Understanding

Thank you to Shem (that commaing ing bitch) for betaing!

This is one of a handful of songs that inspired the whole story, and so I decided to use one verse for Hermione and one for Severus.

Understanding

Chapter Twelve:
Breathe No More

**** I've been looking in the mirror for so long
That I've come to believe my soul's on the other side
All the little pieces falling, shatter
Shards of me too sharp to put back together
Too small to matter
But big enough to cut me into so many little pieces
If I try to touch her
And I bleed
I bleed
And I breathe****

I had gone to the music room every night for two weeks before I realized he had been watching me the entire time. He had made no move to come to me, no move to apologize, but he was there. I could feel his eyes bore into the back of me as I sat and played, singing my heart out. I sang every sad, miserable, please-take-me-back song I knew- "Open Arms," "Against All Odds," "Love Ridden"- and he still did not respond. I vaguely wondered if he was wondering for an engraved fucking invitation. Every night he arrived about five minutes after I began and left as I began to pack up my sheet music. I could feel him, I could smell him, I could hear his robes rustle, for God's sake!

For a brilliant man, he c sur sure be unperceptive sometimes.

Instead of reassuring me as I'm sure it should have, Severus' presence only unnerved. I wondered if he still loved me and was scared to approach me since he'd left me the last time or if his feelings had changed and he simply couldn't tell me. I became increasingly distracted during my days, planning what I'd play, sing, and wear that night and increasingly irritated when small, insignificant thinid nid not go my way. I threw Crookshanks off my bed, where there was now a ginger-colored, hair-covered depression right where I wanted to lie down.

Crookshanks had been bugging the shit out of me lately. I had threatened to feed him to Minerva in her animagus form. The two had had a run-in my third week here. By that time, Crookshanks had figured out pai painting on her door was either not real or a real pussy (ooh, bad choice of words, Hermione...), but he'd never experienced Minerva as a cat until the professor had wandered into the faculty wing early one morning. Crookshanks had puffed himself up in a very unscary territorial showdown, and Minerva had beaten him soundly. Minerva told me about the run-in the next day and apologized for damadamage she'd inflicted, but Crookshanks, like the braggart he is, had slunk away to lick his wounds in private. I offered him treats and he came to look at me, but was afraid to even approach me.

What was going on with the men in my life? Did I have a flashing "Do not approach" sign o for forehead that only males could read? Since the first day here, I had only seen Minerva and, on occasion, Madam Pomfrey. I had not seen Dumbledore or Snape and now even my cat was avoiding me.

Maybe I had dangerously high levels of estrogen radiating off me.

Whatever the cause of avoidance, my displeasure with Severus had begun to work its way into my other, everyday functioning. I found myself swearing at novels I read if they did not end the way I wanted (stupid happy endings). I suddenly hated all the CDs I'd enchanted to work in my enchanted stereo but could not bring myself to charm anymore to work. I was at once frantic and apathetic. I even found myself offering to set Crookshanks up with a nice female cat (not Minerva) as my way of apologizing for my abhorrent behavior toward him lately. But the worst of my incoherent emotions exploded one day as I was jogging around the lake. It had become my exercise routine over the summer though I had never worked out a day in my life. Until now, youthful activities and fighting the forces of evil had been enough to keep my stomach from expanding into dangerous territory.

I tripped over a root sticking out of the ground, fell flat on my face, and began swearing like a sailor.

"Goddamn fucking son of a fucking whore! Stupid piece of shit! Bitch! Son of a- Aaah!"

I pounded the ground with my fists, not sure myself if I was hurt, scared, or just angry. I felt the hot tears run down my cool cheeks and became angrier with myself. Why couldn't I control these stupid emotions? What the hell was wrong with me? Harry and Ron had been dead four months, my parents almost a month. Shouldn't I be done mourning already? But that was what I was doing. Suddenly and inexplicably, I was once again overcome by the grief I had pushed aside so many times before.

I had found the emotions releasing themselves at odd, unexpected times recently. It didn't help that Severus had hurt me more than I would even admit to myself. It didn't help that Minerva and Albus were so visibly on the outs. Their romance did tend to turn my stomach, but on some even-though-they're-old-it's-still-comforting-to-see level, they seemed *right* together. They seemed like soul mates. And if those two weren't getting along, what hope was there for me and the snarky bastard who hadn't even shown the slightest bit of interest in me until we had killed together that morning on the battlefield.

"I don't even know what's wrong with me. I don't even know who I am anymore," I muttered through my near-hysterical tears as the truth of the statement shook me thoroughly. Hermione Granger, Head Girl had not borne any resemblance to the weeping pile of self-pity that I was today. The old Hermione would have figured a way out of this mess. A logical, non-emotional way. And she certainly never would have fallen in love- if that's even what had happened with me. Could I love Snape? The old Hermione might have, but only under certain circumstances.

Being marooned on a desert island, being the only survivors of a super-flu, being administered a lust potion...

But this new Hermione had emotional hang-ups the old one would never even be able to fathom. I remember when elf rights was the most emotionally-charged issue I had to deal with. Sure, Voldemort tried to kill Harry every year, and I was usually put in jeopardy as well, but we were teenagers- we were invincible. I remember rolling my eyes at people my age who I thought put themselves in danger by doing stupid things- Quidditch mainly. With a sudden clarity that comes only after you've been defeated by the very thing you thought couldn't beat you, I realized I had had just as many stupid teenage moments as anyone else. I may have had cause to put myself in danger, but that didn't make me any less foolish for believing there would be no consequences. In all of our showdowns with Voldemort, I had never considered anything could happen. I had mouthed the words espousing my supposed belief that we may get killed or expelled, but I had never truly believed a word of it. And I had never even thought that seeing my friends killed would only be the beginning of my consequences.

I pulled myself into a sitting position and examined my twisted ankle. It wasn't that bad, and I was sure Poppy could remedy it quickly, so I sat there a bit longer, looking over the lake and imagining what my life might have been like if the final battle had not happened the way it had. I imagined Harry and Ron with me at graduation and then the three of us spending the summer at the Burrow. That had been our plan. That year, Harry would finally be able to leave the Dursleys for good and he was planning on making the best of it. Ginny and I had been planning his first real birthday party since the summer we spent crammed in the tiny room at Gimmauld Place. We had imagined the end of the war as being glamorous, and the four of us as celebrities for the parts we would undoubtedly play in Voldemort's downfall. Ginny had her sights set on being permanently attached to Harry's arm in the many photos the wizard paparazzi were sure to want of the Boy-Who-Lived-Again. No matter what she insisted in front of her brothers, she had never been over Harry. It was a strategy, she had assured me- men love girls who play hard to get. I pointed out that one- Harry was not a man and two- she wasn't really all that hard to get. She had huffed something about being tired and turned over in her bed so that her back was facing me.

Yes, if all had gone to plan, Harry and Ginny would have been almost ready to become engaged. They actually had become lovers late in our sixth year and everyone was happy for them. Except, in front of her family, Ginny used the word "boyfriend" and not "lover." I have no idea how she kept her promiscuity from her family. Especially when she'd been with half the boys in her brother's year. Not to mention Sirius Black.

But then again, if he'd offered, I probably would have done him too. He was quite the hottie.

Yes, Harry and Ginny should be getting engaged, Ron should be trying to get me to date him, and I should be looking into University- wizard and Muggle. I had no intention of giving the over-achiever bit a rest. I wanted to know everything. I needed to get to know the real world- be on my own for once. I knew magic was my life now, but I couldn't simply give up on the Muggle world after knowing only that for most of my life. I had decided I wanted to enroll in both magical and Muggle schools. A nice, simple Muggle degree in English or something equally useless would suffice in case I ever had to function in the Muggle world for any length of time, and I had intended to major in Charms work and minor in Potions at a magical institution. But after the war, I realized I knew everything about the real world I would ever need to know.

I hated the real world. I hated my life. Right then, I fucking hated Hogwarts and everything it represented, symbolized, and housed within its bowels.

I sat there, staring absent-mindedly across the lake until I saw the first hints of sunset and decided to make my way back to the castle. Standing, I realized my ankle was back to normal size and wasn't the slightest bit tender. So much for going to see Poppy. I supposed it had just been a stalling technique on my part to imagine that I would need medical attention for what amounted to nothing more than a skinned knee. I was in a horrible mood after the afternoon I'd had thinking of my dead friends, and the thought of Severus rejecting me again tonight in his familiar passive aggressive way did nothing to help my spirits.

I knew I would go down there tonight and pour my heart out again for him, and I knew he'd be there standing in the doorway watching me and not making any move to come e. Ie. I knew he'd break my heart again tonight.

And I couldn't wait for it.

****Take a breath and I try to draw from my spirit's well
But yet again you refuse to drink like a stubborn child
Lie to me
Convince me I've been sick forever
And all of this will make sense when I get better
But I know the difference between myself and my reflection
I just help but to wonder
Which of us do you love?
So I bleed
I bleed
And I breathe
I breathe
Bleed
Bleed
And I breathe no ********

The weeks following Hermione's abrupt appearance in the music room were hell on earth for me. She wanted me. She needed me. She was basically on her hands and knees begging me, and I couldn't go to her because of a deranged loyalty to a mad old man.

But if I was being truthful with myself, it wasn't just Dumbledore who kept me from her. As time passed, the images of her smiling at me, flushed with ecstasy fled from my mind and were replaced by the memories of her as my student, eyes downcast and close to tears. I could barely remember her tiny hand in mine, but I could see her distraught and fleeing from the dungeons as I mocked her rapidly-expanding front teeth.

I would never admit it to anyone, even myself, but after the first few weeks of her absence, I merely used Dumbledore's standing orders as a shield. Everything was safe because I could not allow her close to me. Dumbledore had forbidden it. I could not go against Dumbledore. And if she could not get close to me, she could never reject me. She could never tell me she'd changed her mind. She could never confess that I had indeed taken advantage of her that night at her parents' house but she had been too scared to stop me.

As long as Dumbledore forbade me to contact her, she could not tell me she didn't love me.

The hatred I felt toward Dumbledore soon rebounded though and was reflected onto myself. No matter what I did or where I went, all I could hear was her fragile but passionate voice, so hurt and untrusting.

"Everyone leaves me stranded, forgotten, abandoned, left behind..."

The single line invaded my thoughts and would not leave me even in sleep. I had hurt her. I had hurt her very badly, and I could not rectify it. I felt like I was battling myself on a daily basis. I hated myself- the pussy I'd become. Hermione Granger scared me shitless. I could not force myself to overcome my debilitating, irrational fear of rejection and go to her.

I cold not hold her. I could not tell her I loved her. I could not sweep her off that blasted piano bench and make love her like she deserved.

Make love to her? Severus, you can't bring yourself to say hello and sit with her when she plays, how are going to skip right over that and move straight to the sex?

The only way I could be honest with her was in the journal I'd begun. There was a letter written to her every day since I had begun it. Some were quite sane, romantic, even, but most were the incoherent ramblings of a madman. Most were not even finished as emotion or firewhiskey overtook my faculties many evenings.

Some of the writings were sweet, loving- telling her of the plans I had made for us in my head. I dreamed of her taking the Charms position next year and living a quiet, peaceful life in the dungeons with me. I imagined that at some point we could buy a house in Hogsmeade and live a normal life, happy and stereotypical. I even wrote of my desire for her to bare my children.

That's right. Severus Snape wanted children.

The realization even shocked me.

Some of my letters to Hermione, though, were graphic, explicit, and entirely unsuitable for her to read. I journaled my every desire for her. Bad, dirty things were scrawled throughout the pages of the book, and I'm sure had anyone found it, I would have been turned in to Dumbledore immediately for perversion, obsession, and quite possibly stalking. No one had ever questioned that I was a dark man and by that simple observation, nothing in the journal should have shocked anyone. Except that these perversions were specific and the desires were only for one woman. One woman who had been my student very, very recently.

But most of my letters for her were depressed, miserable, and completely defeated. I had always mocked the stupid Muggle poets who wrote tomes on lost love and tragic loss. I thought them weak and honestly, a bit feminine, but as I felt the only woman to ever look upon me approvingly drift further and further away from me, I not only empathized with them but came to think of them as somewhat uncommitted in their degrees of misery. Hermione was my life and she was being taken away from me. No matter if I could see her daily, so close I could have touched her had I posessed the balls, she was gone from me now. I knew I would never go to her. And eventually, she'd never take me back. But I had to let her know how much I cared- even if she would never read the words, they cleared my conscience somehow.

One evening I had just finished my latest rant on the unfairness of it all, signed "with never-dying passion," when the firewhiskey again had its wicked way with me. I was quickly drunk as the sun began to set and I had no intention of slowing, as the alcohol may block out Hermione's siren song tonight and I may be spared that sweet torment tonight.

Out of sheer boredom, angst, and habit, I once again picked up my blade. I was working carelessly now, thinking only of Hermione and not paying any attention to where I was cutting. I can honestly say I had never had any intention of hurting myself and I have no idea where the cutting began. I don't know why I did it. I don't know what it accomplished besides making me hate myself more.

But I continued to do it. It was compulsion now, as if the degree of the injury was a testament to how much I loved her.

The considerable amount of whiskey I had imbibed that evening had dulled my senses and I barely felt the sharp edge graze my skin until it cut me deep, across the wrist. It took me a while to even realize the potential harm in the injury, but as the blood flowed from me, I watched with sick fascination as the blood trickled down my arms and over the once-white sleeves of my shirt. I began to lig light-headed as the room went darker, and I was vaguely aware that, once they found me, the impassioned letter I had left for Hermione would probably be misconstrued as a suicide note.

And beside the lack of reconciliation with Hermione, I cannot say I was upset by my impending death.

****************A/N*************************
Thanks:
GrrArrg: I don't get any hints of what's going on in your story, you don't get any hints what happens in mine! Fair's fair, after all! Dude, you are SO a Hufflepuff- you didn't even spell it right, you under-achiever! But then again, I suppose Gryffindor has its share of dunderheads, too...

Deb: Thank you so much for everything. You have been one of the kindest, most-loyal reviewers a girl could have, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for calming me down in the wake of... well, everything. Thank you.

deblovesdragon: I'm glad you like the story (even if it does bumb you out sometimes)! It should be picking up nicely in a chapter or two though. You know what that means... ;)

christabeleve: Thanks for reviewing and I hope you like this chapter!

Kristi: Draco as Hermione's bitch, huh? I'll take it into consideration... Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Kiristeen: Thanks! I can honestly say I never wanted anyone to hate Dumbledore, but it's working out well that everyone does! Rereading what I wrote, I kinda hate him too!

spaz141: I am so sorry for your loss, and I hope you are okay. I know that everyone says time heals all wounds and all that crap, but I don't believe it. Thanks for your reviews.

WendyNat: Thank you so much! It means a lot more now that I've read some of your stuff (and reviewed like a good little girl!). You rock!

BakaChan: Sorry, love cliffies, mini-cliffies... all sorts of cliffies, actually! But everything will be revealed, I promise! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Little Bird: Thank you so much for your review. I hope I won't disappoint you!

Zephyr: I'm so glad you read and liked it! It's so good to see readers and authors with taste and class out there! You know my feelings on your work, and I really hope you keep writing- you rock so hard-core!

To all:

"...When you've got a few people throwing rocks at you, that makes people who like you stand up for you all that much more."
-Stone Cold Steve Austin

Enough said.