- Rating:
- PG
- House:
- Astronomy Tower
- Ships:
- Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
- Characters:
- Harry Potter Hermione Granger Ron Weasley Severus Snape
- Genres:
- Romance Friendship
- Era:
- Harry and Classmates Post-Hogwarts
- Spoilers:
- Deadly Hallows (Through Ch. 36)
- Stats:
-
Published: 09/02/2010Updated: 10/02/2010Words: 21,958Chapters: 7Hits: 2,145
Sometimes That's What It Takes
SwissMiss
- Story Summary:
- Hermione despairs of Snape ever wanting her for anything more than running his errands. Until his unhinged physical therapist hits her with an untraceable curse and she ends up literally on cloud nine. SS/HG. Complete.
Chapter 01
- Posted:
- 09/02/2010
- Hits:
- 435
Author's Notes: This was written for opaljade on the sshg_exchange 2010. Unfortunately, there is no sex scene. :( A great big thank you to Tevildo from Perfect Imagination for Britpicking, canon corrections, and beta reading above and beyond the call of duty, and for making this so much better than it otherwise would have been!
Original Prompt: 3) Hermione (or you can make it Snape if you wish!) is stuck on a cloud. I don't know why she can't Apparate elsewhere. Others can go visit her, but she can't come down. Ron and Harry enlist Snape to get her back on solid ground. I would love a slightly exhibitionist sex scene on the cloud! :D
Sometimes That's What It Takes
Chapter
1
I pushed the door open to the old two-up two-down. As usual, the sitting room
was gloomy, the only light filtering in through the dingy curtain covering the
small front window. He knew I was coming; couldn't he do me the courtesy of
receiving me? The old grump. Well, at least he'd given me the password so I
could let myself in. Although I was fairly certain that was more for his
convenience than mine.
"Lights!" I called as I took off my cloak. It was damp from the
incessant drizzle, so I hung it on the coat rack right inside the door.
Overhead, the candle-filled lamp flared to life, revealing the threadbare
floral sofa and scratched, Bakelite coffee table. All his mother's. He hadn't
touched a thing in the house since she'd died. Sad, really.
The house always smelled like overcooked macaroni and wet wool, but today there
was an additional layer of chemical tang. Bulbadox, maybe. He must be making a
batch of Boil Cure Potion. I pulled out my wand and twirled it toward the
window, to let in a bit of fresh air. Honestly, one of these days he was going
to asphyxiate himself.
My eye fell on the coffee table, where one of his special compartmentalised
transport boxes was sitting. I flipped up the catch and opened the lid. Three
dozen stoppered and sealed glass vials nestled in individual padded slots, all
ready to go. Well, at least he'd been busy. Merlin only knew what he got up to
most of the time, holed up in this place time left behind. Spinner's End
indeed. It might truly end up being the end of the Spinner, in the German sense
of 'the lunatic'. If only... but I'd been over it a million times. He'd never
open up, never let anyone get close to him. He'd been too damaged. It was a
miracle he let me do as much as he did.
Speaking of having things to do... I tapped my wand against one of the
floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the walls. It swung open, allowing me to pass
through into the kitchen. I made sure my sensible, low-heeled boots clacked
loudly on the wooden floorboards. Hello, Professor! Come out, come out,
wherever you are! He didn't like me to shout, and there was no other way to
announce my presence. I knew he'd materialise eventually, if I poked around
long enough.
The kitchen was spotless, as usual. Cosy, though. I'd never had an intimate
relationship with our kitchen, growing up. My mother, the career woman, hardly
used it. I'd practically grown up on those shrink-wrapped instant meals from
M&S. My first real taste of kitchen life came from the Weasleys. But even
though Molly was a good housekeeper, with all the men of the house tramping in
and out all the time, and the amount of food needing to be prepared and
consumed, I don't think the Burrow's kitchen ever truly got clean. The dishes
from one meal were barely dry before someone would come in complaining they
needed a snack.
The Professor, on the other hand... well, he was a man of fastidious habits. I
didn't know if he'd been born that way, or if he'd had to learn to clean up
after himself over the years. It wasn't merely a matter of sweeping and doing
the washing-up, either. I was thinking of removing evidence. Merlin, the things
he must have seen. He never wanted to talk about any of it. I'd the impression
he was ashamed. Even though we all knew -- well, the Order, anyway, and those
with half a brain and half a heart -- we all knew what side he'd been on after
all, what he'd been put through, made to endure. I wished he'd accept there
were people who valued him, people who appreciated him, people who... liked
him. Or more.
Never mind. I was just going to wind myself up again. Ron thought I was mad
anyway, coming over and helping him out like I did. Harry understood, or at
least I thought he did. At any rate, he always made a point of inquiring after
the Professor and listened to me rattle on about him. And he'd given me a
shoulder to cry on, on more than one occasion.
It might sound like I was pitying him, mothering him, like I wanted to fix him,
but it wasn't like that at all. I would never have wanted to change him. He was
just about all the clichés you could think of: tall, dark and handsome; the
strong, silent type; walks softly and carries a big... wand. Oh, dear. Well,
the truth had to come out sometime. It's true, I fancied Professor Snape. There
was nothing unsavoury about it; it didn't start until after I'd left school.
I'd never thought of him as anything other than a teacher while I was there.
But afterwards, when I saw him at St. Mungo's, out of those awful black robes,
how he fought to recover from the snake bite, how he comported himself during
his trials -- all three of them. And how, despite the overwhelming public
vilification (even though he was cleared of all charges -- three times), he
undertook to remain independent, never accepted any charity, and paid back every
Knut Harry'd spent on his legal bills. Well, he was still working on paying it
back, and he would in full, I had every confidence of that.
I could see how someone might find this whole thing a bit like my old crusade
for the house-elves. I had a very tender spot in my heart for house-elves. I
admired them for working so hard, and I'd never wanted to take that away from
them or change their character. Some of my best friends were house-elves. It
was everyone else who had the problem, taking them for granted and not
compensating them fairly, making them work under the most cruel and base
conditions. They had no protections under the law, no rights...
But getting back to the Professor. There was so much to admire about him. He
was truly a genius. And strong, both physically and emotionally. His limp
shouldn't fool anyone. A lesser man would have been permanently paralyzed by
the venom. I only wanted to create an environment where he could achieve his
potential, and be happy. If he even knew what happiness was anymore. And, well,
where there might be fringe benefits for myself.
I stuck my nose into the pantry, to make sure he'd been eating, and noted with
satisfaction that nearly everything was gone. Half a sack of potatoes and a
couple of tins of fish and beans were all that remained. Tea was nearly out,
too. Might as well finish it off. Maybe the scent would lure him out. I filled
the kettle and set a Heating Charm to work. In the meantime, I fetched a piece
of paper and a Dicta-Quill from the front room, then came back and started on
the shopping list.
I'd barely had time to write 'pasta' and 'carrots' when I heard the tell-tale thump-draaag
thump-draaag. My heart leapt. I concentrated on not looking at the doorway
and getting my breathing under control. Let's see... tomato sauce...
butter...
"Must you gallop about?" he said disapprovingly. "It is well for
you that I haven't anything delicate brewing. And what are you doing going
through my cupboards?"
"There's nothing to go through," I corrected him crisply. "I'm
making a list to send to the grocer's." I felt sufficiently in control to
send him a sidelong glance.
He was standing just inside the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter,
his arms crossed over his chest, pulling the white cotton material taut over
his shapely pectoral-- Oh, dear -- dangerous territory! I tore my gaze
up to his face. Hardly any better. His dark eyes were smouldering, as they
usually did in my presence; he seemed to be in a constant state of irritation
whenever I was around. I always hoped it was his natural attitude, and not
solely reserved for me. Still, I could lose myself in those eyes. They were a
promise of passion and fire, never fulfilled.
Don't gawk! I reminded myself. The shopping list! With difficulty
and an apologetic smile, I refocused on the empty shelves, willing myself to
recall what was usually stocked there. I came up empty. Blast my hormones!
At that moment, a shrill piping rescued me. It was the water coming to a boil.
With relief, I set the list aside and went to retrieve the kettle.
"I see you're helping yourself to my tea as well," he remarked.
"It's polite, when one has visitors, to offer them a cup of tea," I
said simply, avoiding looking at him as I got out the rest of the tea things. I
didn't want him to think I was being too cheeky.
"You're not a visitor," he said in a deep voice that sent shivers
into all sorts of delicious places. It almost sounded warm, intimate, like...
but no, it was nothing more than his irritation at me invading his personal
space. As usual.
I tilted my head in acknowledgement. I did, after all, feel nearly as at home
in his kitchen as I did in mine. Sometimes more so. "No, I suppose not.
Still, I felt like a cup, after coming all the way out here in this
weather."
He stiffened and his voice became cold again. "No one asked you to
come."
Damn. I always ended up pushing the wrong buttons with him. It was a
wonder he didn't change the password and lock me out altogether. But then I
knew why he kept letting me in: he needed me, and for some reason, I was the
only one he trusted, other than Harry. And Harry was too busy being an Auror
and trying to start a family to play messenger to Professor Snape. I measured
out the tea leaves into the teapot and poured the hot water over them.
Better to move on, rather than address his retort. "Will you join
me?" I asked with what I hoped was a friendly smile, as I sat down at the
table.
"It is my tea," he said gruffly, and set his body down heavily on the
chair opposite me. Not that he was heavy; in fact, he was as lean now as he
probably had been at my age. Could most likely eat whatever he wanted and not
gain an ounce. Sexy bastard.
"I saw the batch on the table in the front room. Is that everything?"
I asked, wishing the tea would steep faster. I needed a cup to hold up in front
of me, like a shield. I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I stuffed them
down into my lap.
"Isn't that enough?" he scoffed.
"It's never enough, you know that. Your potions are very much
sought-after." And they were. Even something as simple as a Pepperup
Potion became nectar when brewed by his talented hands. His very strong, very
agile, talented fingers, which were resting right there, on the table. All I
had to do was reach out and-- It was a good thing I'd already exiled my hands
from sight. He couldn't see them twitch.
"As long as no one knows they were made by me," he said bitterly,
apparently oblivious to the physical and emotional turmoil his presence put me
through. There was more than a grain of truth in that statement, and yet...
"I think you do yourself a disservice," I said resolutely.
"It is not I--"
"I know, I know, I remember the scene at the Ministry. That was ugly, but
they were wrong! And time has passed! It's been four years. People will
have--"
"Forgotten?" he shot at me, incredulous.
"--moved on. They have other concerns, new worries."
"You mean the goblins." Ah, so he wasn't as much of a recluse as he
liked to pretend he was.
"Yes, among other things," I agreed
Surely the tea was ready now. I poured him a cup, then myself. He took his
black, but I helped myself to two lumps from the sugar bowl. It was still
nearly full, I noted smugly. I was the only reason he even kept sugar in the
house. Small victories.
"You can't live out the rest of your life hiding here," I said,
although I knew it was futile. How many times had we had this argument?
"You have too much--"
He slammed his cup down, sloshing the tea onto the table and practically causing
my poor, overexcited heart to leap out of my chest.
"Don't you dare tell me I have too much to live for!"
I cringed. It was so hard to see his pain and anger, and not be able to soothe
it!
"I have nothing," he shot at me. "Everything I have ever cared
about has been destroyed, and all of it by my own hands!"
Yes, those hands! So much destruction wrought, true, yet so much created. And
so much more that could be created, that could be experienced.
I rallied. "I was going to say you have too much talent to waste it,
hiding in your cellar and brewing the same potions over and over, things you
could do in your sleep!"
"I rarely sleep," he muttered, as he surreptitiously tried to clean
up the tea he'd spilled.
I allowed myself to take a good, long look at him while he was distracted. His
colour was pallid... but then it always was. His long, angled nose, his most
prominent feature, flared slightly, indicating a heightened respiratory rate. Was
he angry at me, or at himself, for spilling the tea? Probably both. His eyes,
now lowered, were safe to examine. The skin beneath them was shadowed. And his
cheeks hung more slackly than usual. Was he thinner? I saw him nearly every
week, so subtle changes like that were difficult to notice. Maybe I should bring
Harry along sometime, get his opinion. Although Harry would be as useless as
all men on such a subject.
"I wish you'd get out at least. The fresh air would do you a world of
good." I sounded like a broken record. I should shut up while I was ahead,
because I knew what his answer would be:
"I can't. Get. Out," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "Or
have you forgotten about this--" He indicated his leg, the one which had
never fully recovered from the venom being in his system for so long. If only we'd
sent someone back for him immediately, instead of letting him lie there all
those hours... He'd never said a word in reproach.
"You seem to get around here well enough, including those infernal
stairs." I had nightmares of him stumbling and falling down the narrow
staircase leading into the attic, where he had his lab, and lying there,
undiscovered, until I came by to pick up his weekly batch. By which time... no,
it was too awful to even think about. I took a big gulp of tea to cover my
discomfort, and only ended up burning my tongue. I sucked in a mouthful of cool
air to ease the sting and said, deftly changing the subject, "I guess the
physical therapy did some good after all."
He had fought tooth and nail against it, and only agreed to it when we found
someone who would come to his house. A jolly Jamaican witch, an older woman
with arms the size of hams. We'd been certain he'd kill her, but she had a
resilient, no-nonsense attitude even Professor Snape hadn't been able to dent. With
her, he'd first learned to use his hands again, to feed himself, take care of
personal hygiene, dress himself, write, and finally, to take up his passion
again, preparing his beloved potions.
His legs had been slower to respond -- 'They too far away from you brain,' Madam
Raffles had announced -- and he hadn't walked on his own until two years after
the Battle. Even then it had been halting, laborious. It had now been nearly
four years, and he was living independently, could do everything he had been
able to before. Except maybe run down an unfortunate student caught out after
curfew (not that he'd gone anywhere near any students in all that time). I
shamefacedly admit I'd had occasion to wonder if everything -- other
than the one leg -- was in full working order. I supposed I'd never find out.
Regrettably, Madam Raffles had recently contracted a rare, Wizarding disease
that necessitated her moving to a drier climate to recover, but we (Harry,
myself, Professor McGonagall, Molly, Shacklebolt... all the people who cared
about Professor Snape and managed his care and his affairs when he was unable
to) felt it was important for him to continue; it was vital for his confidence
to regain full use of both legs, if that were still possible. He was using it
as an excuse to hide, to shun the public. Well, that and the fact someone
always ended up saying something nasty, or refusing to serve him. That time
he'd had to go down to the Ministry to re-take his Apparition licence had been
the last straw.
"Speaking of which, how's the new P.T. working out?" I hadn't seen
her yet; all I knew was she'd just completed her training at St. Mungo's. It
was probably Molly who'd organised her. Admittedly, I was a little bit jealous.
Getting to work with Professor Snape on a close and intimate basis... massaging
his firm, supple legs... supporting his long, hard body against hers... Or
something. I'd never actually been privy to one of his sessions. I could only
imagine what went on. All strictly professional, of course.
Professor Snape drew his eyebrows together. Here comes Mr. Grump. "I
wish you would give up this idea of further improvement." I knew he didn't
mean me personally, but the inclusive 'you' encompassing all the meddlers
involved in his life. "I am a cripple," he said, with a surprising
amount of dignity. "It is only just." I was about to jump in with a
reproval when he continued: "At any rate, I find this new girl..." He
seemed to be searching for an appropriate word, and I held my tongue. I was
very interested in hearing how he found the new 'girl'. "...cheerful,"
he finally said, in a manner which indicated the very word left a bitter
aftertaste on his tongue. I relaxed and took a sip of my tea.
"Cheerful is good, Professor," I said, looking over the rim of my cup
at him. He narrowed his eyes, as if to say he'd expected I would say something
like that. "It's good for the morale," I went on.
"I don't need morale. I need something to put me out of my misery."
I giggled. "That's precisely what cheer does, Professor." I set my cup
down. Much as I enjoyed doing nothing more than sitting here with him, I did
have work waiting for me back in my office, even if it was the weekend. "I
need to get this list off to the grocer's," I said, pocketing the shopping
list I'd started earlier. I'd finish it on my way. I'd be able to think better
without his presence there to distract me. "I'll have them leave the
delivery on the doorstep. Do make sure you bring it in before the foxes get to
it. Oh yes, before I forget, here's your money." I took a small, clinking
pouch out of the depths of my robes and set it on the table. Professor Snape
didn't trust the goblins, and always insisted on cash. He also didn't trust
anyone else to handle his financial transactions, but for some reason agreed to
allow me to do it. He let the money sit there, untouched. I couldn't help but
feel it was a personal slight.
"Is there anything else you need, Professor?" I had fantasies where,
at this point, he would say, 'Yes, I need you,' but so far they had remained fantasies.
This time, he didn't answer right away, and my stomach did a flip-flop as we
held each other's gaze. I tried not to look away, while also trying not to
blush or start grinning like an idiot. I probably ended up looking like a
cross-eyed kneazle.
Finally, though, he said, in what seemed to me a very dark and disturbed
manner, "You seem to know my needs better than I."
I didn't know what to say to that, nor how he meant it, so I thought it best
not to say anything at all. It was so difficult picking one's way through an
interaction with him. Like a minefield. I started to clear away the tea things,
but he stopped me with a gruff "Leave it. I'd like to finish my tea in
peace," as if the quiet interlude we had just enjoyed had been tantamount
to a battle skirmish. I supposed it had.
My disappointment thick in my throat, I walked out of the kitchen as calmly as
I could. Only when I reached the front door did I realise I'd been holding my
breath, and it came out all shaky and shuddering. I had the urge to curl up
somewhere under a quilt and have a good cry. He didn't often get to me like
this anymore, but something had been different today. As if something were
churning around inside of him, and it had somehow spilled over onto me. I took
a deep breath to clear my mind, took my cloak off the hook and the box from the
table, closed the front window again, and opened the door. It was still
raining.