A Certain Amount of Sense

Chapter 8

Hermione could have sworn Dumbledore had winked at her before rising to leave. Then the thought entered her mind, “He doesn’t know. Snape never told him. I’m not going to be expelled! Yet.” She was still reveling in this discovery when her attention was brought back to the present by the man who had enabled it.

“Why are you here, Miss Granger?” he asked without turning to look at her. His voice was even, but distant, without the coldness usually associated with it. It was almost more unnerving than his usual sneer, and it startled Hermione into answering candidly, “I came to apologize, sir.”

“I see. Couldn’t sleep with a guilty conscience? How very… Gryffindor of you.” The trademark derision was creeping back into his voice, but it was still lacking in energy. Several things at once were made clear to Hermione. One, he was trying to make her leave; two, he didn’t really mean what he was saying; and three, if he didn’t get to his bed soon, he was likely to collapse from fatigue.

So she chose to ignore his comment and instead turned to face him fully. When he still would not look at her, she left her chair and dropped to his side so that she was looking up at him. He needed to see that she was sincere. She owed him that much, at least.

“Professor Snape, I am sorry for hitting you this afternoon. It was wrong of me and totally inexcusable. And…and I don’t know why, but you chose not to tell the headmaster, and for that, I’m grateful.” She paused to collect herself before continuing. “I know that you don’t like me, and that you probably hate Harry, but it hasn’t stopped you from putting yourself in danger, from saving us time and time again. And I don’t think any of us have ever properly thanked you for that. So…so I just wanted to say, ‘thank you.’ For everything.” She stayed there, searching his face, looking for some type of acknowledgement, some sign that he had heard her.

He continued to stare at some fixed point in front of him, but after a few silent moments, she could swear there were tears forming in the corners of his eyes. With a sharp gasp of breath, he squeezed them shut, and the tears escaped, traveling slowly down his pale face. He held that breath for an indeterminably long stretch of time before slowly exhaling.

“Oh my god, he’s crying,” she thought. In wonderment, she slowly brought one hand up to his face. When it was a mere fraction of an inch away from his skin, she paused, wondering whether or not it would be wise to actually touch him. The decision was made for her, however, when he suddenly grabbed her hand with both of his and pressed it against his cheek. He clutched it there as another sob wracked through his body.

The two of them stayed fixed in that position, neither daring to breathe or move, or otherwise break the spell. Neither of them found it ironic that earlier in the day she had used that same hand to slap that same cheek. Finally, he dropped her hand.

“Miss Granger, I think it would be best if you left now,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. She scampered upright, more than a little shaken at the response her confession had gotten. She stood there in front of him for a few seconds, not knowing what to say. Eventually, she realized it would be best if she just left, as he had requested.

***

It wasn’t until he heard the door close that he could breathe again.

Tired. He was so very tired. Tired in body, tired in spirit, and most of all, tired of being who he was. Over fifteen years of playing Dumbledore’s spy had whittled away at his soul until all that was left was a finely sharpened blade. Useful and dangerous in times of need, but not something you wanted to have lying around otherwise. Even Dumbledore was starting to feel it and react accordingly. He didn’t blame him, though. Most times he could hardly stand himself.

When the headmaster had left, he had been more than aware of Hermione’s presence in the room. What he didn’t know, though, was why she was there. When he had first seen her out in the hallway, he had thought her an apparition. He was too jaded to use the word “angel”, but for the briefest of seconds, he had thought that he had finally died, or was perhaps was close enough that he could see through the veils of mortality, and that she had been sent to take him to wherever his soul was supposed to go after a life such as his. Probably some sort of hell. If it was, they had picked the perfect form to use as his guide, as he would have gladly followed her anywhere.

Now where had that come from? Warning bells should have gone off in his head, but Hagrid had chosen that exact moment to drop him, and the thought had been lost in the ensuing pandemonium.

He sighed and rose out of the chair slowly. His muscles screamed in protest, but he knew if he stayed sitting any longer, it would have become almost impossible to stand. Once again, he returned to his sleeping chambers and disrobed with care, changing into his gray nightshirt. Finally, he climbed into bed. He closed his eyes and waited for the dark oblivion to take him.

As exhausted as he was though, he could not sleep. He could not take his mind off of her. The last hour’s scene replayed in his mind, and he could almost feel her hand on his cheek again. He had drawn so much from that one touch. The question was, though, had it been worth it?

When she had thanked him that time in the hospital wing, it had opened up a Pandora’s Box within him. Except that contrary to the box of myth, his held all the positive emotions and feelings normally associated with being a human: gratitude, kindness, compassion, hope…. He had long ago stored them away and sealed the box shut, knowing that there was no reason to have them fluttering around distractingly in his heart. It had been easier to survive this way, given the life he had to live. Former Death Eaters without money, looks, or fame did not warrant much sympathy. And if he wanted to continue the game he was playing with Voldemort, he would need to remain focused on the goal. He could not spare the time and energy to think of others in this quest and in response, he dared not accept the looks of pity and concern from the few who knew of his activities. To process them would require the acknowledgement of his need for empathy. And above all things, he despised weaknesses, especially his own. Self-control was safer than sentimentality, and denial was preferable to disappointment.

To be finally recognized and shown appreciation for what he was doing, though, and by someone who had every right to despise him…. It had shaken him to the very core and in the process managed to bring down all of his defenses. He shuddered as he remembered the caress. She had initiated it, of course, but he had been the one to consummate the deed. And yet…and yet she had stayed there, allowing him to take what he needed.

Damn! Why did it have to be the Granger girl? A bloody Gryffindor! No doubt she was telling Potter and Weasley even as he lay there, “I made Professor Snape cry!” Would there be no end to his humiliation at the hands of Gryffindors? His hands clenched involuntarily. The tensing of his muscles only managed to trigger an aftershock of spasms that ran amok through his body. It took all of his self-control to ride out the pain without making a sound. Damn it. He cursed Granger again. The worst was knowing that no matter what she said about him, he was bound by his own twisted sense of honor to endure it without retaliation. His only consolation was the knowledge that at least he wouldn’t have to see her again in his classes. With this thought, he drifted off to sleep, a deep frown etched into his face.

***

Hermione was having an equally hard time falling asleep. She could not forget to look on Snape’s face as he held her hand. Nor the move he had made to take it. It had been so impulsive, so different from his usual careful poise. And his face—she had seen something so raw, so vulnerable—it was almost beautiful. She blanched; had she just thought of her Potions teacher as beautiful?

But it was more than just how he had looked. She had meant everything she had said to him there in his study. It blew her away to think of what kind of life he must be living day in and day out. Being the Head of a House full of potential dark wizards, needing to tread the thin line between pretending to serve the Dark Lord and working for the Order…. So that’s why had was always favoring Malfoy. It wasn’t because he was in his House; it was because Draco was probably telling his father everything Snape was doing in Hogwarts. And that’s why he was always being so mean to the Gryffindors. Although, she had to admit, Harry, Ron, and Neville were awful in Potions.

Still, it took a great amount of courage to do what he was doing. Too bad she couldn’t tell anyone else about it. She smiled a little, thinking, “He could have been a Gryffindor,” and fell asleep with that smile still on her lips.