You Know What They Say about Necessity...

A/N: Well, for all of you who felt bad for our couple last chapter, I think you'll be pleased now. (eg) Thanks for reading/reviewing, folks! It makes me want to write more! "Put Your Head On My Shoulder" is by Paul Anka, and I'm including the lyrics at the end because it's a sweet song.

Disclaimer: JKR, you own it all. Thanks for making such great characters for us to borrow.


Chapter Seventeen: Put Your Head On My Shoulder



How could I have been so stupid?

Hermione sighed. The movie had ended ten minutes ago, and she and Harry had gone to sleep. Well, to bed, at least. Harry, bless him, in the habit of muggle and wizard men alike, had fallen asleep about three minutes after mumbling: “Night, Mione.” She was still awake, listening to the sound of rain pattering on the roof, and berating herself for what felt like the hundredth time.

She’d replayed the fight in her mind a dozen times. The eagerness in her voice: the sarcasm in his. Her instinctive flight into the refuge of anger had come so easily at the time. She’d meant every word of it when she said it. But now her fury was gone: it had been replaced by understanding. And, well… to be honest, other emotions of a different sort.

Sometime during the movie--when she should have been listening to what Sally said to Harry in the deli, perhaps—Hermione had realized that Severus had not been taking the pain medicine. It wasn’t a quick realization: rather it was the result of analyzing bits of things she’d noticed over the past two weeks, but not really seen. Like how he never took the medicine in front of her now. Or how unusually defensive he’d get when she would ask him if he was hurting. Or how he’d brushed off her suggestions to take it more often, or get the dose increased, becaus see seemed to still be in pain. No, he was fine, didn’t need more pills or stronger pills or anything else to do with pills. He’d been perfect at hiding it… and she had fallen for it.

Stupid, she berated herself again. Yet at the same time, her inner voice retorted: how was I to know he’d stopped taking the pills, and was hiding it from me? The exasperating man is an ex-spy, for goodness sake. He’s got concealing things down to an art form. And this was true as well. She hadn’t told Harry her conclusion: she wanted to talk with Severus about it first.

In the end, Hermione realized that it didn’t really matter now that she had or had not known. What mattered now was why he was doing it, and how was she going to talk with him about it? The Gryffindor in her wanted to go into his room and shake some sense into him while demanding an explanation. But she knew that wouldn’t be the best way to handle it, considering how she’d treated him earlier. And while she hadn’t deserved the rebuke he’d given her, she now understood why he’d done it. She was upset with him; there was no doubt about it. But she was also pleased that his outburst had been the result of releasing days worth of built-up pain in the only way he knew how. Pleased that it had not been something else. Pleased that…

Oh, go on, admit it to yourself, she thought. She was glad that he hadn’t stopped wanting her around him. There, I said it, she thought smugly. The smugness, however, was rapidly replaced by a surge of panic. When had it become so important to her for him to want her around? And why?

This wasn’t the usual sort of wanting to hang out with a friend type of feeling. This wasn’t a “Hey, Harry and Ron, let’s to go The Three Broomsticks for some butterbeer” or a “Yes, Ginny, I’ll go shopping with you and Luna because you’re so dear to me” type of situation. This was something entirely different. It felt like… like the way she blushed when his voice dropped, or the way her heart fluttered sometimes when he looked at her. The kinds of feelings she’d had for Ron once, back in the later years of school, come to think of it…

Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth to keep Harry from hearing her yelp of shock. No, she thought frantically. It can’t be that. I must be wrong. There is no possible way that I…

am attracted to Snape.

Attracted…to…Snape.

Merlin’s pointy purple hat. I’m attracted to Severus Snape.

Oh, man, Hermione groaned to herself. The Gryffindors are gonna kill me.

How could I have been so stupid?


Severus lay in bed listening to the rain. It had started soft, but had rapidly worked its way into a tempest. The drops pattered in time with the beating of his heart. Which was ting ing much faster than it should have been, given who he was thinking of.

Funny. It wasn’t her words that had hurt him so terribly: though make so mistake, the hollow accusations and terrible adjectives had stung. No, it was the look that beenbeen in her eyes as she’d went on her tirade: the hurt and disappointment he’d glimpsed. Even now, his mind replayed that one sentence over and over, a loop of dialogue echoing inescapably in his thoughts: “if you saw that someone respected and cared about you.”

When had she come to care for him?

Oh, he knew she respected him. Even though she’d refused his offer of apprenticeship, the respect had always been there. As a professor, an Order member, and lately as a… w fri friend of sorts, he supposed. He remembered the times he’d overheard her defending him: to Potter, Weasley, and Longbottom. Right bastard though he might be, he was an excellent teacher and deserving of respect, she’d tell the boys. You could detest someone and still respect them.

But caring for him… this wometomething new to Severus. No one had truly cared for him since Albus and Minerva. His mother, rest her soul, was gone: had been gone for years. Lucius: well, Lucius had cared for what an angry, bitter young man could offer to the Dark Lord. Despite the words he’d spoken on the day he’d cursed Severus, Severus knew the truth: Lucius had loved him for his loyalty and obedience to the madman Voldemort. Loved him for the cruel things Severus had done in service of said maniac. The Severus he’d known had changed from the time they were teenagers and young men. The potions master was still aloof and unpleasant by nature. But he did not wis kil kill and think it sport, or cause suffering on the masses. And at Hogwarts… no, that was best left alone, now and forever.

So no, not since the day he’d thrown himself to the ground at Albus’ feet, while Minerva watched on in amazement and compassion, had he found anyone who cared about Severus Snape. Until Hermione.

He no longer believed that she pitied him, or that her behavior towards him stemmed from some Gryfor sor sense of goodness. He’d seen it in her face too clearly and painfully to continue thinking that. Her actions had been those of a wounded animal, striking blindly to hurt the one who had caused the pain. She would not—could not—have reacted so strongly merely out of sympathy. Which had led him to his present state of mental disarray.

Hermione thought about He He mattered to her. He’d done little to deserve it during school, and not much else otherwise save being part of the order. Yet for some reason, he was important to her.

Which, of course, had led him to the equally amazing realization that she mattered to him. Not just because of a surface attraction, either. If it were only a case of physically desiring her, he could take care of that: though he laughed to imagine the look on Albus’ face if Severus were to tell him to go to Knockturn Alley and bring him a bangtail. No, this had nothing to do with wanting her, though want her he did. After the dream he’d had, and Lupin’s charming comment on his hormone output, Severus had accepted that. This had to do with being near her, sitting with her, reading together and sharing ideas and a dozen other things. Things that you felt if you cared about someone.

How had this happened? How had she crept under his skin and gotten him in over his head?

And what had he done, except muck it up.

He’d hurt her: he knew that. He hadn’t meant to. Gods, the pain had been fierce. It had faded to a dull ache since then, because after going back to his room he’d retrieved a pill from his dresser where he’d hidden a few just in case it because too much to bear. He wanted to be free of it: for his own well-being and out of the hope that Hermione might change her mind and come to talk to him. That was doubtful, though. She was so upset.

Yes, dammit, her idea was a good one even if it was something he’d thought of years ago. The differences between the sugars were subtle and complicated, but she’d easily picked up on the concept, it seemed. He found himself wondering which medicinal potions she’d improved on. He was no longer angry, but amused that she might think this idea would be new to him. Did she assume no one knew anything until she told them? He laughed aloud. No, she was simply being Hermione, offering ideas and help to the masses.

And he’d insulted her, belittled her, and thrown it back in her face. Was it any wonder that she was curled up with Potter, asleep on his bed?

For a split second, he felt a burst of jealousy. It disappeared almost as quickly. For Morgana’s sake, there was nothing to be jealous of. Potter—despite Severus’ earlier belief that the young man would be parading a seraglio about the cottage—was obviously smitten with—and only with—Ginny Weasley. She had been at the cottage every weekend since they’d arrived, and once or twice on a weeknight every week as well. They ran around holding hands and covertly snogging (or so they thought) and being generally silly together as only those in love can be. Or so he assumed. He’d never done ththinthings. He’d had no one to do them with. Hadn’t really thought he could, or wanted to have someone to do them with. Not since he was a student and desperately trying to be noticed and accepted. He’d been noticed, but not the way he wanted. He’d been accepted: by killers and bigoted sadists. Not a good track record, when he thought about it.

No, he’d no need to be jealous of Potter.

Severus sighed and buried his face in his hands. This was getting out of control. Lupin’s words came back to him again. Well, he realized ruefully, she got to know me, all right. And now it’s just as I said. She’s run away, and if she did decide to come back it would be a mir—”

“Severus?”

He jumped. Hermione outsoutside his door.

He glanced upward for a moment, as if to say, You just love to prove me wrong, don’t you? to any deity that was responsible for this. Then Severus composed himself. Now remember. No shouting, no sarcasm. You want to tell her you’re sorry—gods, the amount of apologizing I’ve done since I came to this blasted cottage—and try and reconcile with her. This is a good sign, so don’t mess it up.

“Come in, Hermione,” he called, raising his voice slightly as a clap of thunder echoed through the night.

She had barely gotten inside, closed the door, and turned to face him when they both blurted: "I'm sorry."

He smiled, and she laughed. She moved a few steps closer.

“I overreacted, Severus. I said stupid hateful things, and I swear to you I didn’t mean them. Well, I did then, but I was angry.”

His lips quirked into a wider smile as she continued. “I know you’ve been in pain. I… I know you’ve not been taking the medicine.”

His eyebrows shot up. “How did you know?” he asked quietly.

“I figured it out a little while ago,” she told him. “And I think I know why. You didn’t want to be doped up all the time.”

“It is a sad state to be in, Hermione,” he replied.

She nodded. “I just wish you had told me. But you probably figured I’d lecture you, didn’t you?”

“The notion crossed my mind,” he answered, still smiling.

“Well, it’s your choice. But I wanted you to know how sorry I am… and to see if maybe you wanted to take some now.”

“That bad, was I?” he chuckled, then held up a hand to forestall anything she might say. “No, Hermione. I took a pill about two hours ago. I feel better now, save my conscience.”

She tilted her head to the side and studied him.

“I treated you abysmally, Hermione. And I am sorry for my behavior. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get that bad, or take it out on you.”

She looked down, then returned her eyes to his, and what she saw in that dark gaze sent her heart running wild.

He wasn’t sure what prompted the impulse, but decided to yield to it. He patted the empty space beside him on the bed. “Come here,” he said softly.

She hesitated for only an instant before she crossed the room and sat beside him.

“No,” he told her gently. “Come here.”

She understood what he meant, and she was astounded by the sudden boldness on his part, and by the sudden surge of longing that filled her. She wriggled under the covers and, nearly holding her breath, moved to snuggle against him, being mindful of his leg. He cautiously slipped an arm under her: and, when she did not object, curled it around her waist as she rested her head on his shoulder and one arm up over his head.

Not another word passed between them. Part of Hermione wanted to ask questions, and wanted answers to those questions, and wanted to discuss said answers, but she told that part of her in no uncertain terms to sod off. For once, Hermione didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to be. She sensed that he felt the same way.

She slipped her other hand in his, praying she wasn’t going too far, and wanted to squeal with glee when he curled his fingers around hers. They lay that way, listening to the rhythm of the rain in blissful silence, until both of them felleepleep.

"Put Your Head On My Shoulder"
Paul Anka

Put your head on my shoulder
Hold me in your arms, baby
Squeeze me oh so tight
Show me that you love me too

Put your lips next to mine, dear
Won't you kiss me once, baby
Just a kiss goodnight, may be
You and I will fall in love

People say that love's a game
A game you just can't win
If there's a way
I'll find it someday
And then this fool will rush in

Put your head on my shoulder
Whisper in my ear, baby
Words I want to hear
Tell me, tell me that you love me too.