Secrets Best Kept

Part Four

A dark night in a dark room, his eyes were closed and his mind was filled with dark thoughts. The pain in his body almost rivaled the pain to his pride, and as Molly and Remus left him there he wondered if he should have just apparated somewhere else, tended to his own wounds, rather than know the pity that they felt for him. He didn't need the werewolf, of all things, to care for him, and yet a shiver ran through his body and parched, broken lips demanded water. He was having trouble focusing his mind on a single thought, and even the world around him when he opened his eyes seemed slightly out of focus. This was not a time for weakness.

He heard a creak, a footstep, in the direction that Molly had just departed. The parched lips betrayed him: "Molly? Molly, is that you?"

Footsteps then, lighter than Molly's, and a voice very close to him saying softly, "Professor Snape? Can I get something for you?"

He turned his head towards the voice and barely registered the younger countenance before he rasped, "Some water... please..." and was cursing himself on the inside. It's no wonder they show you pity, he thought, feeling the stab of a bruised rib when he shifted on the couch, You sound pathetic.

She returned then, held a glass out water out to him. He took it, and realized the identity of his caregiver. Miss Granger... at least, it seemed to be. Was it the ill focus of his vision, the darkness of the room, the way the moonlight hit her face? He would have sworn that she was a child, and yet...

Pushing away what were obviously thoughts laced by delirium, he tried to find strength enough for his voice, so that he could reprimand her for being out of bed. But suddenly her mouth formed a concerned "O" and then she took her hand, covered in the sleeve of her nightgown, and gently wiped the blood from the cut on his face.

It was then he realized that the look in her eyes as she helped him was not one of pity, or even concern. It was respect, pride... awe.

It was a great thing to be kind without pity. As she started to go his hand moved instinctively, lightly closing on her arm. "Thank you, my dear," he said, slightly surprising himself.

She looked taken aback, and then he heard her say, as she stood and hurried out of the room, back up the stairs, "I think you're very brave."

He lay in darkness for a few seconds, wondering when she had become a woman outside his notice. It wasn't her appearance, it was something in her... spirit. Her soul.

But then again, I've just had quite a blow to the head, he thought bitterly, and could suddenly see the corners of his vision going dark. And just before everything around him faded to black, his single thought slipped from his lips: "Hermione..."

*****

He could not imagine anything more trite than saying that the image of her that night haunted him. But it did, at least, for the rest of the school year. He realized that she thought he didn't remember - he caught her eyes searching, the first few times he saw her, perhaps for some glimmer of recognition, which he never saw fit to give her.

Instead he watched her, discreetly, and saw that she was indeed becoming a woman, some moments more so than others. With the other two thirds of her trio, at least, she still acted much like a child. This made things much easier on him, since she was rarely without them. Particularly Ron Weasley, and when he saw them together he felt like stopping them - "Don't touch her, you unworthy twit, you're going to suck away her growing spirit with your foolish, childish ways."

It wasn't jealousy, because he didn't want her for himself; she was barely eighteen for god sake. He saw something growing in her that should be nourished and cared for. But he was not the one to do it.

And so things continued as they always had. Perhaps he was even harder on her than he had been before; he was harder on all of them at that point. He remembered hearing her defending him to Ron one afternoon. And then he'd flown in, taken ten points from Gryffindor for their being late to class.

When she graduated, had he been another man perhaps it would have been a reason for elation: ah, now he could think about her without guilt! But instead, he pushed her to the back of his mind. The last thing he needed was a distraction of that sort, and besides, she was still much too young for him. And he was... himself. Thoughts of women, even ones with old souls, had no place in his life. And he had no delusions that he had a place in theirs. Because even his stone of a heart could see that Hermione Granger was becoming a beautiful woman. And beautiful women had no thoughts of Severus Snape, just as he knew they caused nothing but grief.

So the years passed, and by way of treating her as he treated everyone else, he saw her, thought about her, no differently. And when she moved into Hogwarts and he was forced to give her lessons in occlumency, he was just as annoyed as he would have been were it anyone else.

And then, during their first session, her nervousness surprised him. She lacked the strength that he was used to seeing in her, and he wondered why. He was slightly pleased, then, to see the image in her mind of setting fire to his robes in the quidditch stand so many years ago, when she was still a child. It was a task... worthy of a Slytherin, really.

But then they tried again, and the memories he extracted from her mind were no longer of her childhood. Instead, she was very much an adult, and the images were very much... of him. He watched himself through her eyes, transfixed. It wasn't until the last image of the portrait, something in the way she gazed at it, that jerked him to reality. He broke the connection.

"You didn't push me away," he said, meaning it to sound like a reprimand, but realizing that there was more questioning in his tone than he intended.

She sounded terrified as she began to defend herself, and he realized how powerfully shaken up she was. Was that why she had been so nervous? Afraid of what he would see in her mind? Afraid he would see... himself?

No, that was ridiculous.

Before he could continue to turn it over and over in his head, he dismissed her, refusing to meet her eyes. She left, and he slumped into his chair, lost in his own thoughts.

*****

When she arrived at his office the next evening, he had spent far too much of his night and day dwelling on what had happened the one before. He was disgusted with himself in the foolish games he was playing with his own thoughts - some boyhood fantasy, she loves me, she loves me not.... Absurd. He finally convinced himself of what he had all along suspected to be true - that the images meant nothing. It was just as likely that the memories were random, triggered by stream of consciousness as sometimes happens in legilimency. And even if they did mean something... it was just as likely that the emotions that triggered them were negative as positive. He remembered Neville Longbottom's boggart; whereas he harbored no delusions that she was terrified of him, he would not be surprised if her dislike for him ran deeper than he thought. She would not be the first one. And whereas she had always maintained something of a friendly manner towards him - actually, that was quite unusual - she did as much towards everyone. It was in her disposition. Not something that he would normally praise, but it suited her, and it made the times when her anger shone through infinitely more powerful.

These were the thoughts he had been having all day, and by the evening he was in as sour a mood as he had ever been. The more he thought about her, the more he didn't want to think about her, and the more irritated he was that his mind seemed to be forcing him to do so.

When she arrived, he didn't need legilimency to read her thoughts. She was a nervous wreck, as much as he'd ever seen her. And he realized what it was: she was mortified at the thought that he, loathsome Severus Snape, had been given the impression that she had feelings for him. She's probably well into disgusted by now, he thought bitterly, and snapped at her as soon as she opened the door, not bothering to turn around. "If you're going to stand in the doorway all night, Miss Granger, you're wasting my time. Now get in here before I get to any of the many better things I could be doing with my evening."

She took a step forward, started to say his name, and he realized he couldn't stand to listen to her disavow her feelings for him. "If you are about to make silly excuses regarding the last session of our lesson yesterday, you would do well to save your breath." He looked at her still flushed face. "You're positively spewing anxiety, Miss Granger, which I can tell you will have no positive effect on our lesson tonight."

She insisted on beginning to speak his name again, and he cut her off angrily. "Not finished. Now, I mean to tell you that there is no point to your excuses. What you may or may not know or understand..." He snarled that last world, quite aware that her intelligence was a low blow to strike. He went on to explain about the sometimes random nature of legilimency, and then ended, "Whatever misconceptions you may be so anxious that I have formed, I can guarantee you that I have not."

He stood back, waiting for her cover her embarrassment and then move on to their lesson. Better her than him. It was her bloody memories that had put him into such a foul mood.

But instead, she lashed out at him. He stood there dumbly, listening to her rattle off a stream of insults until she finally stopped, looking slightly smug, and he remembered that anger so rare yet powerfully invoked and realized that it had never before been directed at him.

For a moment, he found the angry gleam in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the wit to her abuse... attractive. And that unintended, unwelcome, involuntary reaction incensed him more than anything she had just said.

He forced himself to step closer to her, look her in the eye, as he responded. Hissed out a retort that contained all the venom that he felt about the situation in general and aimed the full brunt of the force at her.

And she didn't even flinch.

Deciding that the best course now would be to simply begin the lesson, he pulled out his wand and cast legilimens on her again. He hoped with all his might that she did better this time; he didn't want to see what else her memories held. The images swarmed in front of his face. Harry, crying. No surprise there. And then...

Hermione, in the throes of passion. A mirror revealing the sweat on her brow, the curve of her breasts, the scream that died on her lips as she threw her head back, tangles of hair falling over her shoulders. So... feral.

And then it faded into another scene, of Ron Weasley leaving her with agonizingly hurtful words of departure. Then, a Death Eater casting an unforgivable, leaving her writhing in pain, just for a second, but just enough...

And then she pushed him out. He could feel himself shaking slightly, not accustomed to dealing with such raw emotion. He looked at her, seeing her face was pale, her hands trembling. He managed to compose himself enough to say, "You didn't use your wand that time. You pushed me out with only your mind. That is better, but you still let me get in..." The words caught in the back of his throat slightly as the images flashed in front of his eyes. "Too far. Much too far."

Her eyes held something he couldn't place, and for a moment he thought that she was either going to yell at him again, or collapse into a crying heap on the floor. "Miss Granger?" he said, softly.

She lifted her head, and he could see the glisten of tears on the edges of her eyes. "I'm fine," she said, her tone harsh, mean. "A bit put out about your seeing me naked, is all."

He could hear the desperation in her voice. Knew that she was lashing out at him to avoid him seeing her break down. But still, the words brought back the image to his mind, now a memory of his, of Hermione Granger, making love to a man he assumed was Ron though he could really care less.

He realized that he had just seen the two sides of Hermione's passion. A woman so generally reserved, so in control of herself, suddenly losing control in anger, and lust. It stirred something inside him, something he wished not awakened, and the image in his mind's eye lingered. He looked at her, and could feel himself doing something that he never, ever did. He blushed.

Just for a moment, before he managed to control himself, cursing everything that was biological about his worn body. Once he regained the use of his voice he intended to take control again with a retort to her accusation, but was interrupted.

"I want to try again," she said.

His immediate instinct was to refuse, but could see the determination in her eyes. "Very well. But I cannot be responsible for..."

"I want to try again."

And he heard the strength in her voice that he recognized. Even just the last two memories he had unveiled, Ron's departure, the Crutiatus curse... no wonder she was shaken, but she resisted breaking down, both during the actual events, and here after reliving them for him. He had no idea that this... this slip of a girl - of a woman - had such a degree of strength inside her.

He nodded, held out his wand, and prayed silently that she would succeed this time. No more. No more memories, not if they would continue to be like those...

The picture was hazy this time, and he thought that he was just about to make out the outline of the staircase in Grimmauld Place, when he suddenly heard a loud cry: "Protego!"

And he felt himself thrown violently into his own mind - the dark mark searing, being beaten by the Death Eaters, then laying in the dark watching Hermione, then her name from his lips...

He pushed her viciously from his mind. Slammed his entire will against the force of the shielding spell. He opened his eyes, bracing himself against the desk for support, and saw her crumbled to the floor at his feet. "That is quite enough," he said, hoping that his voice would not betray him as his memories had.