Hermione closed her eyes, trying in vain to shut out the clamor. She wanted to open them to her safe place, to that corner of the Hogwarts library where she’d known only peace and safety. Instead, she could feel the stiffness cording the Headmistress’ arms beside her and the shocked exhalation that shook Professor Vector’s normally hearty frame.

She opened her eyes and knew with crystalline surety that she was going to vomit. She barely managed to mumble “Pardon me” to Professor Vector before tripping over the other woman’s lap and stumbling out the door. It wasn’t until the cold air made contact with the skin of her throat that she came to her senses and realized she was still clutching her mug of butterbeer.

She set it beside her and leaned against the welcoming solidity of the building, sliding forlornly to the ground. Her alarm had been for nothing—the nausea was passing—but she was profoundly glad to have made her escape. Of all the ways in which she’d imagined Snape discovering her secret, all the ignominious circumstances she’d known could arise as a result of her indiscretions, she’d never considered this.

She’d wanted him to have the security to make the first move. If anything was to happen between them, she knew—she knew with a certainty borne of weeks of poring over his medical records, itching for any and every glimpse into his damaged psyche—that it would have to be done on his time and under his terms. His decimated ego couldn’t take anything else. He couldn’t view the situation as under any influence but his own.

Clapping a hand to her mouth, she forced herself to breathe evenly. What was he doing in there? Was he sitting there fuming? Barking at everyone who dared to stare at him? Making eyes at him in the private confines of his own rooms was one thing, but this was absolute public humiliation. This was the nakedness and the publicity that he’d always shunned when the press had tried to lay bare his love life and his obsession with Lily Evans.

And now he would know precisely where her interest in Lily Evans lay. She allowed her head to fall forward into her cupped palms, groaning. Now Hermione Granger would be nothing to him but a reckless, imprudent, stupid Gryffindor clumsily trying to gather information. All her kind words, all her assurances, all her sincere questions about his life and his health would seem like bumbling attempts at espionage to satisfy the illicit yearning of a schoolgirl crush.

She squatted by the building in mounting terror, her heartbeat and breathing having become so excessively desperate that she’d nearly reached a state of hyperventilation. Finally, after what felt like eons, she heard the telltale creak of the door opening.

Hermione veered to the side, bashing her head painfully against the stone wall. Suppressing a groan, she rose stiffly to her feet, praying that they would hold her. The combined effects of embarrassment and butterbeer rendered her unsteady as she stood.

She’d hoped briefly and fervently that it would be simply some unrecognizable patron emerging, a complete stranger, but of course it was him. It was dusk, and the normally soft and seductive indigo tones of the enveloping night only enhanced the hard expression on his face and the depthless anger in his eyes.

“Professor,” she croaked, “I am so—”

He turned on his heel and began to head back toward the castle. “Do not speak to me, Miss Granger.”

“But sir—” She couldn’t think about what would happen in the future. The mere thought of their acquaintance ending so painfully and prematurely, there beside a nondescript pub on a Hogsmeade weekend, drove a hot and unrelenting blade into her bowels. “Please, just give me a moment to explain.”

He whirled where he stood, and his hand shot forward as though to grab her by the shoulder and shake her. He brought himself under control at the very last second, withdrawing his hand. “I will not repeat myself again, Miss Granger. Do not speak to me.”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, tears pooling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I would never have chosen for you to find out that way. Please believe me.”

“What I believe,” he whispered, his voice lethal and silky, “is that I have been proven correct. I knew that you could not be counted upon to keep the private information in this little venture to yourself. I imagine that in addition to sharing the sordid details of your wholly inappropriate little delusion with your friend, you have also made her privy to the many indelicacies of my past over these months. Am I accurate in that assessment, Miss Granger?”

Hermione choked on her reply. She wanted to tell him no, but it would have been a lie. She’d shared many, many things with Ginny that she shouldn’t have; the truth of her lust for Snape and the conflict of interest it presented in pursuing a project that demanded total clinical detachment was only the beginning.

“Sir,” she pleaded, her voice cracking, “I can’t lie to you. I did… Yes, I told Ginny things I shouldn’t have, things that I couldn’t keep to myself because the thought of what you’ve suffered over these years was killing me.”

“Spare me your pitiful justifications, Miss Granger,” he sneered. “I have no wish to be on the receiving end of your perverted little mothering complex.”

Hermione recoiled as if he’d struck her. “That’s not it at all,” she whispered, her teeth chattering as she drew her arms around herself, still crying. “Please, please don’t think that all of this was d-done out of—of—an ulterior motive. I wanted an apprenticeship, and I wanted to help you. There was no—”

“There was gross misconduct from the very beginning, Miss Granger!” he thundered, advancing toward her menacingly. “If you think that this is anything other than an absolute betrayal of professional and academic integrity, you are sorely mistaken. I have no wish to listen to further excuses.”

Hermione bit her lip, trying to stifle a whimper. She’d lost him, she knew, but having to witness him slip away and recede into the night until his body became an incorporeal dream was more than she could bear.

“Then I demand that you listen,” she managed through a tightly clenched jaw. “I invoke your life debt, Severus Snape.”

He froze in his tracks. An odd, icy-blue glow seemed to emanate from the very ground beneath their feet, rising in luminescent waves to form an enfolding aura around their bodies. She could feel the sheer force of the ancient magic binding them, holding him to her will at penalty of death.

Hermione walked around him slowly, staring at the tracks her boots left, her entire body trembling with the knowledge of what she was about to do. When at last she stood before him, her chest scant inches from his, her eyes searching his face, she’d managed to find the words.

“I have been in love with you, Professor, for as long as I can remember,” she murmured. Tears obscured her vision, which was probably a blessing; she couldn’t clearly see the way he was grating his teeth with suppressed rage. “In reality, I suppose it was somewhere around fifth or sixth year. I don’t expect you to understand or respect the way I feel because it’s a betrayal of my status as your student, and I know that. But I can’t let you leave here tonight—” She threw out an arm despairingly, trying to convey to him the terrible sadness that overcame her at the thought of their last real conversation concluding on a lonely street, bitter and without witness. “This can’t be it,” she begged him. “But if it is, if it must be, then I need you to know that everything I’ve done has been from the honest desire to help you. Even if I’m not the one with whom you regain your strength and your passion for life, then let’s both walk away from here tonight knowing that what we accomplished wasn’t sullied by perversion, or whatever it is you imagine I’m feeling.”

His expression remained unreadable. Hermione, having started, couldn’t seem to control the flood of words demanding release. She clutched a hand to her chest, partially to warm her shaking body; but partially, too, she sought to assuage the debilitating ache that had lodged itself in her heart since the first time she’d seen him wincing with that perpetual, unyielding pain. To be denied the chance to ever see him recover fully was a brand of justice far crueler than Hermione could endure.

“And if you have to dwell on the impropriety of my feelings,” she sobbed, “then don’t twist them into something unrecognizable. If you can’t let me be proud to have loved someone I admire and respect so much, then at least spare me the need to loathe myself. Because no matter how much you loathe me, no matter how disgusted you are at the idea that someone who’s less than beautiful and virtuous could want you so badly, I need you to know that this wasn’t something repugnant. If I pried—if I asked too many questions about your past and about Lily Evans and all the things you didn’t want brought up—it’s because I’ll be damned if I can understand how a woman could look at you and see a man who’s anything less than amazing.”

She took a step toward him, her eyes still brimming with tears but her words fierce. “Sir, you can hate me all you want, and there’s not a thing I can do about it; but don’t twist this into something I should be ashamed of because I can’t do that. You can fail me in Potions, and you can confine me to my rooms, and you can blacklist me from every library and every classroom in every institution of learning, but you can’t take away from me the fact that I can see potential here, between the two of us.

“I won’t let you,” she finished on a whisper.

Her energy abated suddenly. As though sensing the finality of her words, the magic released them both. Hermione almost staggered under the bizarre loss of sensation. His autonomy returned, Snape favored her with only a condescending stare before walking past her without turning back.