FIC: You (Severus/Hermione - 3133 - G)
Title: You
Author/Artist: ANON
Pairing(s): Severus/Hermione
Prompt: 2016 ‘82’.
Word Count/Art Medium: 3133
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you gorgeous C for beta work.
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Hermione is hoping for just one thing.
Let me know you Lover, woo me Open up my heart and sing your song right through me
- The Waterboys
*
You
‘Dearest Severus,
There are many things that I would write here, if time allowed. Alas, it is Christmas Eve for another…’
Hermione bit her lip and looked up at the clock on the wall, then bent her head again to the parchment.
‘…four hours, and I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to wrangle the courage again. As it is, I’ve never been so nervous about a letter before.
I arrived three days ago. Everything went as you said it would; my parents responded well to the preparatory potion. I know you spent many an afternoon bemoaning my state of mind - you were right to do so. I was terrified that I would damage them all over again. It wasn’t a simple Obliviate to reverse, as you well know.
And it is because of you that it worked. Severus, I am so thankful of the time you spent with me. Without you, it would have taken me much longer to fix. I don’t know how I can thank you. Nothing seems to show just how much happiness you have given me, by restoring to me those who love me best.’
Setting the quill down, she smiled at the sound of her father in the kitchen at the end of the house. Pots clanged and cups were set down on the bench with gusto as he finished washing the dishes; despite her mother’s best efforts, Richard had never managed to tone the noise of his personality down. He was singing loudly, off-key, and every so often Jean could be heard voicing half-hearted complaints from the sitting room. Wendell had been reserved, jarringly so. Out-of-tune rumblings were a vast improvement.
She’d missed this. The life of her family - the exuberance of them both. Her mother was quiet, though she came with a steely determination that was clear in the frown lines between her eyebrows, and the way she moved with glorious purpose. Nothing Jean Granger attempted was lacklustre, except perhaps the times she asked her husband to choose another song to sing along to.
They worked well. So well, in truth, that Hermione had almost fallen into step on the path to marriage with Ron. Her mother was so like her, and her father so like him, that it seemed a seamless decision. But the clouds of war lifted, and both she and Ron had drifted away from each other. She knew he was happy, and in turn she, too, was beginning to understand the headiness of spreading her wings. Now that she’d tasted life-truly tasted it, truly relished it-she found that she couldn’t turn back.
The words sat on the tip of her tongue. She spoke them to herself, testing them. It filled her with a giddiness that she could not regret.
‘But I told you this before I left for the Portkey. I told you during breakfast, just after you had finished muttering about missing F&B’s Christmas sale because of additional duties befitting a Deputy Headmaster. I told you, and you pressed your lips together. There was a hint of colour on your cheeks. Your eyes flicked to mine, before you frowned and looked down at your plate.
I wonder what you were thinking. I can’t help but hope that perhaps, you…’
Hermione scowled. Letters had never been her friend - she was too blunt a person to work words on a flowery vine. She tapped the quill on the table, twisting her lips, as she considered how to manage expressing the emotions that had slowly built within her over the last twelve months.
***
After taking a year to travel, the education degree finished swiftly. Two years of demanding examinations and practical components left her with a need for glasses and a taste for strong coffee, but she’d done it. It might have been another two semesters, but she’d grabbed at the chance to take intensive courses over the summer holidays each year.
Initially, Hermione hadn’t thought of teaching. She’d entertained plans of establishing herself as an activist-though an activist in the wizarding world was a rare thing, and the rent needed paying-or perhaps an apprentice to the Wizengamot. Writing, too, was an option.
The epiphany had entered her mind during the leaving feast. Seventh year hurtled by her, and by the time it was over, she wasn’t at all ready for it. She remembered clearly looking up at the staff members dining at the table that overlooked the students, and she’d felt the loss of them keenly. Finding better minds than these proved difficult - in university, professors lived academia. There was almost more politics there than the war trials she’d had to give evidence for. Research assistants were harried, jaded beings - it wasn’t an inviting field. She found herself writing more to the Headmistress, and when she returned for practical experience with Professor Flitwick-intent on retiring, thank the heavens-Hermione knew she’d made the right choice.
***
‘I can’t help but hope that perhaps, you felt glad for me. And there is a part of me that is wild and daring enough to hope that… Perhaps you knew I would leave the school for the holidays to tend to them. Perhaps you did not wish for me to go.
I know that I did not. I haven’t wanted to leave you since the morning you came striding into my classroom, demanding to know the reason behind the not-so-subtle article I’d left on your desk with a bright blue question mark and a terrible attempt at a drawing of a smile.’
***
He did not knock.
“Professor Granger,” said Snape, standing before her desk with glower that lit up the room. He was as he ever was, clothed in black and staring with a gaze that always left Hermione on the verge between discomfited and intrigued. “Whatever is this?”
She stood, smoothing down her robes. His sneer looked habitual. “It’s a proposal. Of a sort.”
“A… proposal.” He managed to make the word sound distasteful.
“Of a sort,” Hermione repeated, nodding. She tried very hard to stop her mouth from smiling. Judging by the way his black eyes rolled, she failed.
Snape moved closer into the room and set the article down on her desk. “You gave me an article,” he said, “that is titled: ‘The Unknown Mind’.”
“I did.”
“And you underlined the section on identity spells.”
“I did, yes.”
“And you left it on my desk.”
“Yes.”
“With a question mark. And a…”
She couldn’t help it. A snorting flash of a giggle had her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Sorry! I promise this is serious. I… I have developed a habit of laughing during inappropriate… ah…”
He cocked an eyebrow. “This isn’t inappropriate,” he said flatly, folding his arms. “This is simply me asking if you are requesting me to perform additional work.”
“Oh.” Shoulders sagging, Hermione grimaced. “You’re right. Sorry. God - I didn’t really think of it that way. I suppose I just read the article and saw the closing notes for research possibilities. And I…”
“Decided to enrol me?”
“Not really,” she said desperately, hurrying around the desk. When she reached him, she grabbed the article, though all it did was draw his attention to her trembling hands. “I didn’t mean it that way - I know you’re busy. We all are, but you, ah, that is - you’re busy, yes, and I suppose that I was just hoping that if you ever had a quiet afternoon…”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Granger, if one has a quiet afternoon, one does not generally wish to spend it doing what one does… all the time.”
She stared up at him, hating the hint of pity in his eyes. It was the same hint that she’d encountered every year as a student when she’d inched her way into his office, hoping for extra essays or readings. He always gave her a book or two, but that look of pity… Hermione hated it. It made her feel like she was begging for his time, a distasteful idea even now.
Still though, she calculated that she had approximately thirty seconds before he’d disappear in a whirl of robes, and it wasn’t like he would treat her any worse.
“And what if one happens to have a particular set of skills,” Hermione began nervously, measuring his reaction, “that another… one… might be in dire need of?”
The Professor blinked. “Dire… need.”
“In a way. You see,” she said determinedly, “I’ve performed the spell - to reverse it. I made them…” Hermione winced and turned her face away from his scrutiny. “I made them believe that they were… other people. So that they would leave, during the war. I couldn’t chance it. Which is unbelievably controlling, I know - I’ve got a dog-eared Mary Shelley at home, clearly informing me of my inadequacies in that domain.”
He sighed, then leaned against her desk. Snape waved a tired hand. “Go on.”
“That’s it, really,” she mumbled, shoving an errant curl away from her eyes. “I went to Australia after the funerals. I performed the counter-spell. But it didn’t…”
“Didn’t…?” prodded Snape. The glare of his gaze unnerved her.
“It worked,” Hermione answered slowly, “but it also… didn’t. It baffles me - in the original spell, I created identities for them. Now, they know that I am their daughter; they remember that I sent them away. But they still believe themselves to be… Monica and Wendell. Why?”
***
‘Truthfully, I was surprised that you agreed to assist me. I thought you would dismiss me. At best, I was desperately hoping for a referral or a scrawl of a book suggestion. Not because of believing you wouldn’t help - but that you would not believe we could do it together.
You suffered me, though. And I you, though I confess that I knew-I knew it, somewhere far removed from pragmatism and analytics and flesh and bone-you would…
Dare I say it?
Dare I write it?
***
“Professor?”
Snape looked up. He was hunched over his desk, quill suspended in the air. Black ink was spreading under the tip. Hermione smiled and for the first time, thought that the juxtaposition of his white-as-snow skin and Stygian hair was enthralling. The realisation robbed her of focus, and he coughed pointedly.
“Yes?”
She gave up an attempt to school her features. “Do you have a minute?”
At his nod, Hermione entered his office, suppressing a smile-as she often did these days-at his attempt to re-use out-of-date ingredients as tools to frighten impressionable students. There were two extra bottles towards the end of one shelf behind the desk. With fingers laced behind her back, she wondered if he’d been sorting the store-room. And if so, for what purpose? Their purpose?
He did not invite her to sit, though she did not wish to. “How goes the work?” she quipped nervously.
Snape merely arched an eyebrow. “It goes.” Unfolding himself from the chair, he seemed to think better of his lack of verbosity. He opened his mouth - even the act of speaking further than he was accustomed to looked awkward. “The wand.”
“My wand?” Hermione moved closer. “Is that the-sorry. Continue.”
“That’s all I have,” he said, and his black eyes met hers. Both pairs widened. “That’s all I have,” Snape repeated, slightly tentative. “You’ve changed your wand since you performed the spell during the war…”
“Oh! Right. Of course, yes. I didn’t even… that is, it wasn’t even something…” She shook her head ruefully.
“It’s just a path to take,” he enunciated carefully. The last syllable cut the conversation off as abruptly as it had begun.
Still, she was overcome with relief. Hermione had never even considered the option of failing-she still didn’t-but to have such a mind working on the task along with her was exhilarating. The thrill overrode her tendency to mind herself around the professor.
“Thank you!” she blurted, smiling widely. “This is-you are-oh, I’m just…” Gesturing at nothing, Hermione clapped her hands together with a laugh that would mortify her later that evening.
Snape didn’t seem to know where to look or what to say.
***
I think I knew, before we even truly started to work together, that something momentous was beginning. And then when we did work together…
***
“No,” he snapped suddenly. “Stop. Wrong. The result would not be so-”
Gracelessly, Hermione jabbed her wand at the fire under the cauldron, extinguishing it with an odd steam that could only have come from her mood.
“Sorry,” she muttered, huffing.
Professor Snape rolled his shoulders. She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye; she pretended, quite studiously, that she wasn’t simultaneously mapping the width of his chest.
“The potion is delicate,” he said quietly. “I will complete it. There is no need for an extra pair of hands.”
She was stung. Her cheeks were flaming. “Sorry. Again.” With her head bowed, Hermione did not see how the black-haired wizard stared at the bared nape of her neck. He ran a hand over his mouth, as if he were unsure of how to proceed.
“I did not… That is, it was not my intention to push you away from the project. You may… you may stay. While I brew,” he added stiffly.
Forgetting herself, Hermione finally let the stirring rod clatter to the side of the cauldron. She turned to him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Snape-Severus-glanced at her once, then directed his gaze to her hands, which were clenching and unclenching at her sides.
“I would like that,” she murmured, aware that her feelings were moving away from a place that could be controlled, could be reined in.
It was hard to be aware when exactly Hermione had noticed a strange layer of nerves within her whenever she met his eyes, or greeted him, or sat beside him during meals, or ventured into his office, the staff room, the halls, the…
Simply, she did not know it until she knew that it was unavoidable. She was done. That was it.
Severus Snape.
It would have been amusing, if the case wasn’t so hopeless.
***
When we worked together, I knew.
It’s you, Severus. You.
You are…
You are who I want.
***
There wasn’t much he could do other than decline. So, on an uncomfortably cold Saturday morning in November, Hermione pushed her chair away from the staff table in the Great Hall and gave a little cough.
“Severus? Would you care to go for a walk?”
The quietly frowning man at her side looked bewildered. “Sorry? What?”
She felt a delicious thrill somewhere in her that probably should have warned her off. “Let’s go for a walk,” she repeated daringly. “I can’t possibly think amongst all of this…”
It was the weather. It was sending both staff and students wild. A Hufflepuff student below let out a random piggish squeal before running out of the Hall.
Snape glared at the retreating figure. When he turned back to her, he gave one brisk nod. “Right. Yes. A walk. Fair enough.”
Hermione was so nervous that later she would only recall how he reached out with cautious hands to adjust her hood before they exited through the enormous doors. He was so much taller than her; she could not help tipping her head back to smile at him and catch the slight flush on his cheeks.
***
And I know that I have no claim on you. I am almost wholly sure that if you are not flummoxed by the contents of this letter, then you will either be amused, annoyed, or…
Or could you possibly be…
I can barely write it.
Last week, at the table, I was telling Minerva of my holiday plans. I was telling her of my excitement, coupled with my regret for missing a truly beautiful Christmas at the school. For there is nothing like it, is there? The charmed trees, the gleaming lights, the magic. And I turned to you, and I caught it - a smile, a small one. For you and I together. Just a private curve of your lips, but it was so open, so gentle and inviting, that I lost both tongue and train of thought.
It gives me hope, that when I declare here that I have feelings for you, you will take the keychain and activate the Portkey.
If there is even the smallest chance that you could return my feelings, please… I want to spend Christmas with you, Severus. You’ve given me my parents. The only other gift I could ever want for Christmas is…
(yes, without a doubt you will tease me for such an asinine sentence)
…you.
***
Without looking at the letter, Hermione folded it once then threw it through the Floo, calling out Severus’ international coordinates with courage she did not feel.
“He won’t come,” she whispered to the empty room, caught between desperately wishing that he would, and hoping that he wouldn’t.
Why would he? She was twenty-four, a teacher of only a year. He was who he was, and she…she was a young woman who saw what she wanted in him. She recognised something in Severus that gave her pause - that caused her heart to race when he was near, and her body to long for his. It was warm here, thousands of kilometres from home, and though her parents relished the beautiful summer nights in December, Hermione found herself staring at the snow globe in the living room as if it could somehow transport her to a wintery Hogwarts.
She loved him. She wanted him with her.
He still hadn’t arrived. The Portkey was instantaneous.
Would he come?
***
P.S. I love you. I do.
***
By midnight, she’d fallen asleep in front of a magical fire charmed to cool the air. There were tear tracks on her cheeks. She’d made a fool of herself.
She was alone.
Until…
“Mum?”
She woke to a warm hand cupping her cheek. A calloused thumb smoothed over her skin, back and forth, back and forth.
“Mum?” she mumbled, opening her eyes. The breath left her.
“Oh,” whispered Hermione, faced with his hesitant smile and warm black eyes. He was crouched in front of the sofa; his dark travelling clothing still smelt of wood smoke from the school.
She wanted to get up. She wanted to throw her arms around him.
His smile widened to a grin. Severus glanced behind him at the clock on the wall.
“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he said, and his voice was full of promise and truth.
Author/Artist: ANON
Pairing(s): Severus/Hermione
Prompt: 2016 ‘82’.
Word Count/Art Medium: 3133
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you gorgeous C for beta work.
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Hermione is hoping for just one thing.
Let me know you Lover, woo me Open up my heart and sing your song right through me
- The Waterboys
*
You
‘Dearest Severus,
There are many things that I would write here, if time allowed. Alas, it is Christmas Eve for another…’
Hermione bit her lip and looked up at the clock on the wall, then bent her head again to the parchment.
‘…four hours, and I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to wrangle the courage again. As it is, I’ve never been so nervous about a letter before.
I arrived three days ago. Everything went as you said it would; my parents responded well to the preparatory potion. I know you spent many an afternoon bemoaning my state of mind - you were right to do so. I was terrified that I would damage them all over again. It wasn’t a simple Obliviate to reverse, as you well know.
And it is because of you that it worked. Severus, I am so thankful of the time you spent with me. Without you, it would have taken me much longer to fix. I don’t know how I can thank you. Nothing seems to show just how much happiness you have given me, by restoring to me those who love me best.’
Setting the quill down, she smiled at the sound of her father in the kitchen at the end of the house. Pots clanged and cups were set down on the bench with gusto as he finished washing the dishes; despite her mother’s best efforts, Richard had never managed to tone the noise of his personality down. He was singing loudly, off-key, and every so often Jean could be heard voicing half-hearted complaints from the sitting room. Wendell had been reserved, jarringly so. Out-of-tune rumblings were a vast improvement.
She’d missed this. The life of her family - the exuberance of them both. Her mother was quiet, though she came with a steely determination that was clear in the frown lines between her eyebrows, and the way she moved with glorious purpose. Nothing Jean Granger attempted was lacklustre, except perhaps the times she asked her husband to choose another song to sing along to.
They worked well. So well, in truth, that Hermione had almost fallen into step on the path to marriage with Ron. Her mother was so like her, and her father so like him, that it seemed a seamless decision. But the clouds of war lifted, and both she and Ron had drifted away from each other. She knew he was happy, and in turn she, too, was beginning to understand the headiness of spreading her wings. Now that she’d tasted life-truly tasted it, truly relished it-she found that she couldn’t turn back.
The words sat on the tip of her tongue. She spoke them to herself, testing them. It filled her with a giddiness that she could not regret.
‘But I told you this before I left for the Portkey. I told you during breakfast, just after you had finished muttering about missing F&B’s Christmas sale because of additional duties befitting a Deputy Headmaster. I told you, and you pressed your lips together. There was a hint of colour on your cheeks. Your eyes flicked to mine, before you frowned and looked down at your plate.
I wonder what you were thinking. I can’t help but hope that perhaps, you…’
Hermione scowled. Letters had never been her friend - she was too blunt a person to work words on a flowery vine. She tapped the quill on the table, twisting her lips, as she considered how to manage expressing the emotions that had slowly built within her over the last twelve months.
***
After taking a year to travel, the education degree finished swiftly. Two years of demanding examinations and practical components left her with a need for glasses and a taste for strong coffee, but she’d done it. It might have been another two semesters, but she’d grabbed at the chance to take intensive courses over the summer holidays each year.
Initially, Hermione hadn’t thought of teaching. She’d entertained plans of establishing herself as an activist-though an activist in the wizarding world was a rare thing, and the rent needed paying-or perhaps an apprentice to the Wizengamot. Writing, too, was an option.
The epiphany had entered her mind during the leaving feast. Seventh year hurtled by her, and by the time it was over, she wasn’t at all ready for it. She remembered clearly looking up at the staff members dining at the table that overlooked the students, and she’d felt the loss of them keenly. Finding better minds than these proved difficult - in university, professors lived academia. There was almost more politics there than the war trials she’d had to give evidence for. Research assistants were harried, jaded beings - it wasn’t an inviting field. She found herself writing more to the Headmistress, and when she returned for practical experience with Professor Flitwick-intent on retiring, thank the heavens-Hermione knew she’d made the right choice.
***
‘I can’t help but hope that perhaps, you felt glad for me. And there is a part of me that is wild and daring enough to hope that… Perhaps you knew I would leave the school for the holidays to tend to them. Perhaps you did not wish for me to go.
I know that I did not. I haven’t wanted to leave you since the morning you came striding into my classroom, demanding to know the reason behind the not-so-subtle article I’d left on your desk with a bright blue question mark and a terrible attempt at a drawing of a smile.’
***
He did not knock.
“Professor Granger,” said Snape, standing before her desk with glower that lit up the room. He was as he ever was, clothed in black and staring with a gaze that always left Hermione on the verge between discomfited and intrigued. “Whatever is this?”
She stood, smoothing down her robes. His sneer looked habitual. “It’s a proposal. Of a sort.”
“A… proposal.” He managed to make the word sound distasteful.
“Of a sort,” Hermione repeated, nodding. She tried very hard to stop her mouth from smiling. Judging by the way his black eyes rolled, she failed.
Snape moved closer into the room and set the article down on her desk. “You gave me an article,” he said, “that is titled: ‘The Unknown Mind’.”
“I did.”
“And you underlined the section on identity spells.”
“I did, yes.”
“And you left it on my desk.”
“Yes.”
“With a question mark. And a…”
She couldn’t help it. A snorting flash of a giggle had her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Sorry! I promise this is serious. I… I have developed a habit of laughing during inappropriate… ah…”
He cocked an eyebrow. “This isn’t inappropriate,” he said flatly, folding his arms. “This is simply me asking if you are requesting me to perform additional work.”
“Oh.” Shoulders sagging, Hermione grimaced. “You’re right. Sorry. God - I didn’t really think of it that way. I suppose I just read the article and saw the closing notes for research possibilities. And I…”
“Decided to enrol me?”
“Not really,” she said desperately, hurrying around the desk. When she reached him, she grabbed the article, though all it did was draw his attention to her trembling hands. “I didn’t mean it that way - I know you’re busy. We all are, but you, ah, that is - you’re busy, yes, and I suppose that I was just hoping that if you ever had a quiet afternoon…”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Granger, if one has a quiet afternoon, one does not generally wish to spend it doing what one does… all the time.”
She stared up at him, hating the hint of pity in his eyes. It was the same hint that she’d encountered every year as a student when she’d inched her way into his office, hoping for extra essays or readings. He always gave her a book or two, but that look of pity… Hermione hated it. It made her feel like she was begging for his time, a distasteful idea even now.
Still though, she calculated that she had approximately thirty seconds before he’d disappear in a whirl of robes, and it wasn’t like he would treat her any worse.
“And what if one happens to have a particular set of skills,” Hermione began nervously, measuring his reaction, “that another… one… might be in dire need of?”
The Professor blinked. “Dire… need.”
“In a way. You see,” she said determinedly, “I’ve performed the spell - to reverse it. I made them…” Hermione winced and turned her face away from his scrutiny. “I made them believe that they were… other people. So that they would leave, during the war. I couldn’t chance it. Which is unbelievably controlling, I know - I’ve got a dog-eared Mary Shelley at home, clearly informing me of my inadequacies in that domain.”
He sighed, then leaned against her desk. Snape waved a tired hand. “Go on.”
“That’s it, really,” she mumbled, shoving an errant curl away from her eyes. “I went to Australia after the funerals. I performed the counter-spell. But it didn’t…”
“Didn’t…?” prodded Snape. The glare of his gaze unnerved her.
“It worked,” Hermione answered slowly, “but it also… didn’t. It baffles me - in the original spell, I created identities for them. Now, they know that I am their daughter; they remember that I sent them away. But they still believe themselves to be… Monica and Wendell. Why?”
***
‘Truthfully, I was surprised that you agreed to assist me. I thought you would dismiss me. At best, I was desperately hoping for a referral or a scrawl of a book suggestion. Not because of believing you wouldn’t help - but that you would not believe we could do it together.
You suffered me, though. And I you, though I confess that I knew-I knew it, somewhere far removed from pragmatism and analytics and flesh and bone-you would…
Dare I say it?
Dare I write it?
***
“Professor?”
Snape looked up. He was hunched over his desk, quill suspended in the air. Black ink was spreading under the tip. Hermione smiled and for the first time, thought that the juxtaposition of his white-as-snow skin and Stygian hair was enthralling. The realisation robbed her of focus, and he coughed pointedly.
“Yes?”
She gave up an attempt to school her features. “Do you have a minute?”
At his nod, Hermione entered his office, suppressing a smile-as she often did these days-at his attempt to re-use out-of-date ingredients as tools to frighten impressionable students. There were two extra bottles towards the end of one shelf behind the desk. With fingers laced behind her back, she wondered if he’d been sorting the store-room. And if so, for what purpose? Their purpose?
He did not invite her to sit, though she did not wish to. “How goes the work?” she quipped nervously.
Snape merely arched an eyebrow. “It goes.” Unfolding himself from the chair, he seemed to think better of his lack of verbosity. He opened his mouth - even the act of speaking further than he was accustomed to looked awkward. “The wand.”
“My wand?” Hermione moved closer. “Is that the-sorry. Continue.”
“That’s all I have,” he said, and his black eyes met hers. Both pairs widened. “That’s all I have,” Snape repeated, slightly tentative. “You’ve changed your wand since you performed the spell during the war…”
“Oh! Right. Of course, yes. I didn’t even… that is, it wasn’t even something…” She shook her head ruefully.
“It’s just a path to take,” he enunciated carefully. The last syllable cut the conversation off as abruptly as it had begun.
Still, she was overcome with relief. Hermione had never even considered the option of failing-she still didn’t-but to have such a mind working on the task along with her was exhilarating. The thrill overrode her tendency to mind herself around the professor.
“Thank you!” she blurted, smiling widely. “This is-you are-oh, I’m just…” Gesturing at nothing, Hermione clapped her hands together with a laugh that would mortify her later that evening.
Snape didn’t seem to know where to look or what to say.
***
I think I knew, before we even truly started to work together, that something momentous was beginning. And then when we did work together…
***
“No,” he snapped suddenly. “Stop. Wrong. The result would not be so-”
Gracelessly, Hermione jabbed her wand at the fire under the cauldron, extinguishing it with an odd steam that could only have come from her mood.
“Sorry,” she muttered, huffing.
Professor Snape rolled his shoulders. She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye; she pretended, quite studiously, that she wasn’t simultaneously mapping the width of his chest.
“The potion is delicate,” he said quietly. “I will complete it. There is no need for an extra pair of hands.”
She was stung. Her cheeks were flaming. “Sorry. Again.” With her head bowed, Hermione did not see how the black-haired wizard stared at the bared nape of her neck. He ran a hand over his mouth, as if he were unsure of how to proceed.
“I did not… That is, it was not my intention to push you away from the project. You may… you may stay. While I brew,” he added stiffly.
Forgetting herself, Hermione finally let the stirring rod clatter to the side of the cauldron. She turned to him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Snape-Severus-glanced at her once, then directed his gaze to her hands, which were clenching and unclenching at her sides.
“I would like that,” she murmured, aware that her feelings were moving away from a place that could be controlled, could be reined in.
It was hard to be aware when exactly Hermione had noticed a strange layer of nerves within her whenever she met his eyes, or greeted him, or sat beside him during meals, or ventured into his office, the staff room, the halls, the…
Simply, she did not know it until she knew that it was unavoidable. She was done. That was it.
Severus Snape.
It would have been amusing, if the case wasn’t so hopeless.
***
When we worked together, I knew.
It’s you, Severus. You.
You are…
You are who I want.
***
There wasn’t much he could do other than decline. So, on an uncomfortably cold Saturday morning in November, Hermione pushed her chair away from the staff table in the Great Hall and gave a little cough.
“Severus? Would you care to go for a walk?”
The quietly frowning man at her side looked bewildered. “Sorry? What?”
She felt a delicious thrill somewhere in her that probably should have warned her off. “Let’s go for a walk,” she repeated daringly. “I can’t possibly think amongst all of this…”
It was the weather. It was sending both staff and students wild. A Hufflepuff student below let out a random piggish squeal before running out of the Hall.
Snape glared at the retreating figure. When he turned back to her, he gave one brisk nod. “Right. Yes. A walk. Fair enough.”
Hermione was so nervous that later she would only recall how he reached out with cautious hands to adjust her hood before they exited through the enormous doors. He was so much taller than her; she could not help tipping her head back to smile at him and catch the slight flush on his cheeks.
***
And I know that I have no claim on you. I am almost wholly sure that if you are not flummoxed by the contents of this letter, then you will either be amused, annoyed, or…
Or could you possibly be…
I can barely write it.
Last week, at the table, I was telling Minerva of my holiday plans. I was telling her of my excitement, coupled with my regret for missing a truly beautiful Christmas at the school. For there is nothing like it, is there? The charmed trees, the gleaming lights, the magic. And I turned to you, and I caught it - a smile, a small one. For you and I together. Just a private curve of your lips, but it was so open, so gentle and inviting, that I lost both tongue and train of thought.
It gives me hope, that when I declare here that I have feelings for you, you will take the keychain and activate the Portkey.
If there is even the smallest chance that you could return my feelings, please… I want to spend Christmas with you, Severus. You’ve given me my parents. The only other gift I could ever want for Christmas is…
(yes, without a doubt you will tease me for such an asinine sentence)
…you.
***
Without looking at the letter, Hermione folded it once then threw it through the Floo, calling out Severus’ international coordinates with courage she did not feel.
“He won’t come,” she whispered to the empty room, caught between desperately wishing that he would, and hoping that he wouldn’t.
Why would he? She was twenty-four, a teacher of only a year. He was who he was, and she…she was a young woman who saw what she wanted in him. She recognised something in Severus that gave her pause - that caused her heart to race when he was near, and her body to long for his. It was warm here, thousands of kilometres from home, and though her parents relished the beautiful summer nights in December, Hermione found herself staring at the snow globe in the living room as if it could somehow transport her to a wintery Hogwarts.
She loved him. She wanted him with her.
He still hadn’t arrived. The Portkey was instantaneous.
Would he come?
***
P.S. I love you. I do.
***
By midnight, she’d fallen asleep in front of a magical fire charmed to cool the air. There were tear tracks on her cheeks. She’d made a fool of herself.
She was alone.
Until…
“Mum?”
She woke to a warm hand cupping her cheek. A calloused thumb smoothed over her skin, back and forth, back and forth.
“Mum?” she mumbled, opening her eyes. The breath left her.
“Oh,” whispered Hermione, faced with his hesitant smile and warm black eyes. He was crouched in front of the sofa; his dark travelling clothing still smelt of wood smoke from the school.
She wanted to get up. She wanted to throw her arms around him.
His smile widened to a grin. Severus glanced behind him at the clock on the wall.
“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he said, and his voice was full of promise and truth.