Hero

Hermione

Shadows and shapes mix together at dawn,

But by the time you catch them, simplicity's gone.

So we sort through the pieces, my friends and I,

Searching through the darkness to find the breaks in the sky.

He closed his eyes, and began to relax under the quilt. Its riotous colours contrasted sharply with his pale face and black hair. In spite of his prejudices and unkind comments over the years, she'd always respected Professor Snape. How could she not? He had protected her and Ron and Harry time and time again. He even honestly thought he was watching over them, that time in the Shrieking Shack; he just didn't know the whole story.

He'd asked her to find Professor Dumbledore. He continued to tremble, even in his sleep. He must be in a lot of pain, for him to submit to being cared for by a loathed student so easily. Relatively easily. This was Professor Snape, after all; he'd still put up a fuss.

And she had cared for him for two years. Ever since the summer after her fifth year, when he'd been laid up after an injury. He'd had to stay at Grimmauld Place for two weeks, because Madam Pomfrey was there, too, doing work for the Order. For the first time, Hermione saw the shoulders under those teaching robes. She had heard him laugh. Actually laugh out loud, and she'd been completely poleaxed by it. Hermione had pondered the paradox for days: such a warm, golden sound from such a dark, cold man. She decided that she liked it. And Hermione discovered that she liked to look at him.

Malfoy and Parkinson and the other Slytherin gits never got under her skin; Hermione could shrug away the barbs that they aimed at her, though insults aimed at Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors were harder to shake off. But when Professor Snape spoke, Hermione listened. Even when he was cruel -- stupid girl ... know-it-all ... insufferable -- she still absorbed whatever he said. Even when it hurt. She tried, at first, to minimize the damage, telling herself that she was simply obligated to listen to a teacher. Upon further examination, however, Hermione resigned herself to the fact that when she thought of Professor Snape, she felt more than just the respect that a teacher was due.

For the lack of a better word, she was still enchanted, even two years later. Hermione taught herself to handle it maturely, to work around it, how to nurse herself through the hurts to which she had opened herself. She tried to talk herself out of her feelings, using the logic that had saved her life before; she told herself that it was completely inappropriate for a student to form an attachment for her teacher. Severus Snape was two decades her senior. He was harsh and mercurial.

He was also brilliant. He was attractive. Worst of all, he had a streak of ... principle, or honour, for lack of a better term, that ran through him. He was good. A colossal git, but good. He was courageous and hard-working. He risked so much for the Order. Hermione was sure that tonight was not the only time that Snape had returned home injured; he had missed several classes these past two years. He would have to be near death to ignore his teaching duties.

Hermione shook herself out of her reverie and focussed again on the man in front of her. She still held his hand, which she'd taken to seal her promise, that she wouldn't talk about his incapacitation. Her insides seemed to giggle a little as a new thought occurred to her. She knew that she shouldn't touch him at all, but how often did a woman get a chance like this? Knowing him, this would be her only opportunity to do anything about it. To commit his features to memory by means of touch, as she already had by sight.

Reaching out, Hermione touched the vertical fissure that ran above his nose. She ran her fingertip over it, and the wrinkle shallowed slightly. Hermione frowned; he was too young to look so old. Not even forty. Touching her thumb and middle finger to the bridge of his nose, she slowly spread her hand, tracing the slight arches of his black eyebrows. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes seemed to relax. Encouraged by this reaction, Hermione ran her finger down the length of his long, broad nose. She rested the tip of her thumb in the dent on his upper lip.

In his sleep, the generous lips pursed, just a little, under her hand.

It was insane, what she was thinking, but she had the perfect chance. He'd never know, and Fang would never tell. Hermione still held his hand in her own. She prayed that he wouldn't stir, and bent forward.

She felt like a clod. It wasn't much, as kisses went. He certainly wouldn't think it was worthy of his notice, were he conscious. Just after she placed her lips upon his, his mouth opened in a sigh. She jerked back, startled, but he didn't move again. Hermione was grateful that he didn't wake from her hair flopping in his face. After another moment of hesitation, Hermione pulled her mane back with one hand and kissed him again.

She felt his lips respond, pressing very gently against hers.

Oh, glory.

On some level, her touch was welcome. A comfort. She rejoiced in it, and was glad that she had used her first kiss for a good purpose. It was a pity that she was the only one who would remember it.

Snape's breath rattled in his chest, and Hermione winced. This was no time for daydreams. He'd asked her to find Professor Dumbledore. She knew what that meant, and she was terrified.

She moved to the window, peering into the darkness. There was a full moon out there, hanging fat and low in the sky. The trees all blended together, making a black-and-green mass outside the window. The moon's glare was so bright, she couldn't see the stars in that half of the sky. Hermione gnawed her lip, hoping that most of the Forest pack would be more concerned with their imminent transformations than with biting one lone human girl.

She cursed the anti-Apparation spells that cloaked the grounds, but she was only a few hundred metres from the Quidditch pitch. The broom shed was even closer.

Hermione picked her wand up with a shaking hand. Damn, she hated to fly. But there was nothing for it. Professor Snape had asked her to find Professor Dumbledore. It must be important. And she had to find Madam Pomfrey, he was shaking so badly. Hermione couldn't interpret symptoms; she wasn't a mediwitch, but even she could tell that he was in bad shape.

Keeping the door closed, she unlatched the bolt. "Fang, stay with Professor Snape," she ordered. The dog laid by the bed with a gusty sigh. She lifted the latch with a trembling hand, her wand in her sweaty palm. "One ... two ... three."

She shut the door behind her and ran into the night.