Iridescent Snow

Chapter Nine: His Own Airy Citadel

She didn't know what she had been expecting, but she certainly had not expected this. She knew she should have been afraid--after all, he had been intent on harming her. The instinct to flee was still flooding her body with adrenaline, causing her to tremble in his arms. Snape was powerful, Snape was deadly--the warnings sounded one after another through her head in rapid succession, like the chaotic footsteps of an ambushed army. And now, her arms pinned to her sides and her face pressed against his chest, she was folded into his black robes, every inch of her absorbing the warmth of his startlingly heated body. She did the first thing that came to her mind: she inhaled. There was the spicy male tang again that she remembered from the forest--the mixture of earth, plants, and musk, which seemed to her oddly fragrant. Her heart was pounding out a staccato rhythm in her chest as his scent stole through her nostrils, new, yet familiar and pleasant.

He had been so close, and she had barely stopped herself from raising her mouth expectantly, so sure that he was going to...

Her thought hung unfinished in her head, just like the unfulfilled kiss. She tried to stifle the unwarranted disappointment.

His lips were skimming lightly through her hair now, as if afraid to upset her already disarrayed curls. He might have muttered something, but she didn't hear.

She shut her eyes and dared to let her cheek rest against him, her head nuzzling against the coarse material of his robes, an infinitesimal indulgence of some deep-seated need within her. Still, it was enough for her senses to hum with pleasure.

As if reading the turn in her thoughts, he abruptly released her, loosening his hold and setting her away from him quickly. A haunted, troubled look hung over his features.

"You are...all right?" he asked, breathing ragged.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He turned his back to her now, pacing agitatedly. "The spells, this...everything." He gestured vaguely about, while she suddenly felt a blush creep its way into her face. "It is inexcusable. I was not myself," he said, his words muffled from behind his fingers as his hand rose to cradle his forehead. "I am still not myself. I ... Merlin! You turn me into an asinine fool." Hermione frowned at these declamations, but before she could devise an appropriate reply, he spun around again, his eyes unnaturally bright. "Tell me again that you are unharmed. You must go to Poppy."

"I'm not hurt," she replied, trying to make her voice sound even. She watched him. She watched him watching her, his eyes smoldering ominously. She was well aware that she should just turn around and leave. What reason was there to stand here in a corridor, in the middle of the night? Or to prolong an awkward situation, reckoning with an obviously disturbed man?

Yet, even as she rattled through all the mental calculus, she was approaching him cautiously, as if he were a wounded animal. "Are you all right, Professor?"

He said nothing, just looked at her broodingly as she came closer. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. When she had almost closed the distance between them, he directed his gaze elsewhere and muttered, "I would advise you not to come nearer."

Her fear of him remained, along with the memory of Sectumsempra's brush against her skin, even as she had enjoyed a forbidden moment in his arms. She really shouldn't be going near him. Strange areas of her body were still sore from falling on the ground. He had tried to hex her, then he had tried to kiss her. He was at turns vengeful and violent then sorrowful and broken. He was dangerous and complicated... But she had seen the deranged despair in his eyes the minute he had appeared in the corridor, fingers bloodied and face lined with pain. The turmoil in the dark eyes, the misery in his halting pleas--something was making her stay--and causing her to throb with unknown grief.

Her hand shot out to grab one of his before her courage failed her.

"For my peace of mind, Professor, just let me heal this."

He appeared to want to say something, but she shook her head dismissively.

"Yes, I know, Brewer's hands. I will not use a spell."

She lifted her arm, inspecting the tear in her shirt sleeve. She grabbed the end and tore off a strip of the material.

"Scourgify! Aguamente!"

Cleaned and moistened cloth readied, she took his hand, uncurled the clenched fingers, and wiped the dried blood from them, exposing skin rent with hundreds of small cuts.

"You'd think a Potions Master would take better care not to wreck his hands so much," she groused as she reached for the other hand.

"A splinching accident," said Snape acidly. "Not that it is any of your affair."

It was the first allusion he made to the night's events which had sent him back to the school in such unrestrained fury, and pausing, Hermione looked up at him in question. Then she thought better of it and proceeded with her task. Not yet. She didn't dare broach the topic--the hexes or what had come afterwards. She kept herself from chewing her lower lip. She wasn't even sureshe could talk about it yet...especially the last part.

She extracted her wand and said, "Accio, hand cream and dressings!"

Snape had not withdrawn his hand, which she took to be an encouraging sign. He merely regarded her disbelievingly, like she had summoned Basilisk venom. "Hand cream?"

"Antibiotic ointment...a Muggle invention," she said lightly as the requested objects whizzed down the corridor into her outreached hand. "My mother insisted on placing it with my things at the beginning of each school year, though I've never found a use for it until now."

She squeezed the cool, slippery substance from its tube, the sound of the squirting an affront to the silence of the corridors and the sober mood of them both. She spread it in a thick layer over the cuts on each hand. His hands were large, completely dwarfing hers as she held them, as well as feeling perilously heavy. It took a bit longer than she anticipated to completely smooth the cream into them, with her own hands shaking slightly. The continuous contact with his skin jarred her nerves to life, and she found herself noting every crease and callous that her own fingers encountered. Her breathing diminished to a bare minimum; she was afraid that the movement of air would prove too much for her tense body.

Snape's fingers tightened imperceptibly within hers, and the shadows that always seemed to lurk in his eyes became more pronounced, but otherwise, he did not react to the ministrations. He only stared irritably into the middle distance while Hermione attended to his injuries. She was annoyed at her own contrasting lack of equanimity.

She finished by binding up the fingers tightly within the dressings. Reluctantly, she released his hand, letting her own drop again, where it twisted nervously in the fabric of her skirt.

He held out his hands and evaluated the now-stubby digits, wrapped in white. "My thanks," he said after a long moment of consideration.

"Of course." She cast her eyes down and refrained from fidgeting. Her fingertips were still pulsating, strangely bereft with the feel of his rough skin gone from them.

"Miss Granger."

The exacting, formal tone of his voice caused her to lift her head. Exhaustion pulled at his features, making them appear harsh. He dragged bandaged fingers roughly through his hair, causing it to stick out at odd angles.

"I must appeal to your forgiveness once more. Though my conduct tonight suggests otherwise, you must never believe that I would raise hand or wand at you, again or ever."

With the distraction of his bloodied hands gone, Hermione's eyes roamed over his countenance with undivided attention. His hair hung lankly about his face, looking lifeless and miserable against the bloodless, pale skin. She saw the unsettled layers of distress shifting in his eyes, saw the raw bleakness which bled from him. Suddenly, her racing mind stilled. This moment changed nothing, offered no answers, and certainly didn't lessen the edginess of being in his presence after he had attacked her. Yet, empathy was making her eyes sting slightly, and her heart swelled with something she had no adequate words for. She instead settled for saying sincerely, "It is all done. Don't dwell on it any longer." Then she added, "But what happened to you tonight, Professor?"

She tried not to sound challenging or accusatory, but the question still caused muscles to tighten visibly near the base of his neck. He scowled at her before he quickly swung his gaze away again, turning around so fast that his robe flapped audibly behind him. "You are truly of the belief that my activities outside this school concern you, a mere student?" he asked, disdain coloring his voice in acerbic hues.

He was facing the wall, and Hermione studied his back, always tall and straight, extraordinarily so, even when a lesser man would have long ago bent. "Well," she said bluntly, "I do think I have some stake in the matter, yes. You did try to split my veins open just a few minutes ago."

"Which I very much regret, I told you that." He sighed, then reached out to brace himself against the rough granite of the wall while collecting his thoughts. "I recognize that you find yourself in the most intolerable of positions. It is... reasonable for you to expect redress from me after I had attacked you and then...I was forward with you. And as I said, you have my word that it will never happen again." After a taut pause, he said bitingly, "But never presume to pry into my private affairs, Granger. They are laughably beyond the ranges of your understanding, not to mention none of your business." His back was still turned, but the brutally cold warning of his words was unmistakable.

"I--" Hermione began, a protest mounting on her lips.

"I trust you will arrive punctually at my office tomorrow evening for your research session. Good evening."

With that, Snape unwarded his chambers and slid quickly into the darkness inside, leaving her to watch, speechless, as the door clicked shut behind him.

For a full minute she stood there and fixated on the wood paneling of the door, as if expecting him to emerge again. There was an uncomfortable pressure building in her skull that was starting to turn into a wicked headache. She sucked in air through her mouth; breathing through her nose felt too restrictive. It was only when she noticed that her fists were clenched that she finally recognized the anger.

Redress? What in Merlin's name was he talking about?

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move away from the door and walk through the corridor.

The nerve of him! She expressed concern and he thought she expected redress like they were two stuffy Wizengamot members having a spat in court? Who talks like that, anyway?

"Bastard!" she seethed under her breath. Her steps quickened, for she suddenly felt the need to put as much distance as possible between herself and Snape. Miniature dust clouds erupted beneath her feet as she stormed over the stones lining the corridor floor.

But it wasn't just his insistence on being infuriating and starchy. Her surging strides halted as tears of humiliation welled up in her eyes. He had dismissed her like she was a delinquent first year. Laughably beyond the ranges of your understanding. Well, Snape wasn't one to mince words. What had she been thinking? What had overtaken her senses so completely that she thought it was a good idea to... care about him? It was sheer madness, remaining even an instant more in his presence after he had tried to kill her! How stupid of her to hope that she could weather the toxic cesspool that was his personality.

She thought about the moment in his arms, when he had pressed her so fervidly against him, when they had been so recklessly close and she had secretly savored his warmth. "Detestable boor," she muttered. It is all very well for him, isn't it? A small lapse in judgment, a moment of being forward--was that how he had put it? She was just a bigger fool to expect these encounters, which caused her blood to heat and her head to spin, to mean anything at all to the surly and insensitive creature.

Finally, she arrived at Gryffindor Tower and let herself into the dormitory quietly. She crept to her bed and sat down to undress, empowered by her newfound disgust. Better she saw him as he was now rather than later, she reassured herself sternly. Was he ever meant to be anything to her other than a taciturn, ill-tempered professor? The singular moments that they had had together, the ones that she had begun to stash away desperately, greedily inside her heart--she closed her eyes now--they were merely the usual random life occurrences to which she had somehow started to assign imagined significance. She resolved to forget it all--the steadfastness of his voice in the hospital wing, his comforting presence at her bedside, the spelling session in the Forest that had managed to turn into something else entirely... Bone-weary, she crawled underneath her covers and curled tightly into herself, her arms wrapping about her body. And then, in that moment of spasmodic self-comfort, the frightfully clear epiphany came to her, just as she was shutting her eyes and surrendering herself to sleep.

It didn't bloody matter. She could never forget.

888

Severus closed the door to his chambers with ginger movements and quickly made use of an armchair. The pain was almost unbearable now. Cruciatus was still decimating his nerves, and he struggled to retain coherent thought, for he could not risk losing consciousness without first imbibing healing potions. The room was pitch black. His muttered wandless spell to light the sconces did not have the desired effect, and he suspected the debilitated state of his body. But light would have to come later. Shifting carefully in the chair, he extracted his wand and pointed in the direction of his potions lab.

"Accio healing potions!"

His brain registered relief when, in spite of the dark, the potions landed safely in his hands. Hastily, he uncorked the vials and consumed their contents one by one, the order in which he had to take them a routine he knew by heart through hard, bitter practice. When he had finished the last vial, the pain faded with startling speed, leaving him to listen to his own thundering pulse and broken breathing. Doubling over from relief, he lifted his arm and gasped, "Lumos!" With the aid of the magical instrument, light finally flooded his chambers.

By chance, his eyes landed first upon his fingers, which were wrapped neatly in linen. His wand was still grasped between them. With a surge of revulsion, he tossed the stick upon the ground, where it lay inert upon the carpet.

What in the frozen depths of Hades had he been thinking?

He was less deserving of wielding a wand than the idiot First Years in his Potions class.

Severus cursed, then smiled darkly to himself. So it had finally caught up to him. He wondered that it had taken so long. A lifetime spent in the company of worthless cowards --his father, the Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy-- all of whom preyed upon the defenseless and the weak had finally made its mark. Albus could offer all the reassurances he liked, but the notion that he had rehabilitated himself was a self-indulgent lie. The sheer magnitude of his failure, lain bare before his eyes tonight, mocking all the headmasters' pretty hopes--it was proof enough.

He just wished that it had been anyone but her...Granger. He stared at his hands in puzzlement. The girl had not done a half-bad job of healing them. Woman, he amended. Not girl, if the way he had almost lost himself with her was any indication. He remembered the shock he felt when he had held her in his arms--shock at how she fit against him so well, her body molding itself against his effortlessly. Severus cringed. Perhaps it would not be remiss to avail himself of the wenches in Hogsmeade. He never believed himself susceptible to carnal afflictions, not nearly as much as strutting fools like James Potter or Sirius Black, and certainly not with a student. But mere moments ago with Granger, he had been little more composed than an untried teenager, reacting with a frenzy that was mortifying. Severus reconsidered his chagrin. It is possible that it was a good thing he had attacked Granger, he realized. The sooner she shed any vainglorious illusions she had of him, the lesser the likelihood of him repeating that disastrous performance.

A knock sounded from the entrance way. Severus' jaw clenched. He knew who it was without needing to open the door.

"Enter." He was just surprised that the visitor had bothered knocking at all.

There would be hell to pay with Albus, he was sure.

The headmaster appeared in his field of vision, but Severus did not have sufficient energy to meet the old man's eye. "I do not believe I've ever witnessed you entering a room through a door, Headmaster," he said tiredly.

Albus was quite obviously in his face now, and with a scowl, Severus finally lifted his eyes. His mentor made no reply, but simply stood there and considered him gravely, the serene concern which emanated from his gaze making Severus glare. "Well, no need for suspense. If you're here to lambaste me, Albus, then by all means, do so!"

The headmaster sighed, then walked over to the fireplace, where the grate had been scrubbed clean by the House-elves and lay empty. "My dear boy," Albus said as he got down upon his knees and methodically arranged himself into a kneeling position. "I came over merely to make certain that you are whole and well." He took a log from the pile and placed it on the grate.

"I do not need to be checked on," Severus snapped. His attention, however, was being diverted by the sight of the headmaster, his robes and beard dragging upon the floor as he continued to slowly move logs into the fireplace, cradling each one with great care. "What the--" Severus sat up and reached for his wand, still on the carpet. "Albus, for Merlin's sake, let me--"

The old man held up his hand and shook his head. "No, Severus, please allow me."

Severus rolled his eyes and sagged into the chair again. "May I ask, what exactly are you doing?"

Albus smiled, looking a little too pleased with himself. "Why, I am building a fire. I would have thought that to be quite apparent."

"Why?" Severus demanded, wishing he wasn't sounding so much like a peevish child.

"Because the room is slightly chilly, don't you think?" Albus replied, still in that patient, conversational tone.

The Potions master now gave up any expectation of reasoned discourse with the old fool. Instead, he eyed the ceiling and noted blandly, "Those of us older than twelve generally favorIncendio and the like for such occasions."

Albus merely chuckled.

Moments later, the headmaster raised himself off the ground and a blazing, crackling fire appeared, the warmth immediately filling the room. Severus admitted that it was a welcome addition as he closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his aching joints. He heard, rather than saw, Albus settle into the other chair.

"Severus."

"What now?" he muttered, his eyelids cracking open slightly.

"I built you a fire because I want you to be warm. And because I believed that that was probably about the only help you would accept from me before throwing me out of your chambers," the headmaster added with a wink, which only served to make Severus roll his eyes once more.

"Do not be ridiculous," he responded unenthusiastically. Leave it to Albus to resort to this sort of irrational nonsense. He would not deny that the headmaster was the least dubious of the characters who paraded through his life. But help? Help was for little boys who got into school yard spats or girls who lost their kneazles, or he'll admit, some fully grown wizards who had committed such atrocious errors of judgment that they faced insurmountable difficulty. But of what use would help be to him?

The old wizard nodded toward the empty potions vials that Severus had lined up neatly on the ground next to his chair. "You have taken potions, I see. Not a good night?"

Severus sighed and sunk his forehead into the palm of his hand. "He was angry tonight," he began, in spite of himself. "He is convinced that the attempt on Draco's life was the work of a Death Eater, though it is not yet clear which one."

"And what was your opinion?"

"It has the look and the feel of one of the Dark Lord's own. The victim, the execution of the deed, the choice of spell, everything. I admit I am in agreement with him. His instincts are usually correct, even if his style veers on the side of paranoia. But there was nothing but chaos tonight, I couldn't tell who was responsible. He seems to believe it was a twisted demonstration of love and fidelity."

Albus nodded. "Ah, Tom is back to his old tricks again--the blood sacrifice? And I suppose one thing led to another," the headmaster finished with a wan smile while gesturing towards Severus' slumped form.

He hated the sympathy, but at present, he seemed to have run out of ways to avoid it. "Naturally," he smirked.

"How long?" Albus demanded quietly.

"Long." He supposed he was expected to elaborate.

"If it was serious--"

"Do not even think about interfering. I've not lost my senses. The rest can be dealt with." To his dismay, Severus realized that he had raised his voice.

Albus' blue eyes homed in on his own and he felt himself being assessed in a peculiar reprisal of what he had done with the Dark Lord mere hours ago. He was spared the mental invasion of Legilimency, but Albus was somehow satisfied anyway and turned back to the fire after a moment. They fell silent, and as the burning logs snapped and threw embers, Severus noted the headmaster now staring intently at the flames, the greatest mind known to modern wizardom visibly weighing one intractable care against another.

At length, the old wizard sighed. "Well, it seems that Tom and I are equally confounded. It burdens me a great deal that three of our students have been directly hurt."

"It is likely an isolated incident," Severus said, heeding the inexplicable urge to reassure. "Granted, it is still too early to tell, but I would venture to say that other than the usual intrigues surrounding Potter, there are presently no undercurrents in his circle portending any additional strikes."

"A relief, certainly, though we are still left with our mystery assailant. And how, if you would, did your fingers come by this state?"

It occurred to Severus that the purpose of the headmaster's visit had yet to be addressed. "You always did have the most subtle way of changing the subject, Albus," he commented sharply.

"Why, inquiring minds would like to know," the other wizard replied with good cheer.

"If you know what took place tonight, which I am certain you do or you wouldn't be stationed in my sitting room on a social visit, then why trouble yourself by asking?" he hissed.

At this, Albus leaned forward in his chair and stated softly, "Severus, there is no need for self-recrimination. Nothing has changed. You remain yet yourself."

"Save your placating rubbish. You think it is acceptable for me to attack students in corridors with lethal spells?" And wish to god I could take her to bed, he added to himself, stoically feeling the burn of humiliation.

"No," Albus acceded, "that was not well done. But you are completely missing the point. Why Miss Granger?"

"Why her? How in Merlin's name should I know? She was there, she couldn't stop meddling in others' affairs, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was..." Severus paused, then forced himself to swallow. "I was--"

"Out of your mind with pain? You were never a merciful judge of people, least of all yourself."

"Be that as it may, I don't suppose you intend to just leave me be, do you? That would be shockingly unconventional for you. You've come to hand out punishment."

"Punishment? I know how you are, Severus." Albus stood now and gripped one of his shoulders, the bony, frail-looking hand belying its iron strength. "You cannot postpone forgiving yourself forever, mark my words. You have somehow found, in spite of all you have been through, the courage to have expectations. This is why I have come, Severus, not to punish you, as you are so quick to believe, but to remind you that things are not always as they seem."

Severus had no response to these maudlin pronouncements; he rarely did when Albus took it upon himself to lecture. Instead, he absently studied his Dark Mark, feeling resentful. The old coot talked in riddles and made unsubstantiated assumptions about his own capacity for loftiness. Was it any wonder that half the members of the Wizengamot are clamoring for his retirement at any given time?

"Brood if you must, my boy," came the dependably cheerful voice. "I shall not keep you any longer. I expect your outlook will improve tomorrow."

And with this last bit of infuriating optimism, the headmaster departed, leaving Severus to contemplate sleep at last.

888

Severus spent the next day anticipating the arrival of half past seven like a man counting down to his execution. After Albus had left, he had first made himself a nightcap, hoping that it would induce calm. The alcohol served to lull him quickly enough into stupor, but it was not the deep, undisturbed sleep he had been hoping for. Instead, he had passed a restless night filled with fitful dreams. Granger had been an unwelcome apparition, his mind's eye blithely filling in details to supplement what little visual memory he had actually been able to accumulate from their charged interaction the night before. The eyes were just a bit richer in brown, her skin a bit more luminous, and that striking look of vulnerability mixed with fierce pride, which always made him ache, that much more pronounced when placed in the glaring focus of his subconscious. Far from being more collected, he sat behind his desk now waiting for her to arrive, even more deranged this evening than when he returned to find her camped outside his rooms last night.

He wondered if she would come at all. Certainly, he had commanded it of her, in the way that teachers command students. Come to this place, at this hour, I will expect to see you there. Yes, that is how it normally goes, isn't it? And that is how he was used to conducting himself toward students, but would she still listen? It was not lost upon him that perhaps he had forfeited his place as any source of credible authority.

The knock at his classroom door made him look up, and he was unexpectedly glad. It was precisely half past seven. Wordlessly, he waved his wand and the door swung open.

She stood unmoving in the doorway for a moment, mostly still in the shadow of the dimly lit corridor. For an instant, she hung back, might have melted into the darkness, but then in a flash, she took a step forward, and the light from the classroom spilled upon her. Hard, determined eyes met his own as she strode towards his desk and took a seat.

"You came," Severus said thoughtlessly before he could stop himself. He immediately wished he had.

"Yes," she agreed, an eyebrow rising. "You seem surprised."

His speech sounding clumsy to his own ears, he cleared his throat. "I thank you for your assistance again last night. As you can see, my fingers have become much improved."

"I am pleased to hear you tell me so, since I would have thought it was clearly none of my business," she answered in smooth, icy tones.

They were just words, but Severus was gripped by his own suddenly pounding heartbeat. Vaguely, he recalled the final scene to last night's protracted drama and his own harsh dismissal of her. He took a closer look at the woman who now sat before him. Gone was the slight quirk to her lips that he had gotten used to, that indulgent half-smile that he sometimes secretly wondered if she reserved just for him. Instead, her mouth was now set in a thin, straight line. Even her hair was pulled back in a severe plait today, he noticed, with nary a stray curl in sight. Anger--at him, no doubt--had not diminished her. In fact, she was an even prouder and more magnificent creature.

But her current state filled him with a sense of unhappiness and confusion. Somehow, he needed to make things as they were again, her haughty demeanor be damned.

Slowly, he withdrew his wand, and as she watched with her unnervingly alert stare, he placed it between them, on the desk.

She appeared mystified, then her eyes widened and she laughed incredulously, which caused Severus' insides to curdle with humiliation. "Oh, you can keep your wand. I'm certain you learned your lesson the first time you tried to strike me. And don't worry, I won't go running to Professor Dumbledore."

"Very well," he heard himself say. There was no problem projecting his usual disaffected indifference now. Any desire he had had to quell their differences instantly evaporated in the bitter sting of her derision. He deserved what he got, he concluded grimly as he pushed his chair back from his desk. Gryffindors, particularly Gryffindor children, are all vain, prideful, arrogant brats, and if he had remembered that key tenet, he wouldn't have been routed by a mere wisp of a girl.

Opening his drawer, he pulled out the Pensieve again. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for disrespect towards a professor. And now, let us return to our project."

Looking up, he savored the savage feeling of satisfaction at the look of black hatred which rose in her eyes.

Author's Notes:

The title of this chapter is derived from a letter John Keats wrote to J.H. Reynolds, in which he said, "Now it appears to me that almost any Man may like the Spider spin from his own inwards his own airy Citadel." I believe Keats was trying to express how it is possible for man to produce a very complex illusion from almost nothing. See the rest of the letter here: /v5n1/tojhreynolds

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