Missed Opportunities

Missed Opportunities

Chapter Two

 

And so – the three of us went back to Hogwarts, even Ron, though he had dispensation to floo back to Diagon Alley to help George at the shop and visit the family.  McGonagall arranged those exemptions for every returning eighth year student – we were all eighteen, after all.  As I had no family I wanted to visit, I spent weekends at school or visited the Burrow.  Once, after they’d recovered enough of their memories, I went home with Hermione to visit her parents, which was truly lovely.  Mostly, though, I spent weekends reading in the library, or working on projects for McGonagall, things related to the still-needed repair work on the school.

Often enough, Severus – I didn’t call him Severus then, yet, of course – and I would be paired up to perform some complex bit of magic.  Our magic was compatible, it turned out, and that facilitated the more complex workings required to work with the magic of the castle itself.  Setting the wards around the Chamber of Secrets, after we’d plumbed and mapped that subterranean labyrinth and harvested what we could from the basilisk for Severus’ potions, for example.  Or opening the Room of Requirement, to investigate whether the Fiendfyre that Crabbe had set had burnt itself out, and to what end. 

And Potions class. 

I fell in love with Severus in Potions class that year.  I didn’t realize, at first, that that was what was happening.  I only knew that I wanted to get it right, this time, that I wanted to honor this man who had sacrificed so much for me… for us, to express, in the only coin I thought he would accept, my respect and gratitude… that I wanted his respect.  I don’t think I have paid more attention to anything in my life – other than his face and hands and voice any time he sits across from me at supper – but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Hermione figured it out first, of course, and Ron last.  She elbowed me in the middle of some class, the content of which totally escapes me now, as it totally escaped me then.  We were set to brew… something.  Seventh year potions was much less structured than previous years, and included potion creation and theory, rather than simply following given recipes and instructions.  Severus set us to exploring the difference stirring more or less, clockwise or anti-clockwise, varying one nettle less or more, heating the potions base before adding ingredients or heating them all together, and other variations, made in the final product.  He handed us practical problems, and had us work together to devise a brand-new potion to address them.  He had us identify problems ourselves, propose a potion, give the rationale for every ingredient and every step – and then outline the same for the counter-potion. We analyzed potions forward, backward, and inside out.  It was exhausting.  It was exhilarating.  It was, for me, an act of love and devotion…

And some of that must have shown on my face, this particular class.  Severus was up front, his own potion sending steam in curls up to the ceiling, where it was expelled by the positive-pressure air vents I had never bothered to notice when I was younger.  I watched him as he lectured us on timing, listened to his voice, soft as music, cutting as a boline.  There was such… rhythm… such grace… to everything he did, and I don’t think I had ever realized how utterly brilliant the man was, and how completely wasted that intellect was here, with a roomful of bewildered eighteen year olds.  He should be out lecturing his colleagues, leading the wizarding world in potions, writing for universities, researching, becoming rich, sharing his knowledge with the world, I was thinking. 

Hermione dug her elbow into my side, and my own elbow, which had been supporting my chin, slipped off our table, and I hissed, “What?”  Severus’ eyes flicked to us, and a frown of disapproval and disappointment flashed across his face.

“If you have other things to do that are more important, Miss Granger, Mister Potter, perhaps you should find yourselves elsewhere.”

“No, sir!” I said, horrified.  “I’m sorry Professor.  My elbow slipped.”

The disappointment did not leave his eyes, but he turned them back to his cauldron and the rest of the class, all of whom were, I think, stunned.  It was the first negative thing he had said to me all year, in class or out.

I sought him out that evening, making my hesitant way to his quarters, trembling before I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.  After a few moments, I heard footsteps, and then he opened the door and looked at me, quickly hiding his surprise. 

“What is it, Potter?”

My mouth was suddenly dry.  Despite working together magically, this was the closest we had stood, face-to-face, since he had appeared at my door, months before.  I finally unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth.  He’d taken a stance that clearly indicated he was waiting.  My heart pounded in my chest, and some part of my brain inventoried… his raven-blue-black hair, the broad shoulders that strained his robes, the thin lips that were, I realized dazedly, nevertheless beautifully shaped, the long, lean fingers of the hands that lay on his crossed arms… 

He raised an eyebrow, but was clearly not going to rescue me.  I finally got myself unstuck by breaking eye contact, focusing somewhere around his chin.  Oh, Merlin – his mouth!

“I… wanted to apologize for my inattention in your class, Professor.  My mind… drifted.  I won’t let it happen again, Sir.  I meant no disrespect,” I said quietly.  Inside, I was clenched in hope and fear, Please don’t hate me.  Please don’t hate me again!

He let me stand there, staring at his cravat, his mouth – set in a thin line, his chest, his fingers… anywhere but at his face, until I finally mustered the courage to look up and make eye contact.  He was watching me, bemusement and something else evident in his narrowed eyes.  Finally, he said, as softly as I had spoken, “I trust you did not, Mister Potter, and that you will focus suitably to the level required to… exceed my expectations… in this subject.  Will you not?”

“I will, Sir,” I breathed.  Dear Merlin, was he going to forgive me?

“Then all will be well,” he said.  “Goodnight, Mister Potter.”

And then the door was shut, and I stood there, shocked, finding that, once again, the damned man had brought me to tears from… from nothing… and I turned and slid down against his door, and found myself sobbing in grief and relief and confusion.

And when I got back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione had explained it to me, and everything fell into place.  I loved him.  And I so, so wanted him to love me.  And… I was eighteen, and he was, by then, thirty-nine, and a man.  A gloriously brilliant, beautiful, courageous, honorable man, the likes of whom I could never, never live up to, and it was hopeless, and I was utterly lost, and utterly bereft, and utterly elated, all at the same time.  I hadn’t even dated, yet.  Not a boy – or a man.  I hadn’t known I should have been.

I broke up with Ginny the next day, though I did not tell her why.  She said she knew that I wasn’t in it… wasn’t really available to be in a relationship just then, and she put it down to the aftermath of the war, and I did not disillusion her, and told her not to wait for me, because I didn’t know if I’d ever be over it, and she said she loved me and would always be my friend, and we cried, and it was sad, and it was a relief.

My grades dipped a bit, even in Potions, for a while, and Severus looked at me sternly and shook his head, and I pulled myself together and got back on track, and tried to limit my adoration and lustful, lingering looks at his ever-more-elegant-to-my-eyes form to the Great Hall and to random corridor encounters.  I could never make them more than that, no matter how I tried… could never waylay him, as if he somehow could track my movements, and was avoiding me.  Our occasional assignments from McGonagall were increasingly infrequent, and as I no longer provoked him – or any other professor – I never had the dubious pleasure of landing in detention with him, so I had to be satisfied with no more contact with him than any other student had.  It drove me crazy.

I suppose the upside to that was that I was nearly completely free to fantasize about him in my bed at night.  The first time his image floated before me, his hands wrapped oh-so-lovingly around a crystal stirring rod, caressing it, while his voice uttered seductive instructions too low for me to make out, I was arching off my bed, thick strings of come shooting out of me, before I even realized what I was doing.  I was not embarrassed.  Not at all.  I was just in despair… desperate.  And it made Potions class torture, because I was at least half-hard, at least half the time, the remainder of the year, terrified that he would come to inspect my work, lean over me, his hot breath brushing my neck and my ear, and find my erection pointing to the object of my desire.  Had there been NEWT exams in wanking, and Snape the examiner, I’m sure I would have Exceeded his Expectations. 

I did in Potions.  There was no way I was going to leave Hogwarts with anything less than an E in Potions, and I really wanted an O.  Hermione and I studied our arses off, starting in January, and by the time NEWTs came around in early May, I was murmuring potion recipes in my sleep, wanking off to imaginary lessons in which Severus stirred a steaming cauldron, his hands ever more suggestively gripping and releasing thick, red crystal rods, murmuring instructions in the most seductive way, his velvet voice sliding up and down my aching cock, while I murmured promises of excellence and “Yes, sir.  Anything, sir… Anything!  Ohhhh, fuck!” and added my hot spume to his brew while he looked on in satisfaction and licked his lips, his hot eyes fixed on my face or my cock as I came.

It was torture.  And I will neither confirm nor deny that I was achingly hard as I took dictation from the Severus Snape in my head when I wrote my potions exam, and later in the practical exam, when I stirred my own potion with, cruelly enough, the thick, blood-red, white-tipped crystal rod the potion called for.  Oh, god!

I could tell from the look on Severus’ face, at supper, that I had done well, and that he was pleased.  As it turned out, I had managed – I’m sure to the shock of both of us, and possibly the entire faculty – an Outstanding.  The remainder of the year passed quickly, if anticlimactically (not that I didn’t continue to climax), and the last week, Hermione, Ron, Neville and I, along with the rest of the eighth years, being let loose from classes but still awaiting graduation, headed into Hogsmeade, discussing, among other things, whether it was done to give a parting gift to our favorite professors or Heads of Houses.  Gryffindor had a new Head of House that year, since McGonagall took over as Headmistress when Severus refused the post, and none of us had had so much as a single conversation with our new Head, but we all were fond of Minerva, and wanted to give her a parting gift.  Hermione had bonded with Professor Sinistra, and Neville with Sprout, of course.  Surprisingly, Ron had really connected with Madame Hooch.  I had sort of left Quidditch behind me, other than the odd pick-up game with friends, or with the Weasleys when I visited the Burrow.

And I… I wanted to get something – something – for Snape.  Severus.  For Severus.

Who was bloody fucking hard to buy for, when it came down to it.  Because… no potions book or bit of equipment was enough, somehow, to express… anything.  I wandered Hogsmeade, finally giving up, and wondered if I dared ask Minerva’s advice, alternately determined to do so and certain that I’d be totally humiliated if I did, that I’d give it all away.  I did find something for her, though, and had to be content with that, as we made our way back to the castle after nightfall.

The last morning of the term, just before we had to leave to catch the train, I rushed through my final packing, and raced out of the dorm, answering Ron’s “Where you going, mate?” with a hasty, “I’ll be back.  Shrink my trunk for me, will you?”  I tore through the school, shoving my way through the ever-more-crowded corridors until I reached the Great Hall.  Good.  No Snape yet.  That had to mean he was still in the dungeons, didn’t it?  I still had time to catch him – I hoped.

I gulped air as I stood in front of his door.  It had been months since I’d last stood here.  Once I stopped gasping for breath, I raised my hand to knock – and the door opened, and Severus strode out.  He obviously didn’t expect anyone to be standing there – he plowed into me and knocked me on my arse.

“Potter!  What the bloody hell are you doing down here?”

“Good morning to you, too, sir,” I said wryly, getting to my feet and rubbing my bum.  I noticed his eyes followed my hand for a moment before they came back to my face.

“Well, what is it?”

He could have been impatient, but he wasn’t.  His hand had gone out to help me to my feet before I’d noticed, but I had scrambled to my feet, and part of me mourned the lost opportunity to touch him.  So I held my hand out.  He looked at it, and then back at my face.

“I… I just wanted to say goodbye, sir, and…”  I took a breath and decided to chance it.  “I was wondering if you might join me for dinner… in London… at a restaurant.  Say, on Friday next.”  It came out in a rush, and I think I turned three shades of pinkish red, to judge by the smirk on his face.  He covered it up swiftly, though, and his face turned thoughtful.  His eyes warmed as he looked at me, or maybe it was a trick of the light.

“It just so happens I need to visit my solicitor in London within the next week or two,” he said.  “I suppose dinner… in a restaurant… would be a reasonable end to my day.”

I stared at him.  He said ‘yes’!  Oh my god, he said YES!  “Wow!” I said.  Brilliant, Harry!  Real mature!  But I couldn’t help it.  I grinned at him.  “Good!  Great!  Yeah.  I’ll… I’ll just… I’ll owl you, shall I?  With… with where to meet?”

He nodded without saying a word, though I seem to remember that he looked distinctly amused. 

“Great,” I repeated, wiping my hands on the back of my jeans.  “So…”  I stuck my hand out again, and he took it.  His hand was dry – I’m sure mine must have been clammy, but he didn’t say anything or give any sign that he noticed.  His was warm as he returned my grip, not too firmly, definitely not tentatively… more like a friendly handshake… and then he held it a moment longer when I would have let go, and waited until I looked him in the eye.

“Well done, Mr. Potter,” he said softly, a smile in his voice and in his eyes, and then he nodded, let go, and said, “Friday next.  I will await your owl,” and turned, brushed past me, and made his way to the Great Hall while I stood there, once again gaping like a fish gasping for air. 

Once he was out of sight, I jumped, spun around mid-flight, and punched my fist in the air. Yes!  I have a dinner date with Severus Snape!  Oh my god – what am I going to wear?  Where are we going to go?  WHERE’S HERMIONE???