Finding Love
Status: In-Progress
Pairing: SS/HP, Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's notes: -
Summary: To find love is like to seek for a treasure. You have to take courage to find it, added with a small dose of foolhardiness.
Chapter 13
Snape’s eyes were searching for something behind her. The intensity of his gaze almost made her turn her head around to see what or who the man had been looking for. Then half a second later, when Snape failed to find what he was seeking, he looked so crestfallen that it was almost comical.
Suddenly, she realized who Snape had been expecting to show up here with her.
Harry!
Amusement danced in her eyes, but she managed to keep her face straight.
Of course, it was Harry.
Who else could rouse such emotion in Snape?
Despite Ron and Harry’s fervent belief, she found that Snape wasn’t that awful. Yes, the man was prejudiced against Gryffindor or any other Houses other than his own. But with all the rivalry, she could understand it. After all, sometimes, she also got this blood-thirsty rage toward Slytherin.
But mostly, if she had to describe the Potion Master was that the man was aloof, his manner was icy indifference. One wouldn’t believe Snape was capable of such passion if the man didn’t hate Harry that much.
Well, now, she thought about it again, only Harry could make Snape so terribly angry. Even Neville, whom the Potion Master regarded with absolute horror, had never tempted the man to wring his neck, whereas Harry could invoke such reaction so easily, just for merely existing.
Though, over the last few days, Harry had told her that he and Snape were quickly becoming attached to each other, that both of them were, at some point, friendly. Ron had scoffed at the notion, but she had reserved judgment about it.
Sometimes, it’s nice to be wrong, and this was one of those moments.
“Miss Granger,” the man said with detached politeness, acknowledging her presence, his disappointment and any other emotions perfectly walled off behind an impenetrable barrier.
“Professor,” she replied with a small smile.
XxXxX
Potter hadn’t come.
Or more precisely, Granger had said that Potter couldn’t come.
She hadn’t provided the reason, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
The truth was that he had shown her more than he intended her to see.
He couldn't think of anything more mortifying. His prized self-control was in tatters, bare emotions had shown plainly on his face, obvious to anyone watching.
Because much to his dismay, there were two things he couldn’t handle well, no matter how hard he tried. First, it was Harry Potter, and the latter was disappointment, of which the former usually followed closely by the latter.
As for the reason why Potter didn’t visit him today, it crossed his mind that the boy might have felt offended because he had thrown him out of his room without any explanation, when it was him who had insisted on knowing the whole story.
But Granger had passed him the food package and the Daily Prophet and said: “Harry asked me to give you this, Professor.”
That tiny gesture had showed that Potter hadn't taken his actions as a personal affront.
Then again, Potter might be many things, but the boy was neither mean nor spiteful.
If he was, Severus doubted he’d fall in love with him in the first place.
Depressed by reasons beyond his control, he picked up the newspaper to divert his growing discontentment.
On the front page of the December 19, 2002, in bold, capital letters, the Daily Prophet announced: FREAK MARSHMALLOW BLIZZARDS HIT LONDON. It reported that the suspect of that crime has been taken into custody and the Aurors launched an investigation into the matter to determine the motive. The relatives of the suspect admitted that the said wizard was widely known as severely disturbed for some time.
Severus rolled his eyes heavenward in disgust.
For pity’s sake, he hadn’t risked his neck so this mad fool of a wizard could play prank on Muggles.
Unfolding the rest of the newspaper, he scanned critically for the rest of page one, which in his opinion was just as unimportant as the headline, before turning to the next page.
Of all sudden, an envelope popped out of the Daily Prophet and landed straight to his lap.
He froze, staring at the offending, though quite innocent-looking item, which had appeared out of thin air.
Some mechanism had been triggered, likely keyed to his touch, perhaps by opening the next page of the newspaper. But he couldn’t decide without inspecting it further, whether it was dangerous or harmless.
Waving his wand, he made it floating in mid air. He tested it through the feasible list of curses with just one flick of his wrist, and then frowned when he found nothing.
Gingerly picked it up by using his thumb and index finger (to prove his theory that skin contact could have initiated the hidden magic), he put it as far as he could from his face and mentally cringed as he waited for the reaction that might have resulted from it.
The seconds were ticking away, but so far, it hadn’t exploded in his face, hadn’t oozed a torrent of nasty viscous substance which could melt his flesh and bone.
Frowning deeper, he broke the red wax seal and opened the envelope, and then slowly pulled out its contents. A single, thin paper, which looked more like a note than a letter, was revealed. He straightened it from its folded state to read it.
The first words his eyes fell on brought an unflattering, red blotch to his cheeks.
‘Dear Snivellus’, it had said, which had made him blistering with anger.
What in Merlin’s name was this? A new form of harassment?
He scowled as he thought of the possible perpetrators who knew this derogatory nickname from his school days. He ought to burn it down, the whole thing until what was left was only burning cinders, but his curiosity got the better of him.
The next one was, ‘If you read this, then I can safely conclude my offering has appeased your anger’.
His eyebrow rose quizzically at the sentence.
Did it refer to the food or the newspaper? Furthermore, could any of it be categorized as such; an offering?
And to his knowledge, he hadn’t been angry at anyone in particular lately, at least no one who was still alive. Why did the writer of this letter assumed he would be?
Feeling confused, he suddenly felt the need to read the rest of it more quickly.
‘I know this may sound like an excuse.
But I can assure you, I’m not running away from anything, rather, duty calls.
I got an assignment about baby, er, guarding some foreign diplomat’s family.
A matter of national importance, you know.’
Severus snorted at the underlined words.
Suddenly, the letter made more sense. He now knew who had written it. Potter, apparently, needed to explain that he had babysitting duties and didn’t want him to think that he hadn’t come today because he was afraid of him.
Shaking his head at the boy’s inane explanation, he felt the edge of his lips turned up as his mood improved.
It was right what they had said, misery did love company.
However, his mood soured again when he read the next sentence, ‘Can’t promise when I’ll be released from the job…’
His heart heavy, he felt reluctant to read the next part as he had almost reached the last part of the letter.
‘P.S.: Er, when it’s Ron’s turn to show up, please, don’t hex him.
P.S.S.: I’m serious, please don’t.’
He hovered between amused and annoyed, rankled by the obvious, grammar mistake Potter had written in his letter as it was supposed to be P.P.S., not P.S.S.
Grammar mistake aside, when he read the next line, an abrupt laugh escaped his mouth.
For Potter had ended it with the perfect silver lining:
‘I am, Sir, your most humble and obedient servant,
Evans.’
End of Chapter 13
Pairing: SS/HP, Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's notes: -
Summary: To find love is like to seek for a treasure. You have to take courage to find it, added with a small dose of foolhardiness.
Chapter 13
Snape’s eyes were searching for something behind her. The intensity of his gaze almost made her turn her head around to see what or who the man had been looking for. Then half a second later, when Snape failed to find what he was seeking, he looked so crestfallen that it was almost comical.
Suddenly, she realized who Snape had been expecting to show up here with her.
Harry!
Amusement danced in her eyes, but she managed to keep her face straight.
Of course, it was Harry.
Who else could rouse such emotion in Snape?
Despite Ron and Harry’s fervent belief, she found that Snape wasn’t that awful. Yes, the man was prejudiced against Gryffindor or any other Houses other than his own. But with all the rivalry, she could understand it. After all, sometimes, she also got this blood-thirsty rage toward Slytherin.
But mostly, if she had to describe the Potion Master was that the man was aloof, his manner was icy indifference. One wouldn’t believe Snape was capable of such passion if the man didn’t hate Harry that much.
Well, now, she thought about it again, only Harry could make Snape so terribly angry. Even Neville, whom the Potion Master regarded with absolute horror, had never tempted the man to wring his neck, whereas Harry could invoke such reaction so easily, just for merely existing.
Though, over the last few days, Harry had told her that he and Snape were quickly becoming attached to each other, that both of them were, at some point, friendly. Ron had scoffed at the notion, but she had reserved judgment about it.
Sometimes, it’s nice to be wrong, and this was one of those moments.
“Miss Granger,” the man said with detached politeness, acknowledging her presence, his disappointment and any other emotions perfectly walled off behind an impenetrable barrier.
“Professor,” she replied with a small smile.
XxXxX
Potter hadn’t come.
Or more precisely, Granger had said that Potter couldn’t come.
She hadn’t provided the reason, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
The truth was that he had shown her more than he intended her to see.
He couldn't think of anything more mortifying. His prized self-control was in tatters, bare emotions had shown plainly on his face, obvious to anyone watching.
Because much to his dismay, there were two things he couldn’t handle well, no matter how hard he tried. First, it was Harry Potter, and the latter was disappointment, of which the former usually followed closely by the latter.
As for the reason why Potter didn’t visit him today, it crossed his mind that the boy might have felt offended because he had thrown him out of his room without any explanation, when it was him who had insisted on knowing the whole story.
But Granger had passed him the food package and the Daily Prophet and said: “Harry asked me to give you this, Professor.”
That tiny gesture had showed that Potter hadn't taken his actions as a personal affront.
Then again, Potter might be many things, but the boy was neither mean nor spiteful.
If he was, Severus doubted he’d fall in love with him in the first place.
Depressed by reasons beyond his control, he picked up the newspaper to divert his growing discontentment.
On the front page of the December 19, 2002, in bold, capital letters, the Daily Prophet announced: FREAK MARSHMALLOW BLIZZARDS HIT LONDON. It reported that the suspect of that crime has been taken into custody and the Aurors launched an investigation into the matter to determine the motive. The relatives of the suspect admitted that the said wizard was widely known as severely disturbed for some time.
Severus rolled his eyes heavenward in disgust.
For pity’s sake, he hadn’t risked his neck so this mad fool of a wizard could play prank on Muggles.
Unfolding the rest of the newspaper, he scanned critically for the rest of page one, which in his opinion was just as unimportant as the headline, before turning to the next page.
Of all sudden, an envelope popped out of the Daily Prophet and landed straight to his lap.
He froze, staring at the offending, though quite innocent-looking item, which had appeared out of thin air.
Some mechanism had been triggered, likely keyed to his touch, perhaps by opening the next page of the newspaper. But he couldn’t decide without inspecting it further, whether it was dangerous or harmless.
Waving his wand, he made it floating in mid air. He tested it through the feasible list of curses with just one flick of his wrist, and then frowned when he found nothing.
Gingerly picked it up by using his thumb and index finger (to prove his theory that skin contact could have initiated the hidden magic), he put it as far as he could from his face and mentally cringed as he waited for the reaction that might have resulted from it.
The seconds were ticking away, but so far, it hadn’t exploded in his face, hadn’t oozed a torrent of nasty viscous substance which could melt his flesh and bone.
Frowning deeper, he broke the red wax seal and opened the envelope, and then slowly pulled out its contents. A single, thin paper, which looked more like a note than a letter, was revealed. He straightened it from its folded state to read it.
The first words his eyes fell on brought an unflattering, red blotch to his cheeks.
‘Dear Snivellus’, it had said, which had made him blistering with anger.
What in Merlin’s name was this? A new form of harassment?
He scowled as he thought of the possible perpetrators who knew this derogatory nickname from his school days. He ought to burn it down, the whole thing until what was left was only burning cinders, but his curiosity got the better of him.
The next one was, ‘If you read this, then I can safely conclude my offering has appeased your anger’.
His eyebrow rose quizzically at the sentence.
Did it refer to the food or the newspaper? Furthermore, could any of it be categorized as such; an offering?
And to his knowledge, he hadn’t been angry at anyone in particular lately, at least no one who was still alive. Why did the writer of this letter assumed he would be?
Feeling confused, he suddenly felt the need to read the rest of it more quickly.
‘I know this may sound like an excuse.
But I can assure you, I’m not running away from anything, rather, duty calls.
I got an assignment about baby, er, guarding some foreign diplomat’s family.
A matter of national importance, you know.’
Severus snorted at the underlined words.
Suddenly, the letter made more sense. He now knew who had written it. Potter, apparently, needed to explain that he had babysitting duties and didn’t want him to think that he hadn’t come today because he was afraid of him.
Shaking his head at the boy’s inane explanation, he felt the edge of his lips turned up as his mood improved.
It was right what they had said, misery did love company.
However, his mood soured again when he read the next sentence, ‘Can’t promise when I’ll be released from the job…’
His heart heavy, he felt reluctant to read the next part as he had almost reached the last part of the letter.
‘P.S.: Er, when it’s Ron’s turn to show up, please, don’t hex him.
P.S.S.: I’m serious, please don’t.’
He hovered between amused and annoyed, rankled by the obvious, grammar mistake Potter had written in his letter as it was supposed to be P.P.S., not P.S.S.
Grammar mistake aside, when he read the next line, an abrupt laugh escaped his mouth.
For Potter had ended it with the perfect silver lining:
‘I am, Sir, your most humble and obedient servant,
Evans.’
End of Chapter 13