Open Letter

Chapter One

Fifth year--If I had to say when it really started, that would be my answer. Of course, I could always go further back and say that it started when I received my Hogwarts letter. Everything changed after that. For once in my life there was, excuse the horrid pun, magic in the air.

I went to Platform 9 3/4, boarded the Hogwarts Express and settled myself amongst my new peers. I was sorted into Gryffindor, but only just. The Sorting Hat almost put me in Ravenclaw. I probably would have gone there if it hadn't been for the three way split. See, the Hat also considered Slytherin. I do have a cold, logical side and the desire to prove myself.

At the time the various houses meant very little to me. I knew that I would succeed wherever I was placed, it was just a question of my strongest trait: bravery, intelligence, loyalty, or ambition. I've since wondered how the events of my school years would have played out had I been placed in his house. Perhaps there would not have been the hurt he caused with his comments, but perhaps I never would have seen his other side if not for the events of my fifth year. It is most certain that were I a Slytherin, I would not have been involved in that ill-fated rescue mission.

As selfish as it sounds, I would not change a single thing about that night. I'm too afraid that a change, however miniscule, would alter things and leave me without my greatest joy. Harry would hate me for saying that but I do not intend for Harry or Ron or anyone but you to read this.

I have to explain myself to you. I know that it will be hard for you to grow up without your father and I can't pretend that everyone will approve of the relationship I had with him. They could never understand how I, Hermione Ellen Granger, brightest witch in her year, could ever love your father. After all, he was my "loathsome" Potions master. I'll admit, in my younger years I hated him as much as a pre-teen could hate, but all that changed at the end of my fifth year.

You see, while I was convalescing in the school's hospital wing after being attacked by Antonin Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries, I had to take ten different potions a day. Many of these potions were not the type to be routinely stocked by the mediwitch and so Professor Severus Snape was called upon to brew my potions. Since the potions would lose their potency over time, he would bring them to me himself.

As my health improved, I began to question him for news. My questions received the sarcastic comments that I was used to and, by now, expected to hear. After a week of this Severus did something quite unexpected. He brought me a book. One from his personal library. At first I just stared at him when he extended it to me. He muttered, "I thought you might like something to help pass the time" by way of explanation and then quickly left.

The book he lent me was obviously special to him, well cared for but also well worn with loving use. He had even penciled his thoughts in the margins. When I read that book, I felt as though he were reading it alongside me. In that way he kept me company during the night. Most nights I was unnerved by the isolation caused by the privacy curtains around my bed. That night I felt... secure. That book was the promise that the world was still going on outside of my curtains.

After that, things were different. It's not as though I fell in love with him instantly, but in that moment I no longer hated him. I know that it doesn't sound like much, but in that moment I saw him as a person, a human being, and I could no longer think of him as simply my unyielding professor.

When he returned the next day with my potion for the morning, I thanked him. He coloured slightly and then regaining his poise said in that silky tone of his, "I was afraid that it would bore you. No pictures after all."

When he returned that afternoon, I told him I had a question. He frowned and said, "I gave you that book so that you could spend your time doing something other than finding questions to pester me with." I coolly told him that my question was about the book. "Very well, Miss Granger, ask your question."

Every day after that he would sit with me and talk. First we discussed the book but soon we moved on to other topics. As our little bedside debates went on, he warmed to me. I read several books of his and our exchange of ideas was so stimulating that I hardly wanted to leave the hospital wing.

Three days before the end of term I was given a clean bill of health. I hardly knew how to act in my last potions class of the year. The lesson was fairly uneventful. I took longer than I needed to clean my supplies up. Once everyone else had left the room I approached his desk. I told him of my desire to be a Healer and asked if there was the possibility of extra lessons in the following year. He listened to me before slowly giving his reply. "I don't usually give extra lessons, but then... you are... not the usual student that I teach. I will give you extra lessons for as long as your work merits them. Do not think that I will treat you any differently in my class. I will owl you before term starts to tell you the extra ingredients and books you will need. That will be all."

That little bit of praise repeated in my head for the rest of the day. My other professors praised me often, but to hear him say that. It meant so much to me.

My special lessons continued for all of sixth year. Throughout that time Severus and I built a wonderful working relationship. Towards the end of the year he even had me assisting him with his personal experiments. Severus had gone from being, in my eyes, a static, mean-spirited character to a multi-faceted human being and that human being was now my friend and colleague outside of the regular potions lessons. I had never felt so alone as I did that year when I rode home from Hogwarts.

After a week at home I sent the first owl. I didn't ask for permission because I knew full well that he wouldn't give it to me. I expected a letter chastising me for my impertinence, but instead I received a well-written, pleasant letter. I wrote back and soon we had a regular correspondence.

I began to live for those letters signed with nothing more than an S. Those letters that smelled faintly of spice and chemicals. They conjured thoughts of cauldrons bubbling in a dungeon far away and the man tending those cauldrons.

I harboured my desires for a long time before I could correctly give them name. Eventually I had to admit that I had fallen in love. I loved the mind that composed such letters, the steady hand that wrote them, the man who sent them to me.

I had heard of being lovesick before, but that word took on new meaning. It was the way I lingered over every word from his hand to me. It was tossing and turning at night as I drifted off to dreams that left me even more restless when I awoke. That... thin feeling, when everything appears washed out and there's a grey cast that lingers over the days when there is no sign of him.

The new term was quickly approaching and I knew that there was no way that I could return to Hogwarts and hide my feelings from him. I decided to write to him and fully disclose my feelings. I had fought Death Eaters before and yet writing that letter scared me more.

I'm not sure what I expected his reply to be. I knew what I wished to read, but I don't think I even really hoped for it. As the days passed and still no reply, I began to simply hope that I would hear something from him, anything.