All's Fair in Love and War

A/N: Tell me what I’m missing. I feel like there’s something I’m not describing enough – surroundings, emotions… or maybe that’s just another symptom of being a writer.

Prologue – Part Two

Hermione picked moodily at her scrambled eggs the following afternoon, thoroughly irritated at the droves of chattering Gryffindors (who were purposely ignoring her). They had learned to give her a wide berth when she was in a foul mood, which she seemed to be in more and more often these days. None of them wanted to risk being told off or docked points by a grumpy Head Girl that was in their own house, especially not for offenses such as "breathing too loudly”, as had been the last person Hermione told off.

“Did you hear what Zabini and Malfoy did right in the Slytherin common room last night?” they whispered excitedly from all directions. “I heard there was a party and some Firewhiskey, and…”

Hermione sighed inwardly, miserable, before risking a brief, darting peek at the head table, where Professor Snape and the other teachers were seated. He looked rather preoccupied with his lunch, ravishing a turkey sandwich like a fine woman, and he didn’t notice her furtive glances. Hermione’s breathing quickened, but it didn’t seem as though anyone had noticed – from the corner of her eye she could see Ron and Harry devouring their lunches like it was the last thing they would ever eat, oblivious to her thoughts. She looked back at him slowly, surreptitiously. He looked rather uncomfortable seated between Professor McGonagall and Hagrid, who waved heartily when he saw her looking. She waved back tentatively and averted her glance back to her lunch, but after a few minutes, her eyes deftly slid back to the Potion’s masters’ seat once more.

She wanted to memorize his face. She wanted to remember everything about him, because she would probably never see him again.

“Hey, Hermione,” said Harry suddenly. She jumped guiltily at the sudden intrusion into her personal space, positive that he must, surely, have known what she was thinking. Passing it off as though her jump had been because she’d dropped food on herself, she pretended to brush food off her lap, turning to Harry with a weak smile. “Yes?”

“A bunch of us are going to Hogsmeade this afternoon. Wanna come?” he offered, shoveling a hefty spoonful of pudding into his mouth.

Hermione’s eyes flicked over to the Potions master imperceptibly before she shook her head and began to absent-mindedly pick at her food. “No… no, I don’t think so, Harry, sorry. I can’t.”

Harry stopped eating and looked at her seriously. Hermione had been unusually subdued lately and, truthfully, he didn’t understand the habit of women brooding inwardly over whatever was bothering them – he, as a male, was almost always straightforward when it came to his own problems. Believing that time would heal whatever she was going through, he had kept silent, hoping that she would come to him so that he didn’t have to go out on a limb to ask her what was wrong. But that strategy didn’t seem to be working, and it was time to intervene.

“Er—so—Hermione,” he began awkwardly, then paused; he genuinely didn’t know how to proceed. Girls. “You’ve—er—been really moody lately. Whatever it is—” –would you cut it out already?—“—You can tell me about it, you know.”

Hermione pursed her lips, eyes brimming with unshed tears. She was so tempted to tell him. Harry would understand; unlike Ron (who she believed to be almost completely devoid of emotion), Harry would at least listen to what she had to say, though she knew that he would vehemently disagree with the subject of her affection. She swiped away the tears and shook her head, turning back towards her meal with a finality that almost made Harry drop the subject. “I can’t, Harry, I’m sorry… I just can’t.” She cast him an apologetic glance. “I just can’t.”

Harry watched her for a moment, his jaw working thoughtfully. Then he nodded and patted her shoulder awkwardly, a gesture he was sure that meant, in girl language, that he was attempting to be supportive. “I won’t press it. You can tell me when you’re ready.” He rose from his seat, understanding, at least, the feeling that some things were too personal to share.

“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered softly. She bade he and Ron a good time in Hogsmeade, then turned back to the table. As soon as they rounded the corner and disappeared, from sight, Hermione’s eyes slid back to the head table.

Professor Snape was gone.

But she knew where to find him.

-----x-----

Everywhere outside of Hogwarts’ dungeons, it was nearly warm enough by mid-afternoon to make a dragon molt its scales – perfect Hogsmeade conditions. Most of the Slytherins and a few hopeful students from rivaling houses had retreated to the darkest and gloomiest parts of the archaic castle, seeking refuge from the heat wave that had taken the rest of the school hostage. All but one of the dungeon-goers basked in the cool, almost cold, bowels of Hogwarts, but one amongst them sat in front of his fireplace sipping a Firewhiskey, deep in thought. His feet were propped up on the edge of the hearth and he started into the flames absently, his dark, liquid eyes clouded with some all-consuming thought. He jumped and immediately began to scowl when a brisk, jaunty knock on his office door dragged him back to reality. He took his time getting up and making his way to the door.

“Professor Snape,” murmured Hermione meekly as he opened the door and gazed down at her, the stone wall dividing his emotions from his facial expressions apparently unfazed. Her feet shuffled nervously and she determinedly returned his stare with a great deal of inner strength, though with every second that passed in this contest of wills her resolve weakened. His eyes were blank; his face, a mask. She blinked. He won.

Apparently satisfied with this victory, he growled audibly, annoyance etched in every contour lining his face. “What is it, Miss Granger?” he asked, his voice straining with poorly-concealed irritation. “What could be so terribly important that you had to come and bother me in my private chambers on your last day of school?”

“Sir…” Hermione’s voice faltered and she gazed down at the ashen stone floor. Cold and unyielding, just like him. Her heart was pounding and she felt mildly sick. I have to do it, she thought. I have to.

“Well?” he barked impatiently.

“Professor, I think I’m in love with you,” she gushed quickly.

Hermione flinched visibly, waiting for him to yell at her, tell her she was a fool, a whore, or maybe even hex her. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. She stood there, silenced by humiliation, for a few heavy moments before risking a tentative glance up at him. He was staring at her blankly as though he had never seen her before, let alone heard what she just said. Did he hear what she just said?

“Professor?” she whispered. “Professor, I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“Oh.” A faint pink blush began to blossom on Hermione’s cheeks as she waited for a reply. She hadn’t expected this. She had spent hours planning what to do if she was rejected, and much longer dreaming of what she’d do if he accepted her. But now… now, she had no idea what he was thinking, let alone how he felt towards her. Surely after this long he’d have given her something to work with if he weren’t considering what she was saying…

Panic began to flare in her heart. What if he didn’t accept her? Hermione drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to stem the flow of her rapidly increasing anxiety. As an excellent student (who had graduated first in her year), she had never had to deal with any sort of major failure. Her ‘try-hard-and-succeed’ work ethic and personal motto had never proven faulty in the way of academic achievements. As the silence of his indecisiveness rang in her ears louder than the rhythmic pounding of her heart, realization dawned on her like a slap in the face: not everything she studied in books could be applied to real life.

Severus gazed down at the girl in front of him in shock, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral; if it weren’t for his current situation, he might have found her obvious discomfort amusing. His shoulders slumped as though he were carrying something heavy on his back and he sighed audibly, normally a tactic he used to express his annoyance. She really had grown quite a lot since she had come to the school as a bushy-haired, buck-toothed, stuck-up eleven-year-old several years before. She was the age of consent, too… but she was also a former student, and that was a line he was not prepared to cross. Severus Snape, a Slytherin through and through, did almost nothing that did not result in a personal reward; and as he contemplated the pros and cons of deflowering his seventeen-year-old student, his conscience was weighing heavily on the side of rejecting her. No, a night of sexual bliss – not even one in which he got to spend several pleasurable hours coaxing the innocence from a virgin and replacing it with his own brand of corruption – was not worth the possible detrimental effect it could have on his career if anyone ever found out.

But she’s willing.

He eyed her in consideration as the notion slithered deviously into his mind. Yes… she was willing. Ready and willing, he mused as Hermione shifted uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze. He could smell the sweet, musky ambrosia of her arousal as it saturated the air. And if he willed it, he could have her now.

Hermione lowered her head until her chin nearly touched her chest. She couldn’t bear to look at him. Something in his eyes flickered when he looked at her, considering her. Whatever it was, it had caused a reaction in her. A very strong reaction.

“Miss Granger…” he began, in a tone that was neither favorable nor hostile.

“Professor,” she murmured softly, her eyes pleading. “Please. I… you don’t have to… we don’t have to be together. I don’t need a relationship,” she continued, her Gryffindor boldness picking up momentum with every second that she continued to talk. “You don’t have to stay with me. I’m just asking for one time. Just be with me… one time.”

Severus considered her silently. He felt nothing for the girl – in fact, he loathed being in contact with anyone who was directly, or even indirectly, connected to Potter – but he couldn’t deny that she was attractive as a woman, even if he disliked her a person (Although, he reminded himself, that didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t have other relations with her.). It was beginning to become hard to resist the desperate, innocent pleas of an attractive young woman who was practically throwing herself at his sexual mercy. But it wasn’t right (though this was the weakest of his cons), and it could affect his lifestyle – something he was not willing to sacrifice, especially not to do anyone a favor.

“I am not a man of passion,” he began bluntly. “Years of servitude under the Dark Lord has made me a distant man. It is not in my nature to love, or even grant affection. You need to realize this. I am a selfish man, Miss Granger,” he stated simply. He didn’t want to spare her the truth. “Everything I do is a means to my own end. Everything.”

“I don’t care!” she cried, forgetting her embarrassment, her shyness. Tears of anguish welled over and streamed down her cheeks, unhindered. “I don’t need a connection. I just want you!”

In one swift motion, Severus clutched her shoulders in his strong, nimble hands, slamming her against the dungeon wall roughly, inconsiderate of her comfort. She gasped as he pressed up against her, the hearty ache somewhere around her belly flaring up with an intensity she’d never experienced; his dangerously flashing eyes meant as a warning similar to the rattling of a snake’s tail did nothing to deter it.

“You have graduated today,” he growled, restraining his temper, “but I am and always will be your superior, and as such you will treat me with respect.” The dark wizard began to back away from her, his muscles tense. Truthfully, he had not been angry with her – he had been shocked and surprised that she was willing to lose her virginity to a man who admittedly held no emotion towards her, nor, in truth, had ever treated her with anything less than contempt.

“I do not require a consort, Miss Granger,” he continued unabashedly. “I do not have room in my life or in my heart for a permanent lover. When I need relief, I can just as easily pay for it, without the hassle of emotional attachment. I can never be what you want me to be.”

A prolonged silence ensued as they stood there, face to face, adversaries with an extensive understanding of one another. Severus’ face was grave and emotionless, almost as if he had just finished giving a particularly boring lecture rather than breaking his young students’ heart. Hermione’s mouth quivered as she stood, speechless, tears streaking a path down her face.

Someone’s loud, intrusive voice boomed through the stone corridors. Severus’ eyes softened for a moment, his eyes taking an inventory of her body before turning away, refusing to afford her a second glance. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he would be able to reject her again if she spoke, and he couldn’t tell if he’d bought his own argument.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“The trains are boarding,” he said firmly, his gaze focused on some apparently significant detail on the floor. “You had better go to your friends. Good luck, Miss Granger,” he added coolly before striding back into his room and slamming his door shut.

Hermione stifled a sharp cry before she turned and ran up the dungeon corridor, promising herself that she would never look back. But as she reached the end of the tunnel, she couldn’t help taking one final glance at the door of the only man she would ever love.