You Know What They Say about Necessity...

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't want it, JKR should keep it because it's hers and she's the queen of the wizarding world. "Bad Company" is by Bad Company.


Chapter Sixteen: Bad Company


Severus Snape was torn, and he hated it.

It had been six weeks since that dinner with Lupin, and Severus was still no closer to sorting out his feelings for Hermione. Well, perhaps a bit closer. He knew he was interested in her. That in itself seemed ludicrous at first glance. She was a Gryffindor, an insufferable know-it-all, and best friends with Potter. Rationally this should never have happened. But as Albus was so fond of saying all the blasted time: the heart was an impulsive thing. One did not choose who one… cared for. She was bright, humorous, and kind. Her hunger for knowledge and passion for ideals were very appealing to a man who own passions had seemed to wither up a long time ago. Hermione was the sun to his moon, and this perception both enchanted and irked him.

It had been many years since he’d cared for a female in any semblance of a romantic way. And now here she was, bushy hair and all, her brown eyes showing every emotion that she felt without shame or apology. She didn’t just experience her feelings. She radiated them, burned with them with intensity so dazzling it was almost painful. She made him want to run away and move closer in equal measure, and he felt caught at the edge of a chasm: uncertain of whether to move back, or jump.

There was also the issue of his current condition. Severus had had all he wanted of being without magic, thank you very much. He was tired of not being able to stand, let alone walk. Tired of depending on Potter and Hermione for help. Tired of taking muggle pills for the pain. In fact, he’d gotten so fed up with that, he’d stopped using the medication two weeks ago. He was bloody sick of the stupor the drugs induced: the apathy that came over him without warning, the nearly overwhelming desire to sleep. Better to be in pain, he’d decided. When Hermione gave him pills, he hid them in his pocket until he went to the bathroom, where he flushed them down the toilet. He didn’t want to worry her: well, in all honesty, he didn’t want her to lecture him. An almost-forty-two-year-old ex-Death Eater did not need a talking to by a twenty-year-old almost-mediwitch, no matter how good her intentions would be. If he wanted to feel six inches tall, Severus reasoned, he would talk to Albus.

That, he realized ruefully, was the true problem he was struggling with: he was filled with uncertainly about her feelings. And motives. Severus did not intend to let himself be an object of her attention—of affection—out of some warped sense of pity. She claimed not to have any for him, but that seemed unlikely given what he knew of her. This was, after all, the same Hermione Granger who had fought to free the house elves. What if—and he did so hate to think it, but couldn’t help himself—what if all she felt for him was sympathy? What if her behavior was all designed to make him feel better and nothing more?

No. He could not—would not—risk making his intentions known yet. He was to begin using a “walker” at the end of the week, whatever exactly that was. He hadn’t concerned himself with the specific details of these contraptions that were going to help him walk again: he would walk again, and that was all he truly cared about. And once he did…

Once he was up and about, if he saw signs that his speculations were accurate, and she did, indeed, have an attraction to him for who he was, then he would focus on a strategy to try and develop that interest. Until then, Severus decided, he would continue to do twhicwhich he did best: watch, and wait.

It was often quoted of how “the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley,” and when he thought about the incident later that night in the solitude of his bed, Severus was unfortunately inclined to agree. What had seemed like a simple—and completely justified—plan two weeks ago had turned and threatened to bite him in the arse over that period of time. Without the medication, he’d become more sullen, more prone to losing his temper. Which, of course, were not things he wanted to do around Hermione. He’d managed to control himself for the most part: he’d even been able to keep himself from taking out his anger on Potter. The next time he saw Albus, Severus planned to inform him that he deserved not a medal for that feat, but a bloody statue.

But even saints have their limits, and Severus Snape was definitely no saint, as both he and Hermione were reminded with painful clarity that evening as they worked on the Wolfsbane potion for Lupin.

“Would you stop that infernal pacing already?” Severus snapped at Hermione. “Walking around the room will not make the mixture ready any faster, I assure you.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said, sitting down at the end of the table. Severus had been in an ill mood all day, and it seemed that it was going to get worse before it got better.

He nodded and coned ted to stir the first cauldron. Hermione sighed as sheredered over to check the frothy green mixture that was her part of the creation process.

“Mind how close you’re getting,” he ordered. “You never know what might happen with Wolfsbane.”

She immediately stood up and moved back, resisting the urge to sigh again. Instead she turned to Snape and asked: “Is it true that you’re one of seven potion masters in all of Britain who can brew this correctly?”

“Yes,” was the curt reply.

Hermione wanted to groan. Well, there goes any conversation on that subject tonight, she thought. Or probably any other subject, for that matter, as Severus seemed bent on reverting back to his despised professor persona.

He wheeled over to check her cauldron, and nodded. “All right. Time to combine them. Careful, now,” he warned as Hermione lifted the small cauldron. “Steady… good.”

Once the potion was completed, they sat and waited for it to cool to be bottled. The time passed awkwardly, with Hermione trying to make conversation and Severus giving her clipped five word sentences. As they poured the mixture through funnels into the bottles Hermione said: “You know, Severus, I have an idea about the potion…”

“I’m beside myself with anticipation,” he answered.

She blinked, but didn’t let his attitude deter her. “I know regular table sugar would unbind the sedative, but what about other types of sugars, like honey or molasses, or even fruit juice?”

The look on his face alone was almost enough to physically pain her. But when he spoke, the sneering coldness of his words not only cut into her like a blade, but poured in a heap of salt on the wounds.

“Oh, Hermione,” he drawled venomously. “How exceedingly clever of you. Why, in all my years of making potions—and let’s see now, that would be, oh, as long as you’ve been alive—it has never occurred to me to try that. How fortunate that I have such an intelligent companion to think of those things that I, a mere potions master, am incapable of!”

Hermione blinked hard to keep any tears from escaping. She put a stopper in the last bottle and carefully set it down before turning to Snape.

“And how lucky I am,” she spat, “to be working with such a well-tempered, mature person. Really, professor, you honor me with your presence… your rude, hateful presence! I realize I’m no potions master, but I’ve had success with using other sweeteners in certain cure remedies, and it seemed like a logical thing to try! I am so sorry that silly little Hermione offended the High-and-Mighty Severus Snape!”

He flinched almost imperceptibly at her tirade, but she wasn’t about to stop there. For the past few weeks he’d been so erratic: one minute almost warm with her, indifferent the next. And today… he’d been horrid all day today, and she’d done nothing but try and be nice, and injured or not injured, with magic or without, she was not putting up with any more of it tonight.

“Hermione—” he began, but she shook her head.

“You know what the worst of it is?” she asked, looking at him sadly. “That I actually believed there was more to you than what everyone else thinks; that you were capable of acting like a decent human being if you saw that someone respected and cared about you.” She shook her head. “I apologize, professor, for my foolishness. It’s clear to me now that you like being cruel. I’ll not bother you anymore.”

Severus looked stricken by her words, but Hermione was too upset to truly notice or care. She all but ran from the lab to Harry’s room and into her friend’s arms, closing his door behind her.

“What did he do to you, Mione?” Harry asked as he stroked her hair, not knowing what had transpired but certain that Snape had something to do with it.

She sniffled and sobbed. “He’s just… I tried to talk to him, and he was so mean, Harry! He all but made fun of me when I just wanted to help!”

“Bastard,” Harry growled, grabbing a tissue for her.

“I lost my temper with him,” Hermione said between gasps for air.

“Who cares? The tosser deserved it, I’m sure,” Harry answered. “I know you, Mione. You were just defending yourself, I bet.”

“Told him he was cruel and hateful,” she rasped.

“See? You were completely honest,” Harry said with a smile.

Hermione managed a watery laugh. Harry gently pulled her down onto his bed, still holding her close. “It’s ok,” he soothed her softly. “He was being a git, is all. Maybe he's in bad pain, you think?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I was mean, Harry. I shouldn't have lost it with him like that. But he didn’t have to take things out on me.”

“I know, sweetie,” he assured her. He held her as she cried herself out. Dimly he heard Snape going down the hall and into his bedroom. It took all Harry’s willpower not to follow him and give him a good earful wha what he’d done to Hermione. But he wasn’t going to leave her like this: upset, face all red and splotchy and hair in tangles.

“Hey,” he said quietly, tipping her chin up to look at him. “Why don’t you stay in here with me tonight? I’ll fix some popcorn and we’ll find some stupid movie on the telly to watch.”
nod nodded. “All right.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl. I’ll be right back.” He paused at the door. “There are more tissues on the nightstand.”

She turned on the telly. Harry opened his door and stepped into the hall, closing it behind him…

And almost tripped over Snape sitting there in his wheelchair.

“What do you want?” Harry sneered.

“I wish to speak to Miss Granger,” Snape said, trying hard to appear indifferent in front of him. But there was something in that almost expressionless face…

It wasn’t entirely lost on Harry, but like Hermione, he was too angry to think on it. “Yeah?” he asked. “Well, she doesn’t wish to speak to you right now.”

“I would prefer to hear that from her myself, if you don’t mind,” Snape replied disdainfully.

“Suit yourself, Snape,” Harry answered. He opened his door a crack. “Mione? Do you want to talk to Snape right now?”

“NO!”

Harry closed his door back with a grin. “There you have it. Straight from the Gryffindor’s mouth. Why don’t you do us all a favor, professor, and let both of you calm down from this little incident first?”

“So now you’re a dipl as as well as an auror,” Snape said waspishly. “How touching.”

“Think what you like, Snape,” Harry said coldly. “But believe me when I tell you that you’d best calm down, and let her do the same, before you two talk again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mione and I are going to have some popcorn and watch a muggle movie.”

Severus considered staying outside Potter’s door out of spite, but he realized that would accomplish nothing except to further upset Hermione and antagonize Potter. “Fine,” he ground out. “Tell Hermione that I will speak with her tomorrow.” He gave Harry one last scornful stare and wheeled down the hall to his room.

Harry sighed as he watchim gim go. For all that he disliked Snape, there’d been something in his eyes as he moved away that Harry had rarely seen before. Regret.