A Victorious Draw

Severus Snape, slightly put out at the position he had been thrust into by the two younger men, stood in the dingy green corridor in the bowels of the Ministry building and peered into the open door of Hermione Granger’s office. That a woman of her intelligence, not to mention her service in the war effort, had been shuffled off to work in this god-forsaken office was beyond all comprehension. She was paid handsomely for her work, but surely it wasn’t enough to satisfy her. He thought again on the conversation he’d had two days earlier with Harry and Ron, by whose given names they insisted he address them.

Hermione showed no signs of awareness of his presence, and that alone was troublesome. Did she think herself safe in her office deep within the Ministry? He discounted this notion; she was only too aware of what had taken place within these walls in the past to let down her guard.

Hearing his knock, Severus saw Hermione look up and smile. Her smile dimmed, however, as she saw him gracing her doorway. She stood and walked slowly towards the doorway. With a flutter of her fingers, she dropped the words and greeted him.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” Hermione said.

Severus nodded curtly. He had not felt any wards in place as he neared Ms. Granger’s door but felt the unmistakable tingle as she had dropped them, allowing him entrance into her equally dingy office. Whatever she used, they were not Ministry-approved, of that he was certain. He appreciated her thoroughness.

“Ms. Granger, as I’ve enlightened you on numerous occasions, I am no longer your teacher. Please desist your use of that title. ‘Mister’ will suffice or my given name, if it does not cause you undue stress.”

Hermione looked taken aback for a moment, as if addressing him by his given name was an unexpected treat.

“All right, Severus it is, then.” Hermione smiled hesitantly. “Won’t you come in? The furnishings leave something to be desired, unfortunately,” Hermione explained, pointing to the small, metal chair alongside her desk.

Severus’ eyes did not linger upon the cast-off furniture. “No,” he said abruptly. “I shan’t be here long.” His mouth pursed slightly, as if something unpleasant had been passed under his nose. “Ms. Granger…” he began, but Hermione interrupted.

“Prof… Severus, please, my name is Hermione. I owe you an apology. I had no right to press you the other day by the elevators. But would you please reconsider? I would be honored to include any information you’d like to discuss in the book. Of course, I’d like to ask follow-up questions, if that is acceptable. For clarification,” Hermione said purposefully. “We can begin whenever is convenient for you.”

Severus eyed the witch critically. Clearly, she had taken Ronald’s suggestion seriously. But of course, she would want follow-up questions. He smirked. She thought to gain the upper hand by lulling him into a false sense of security by letting him expound upon those topics that he felt comfortable discussing. Little did she know. He relaxed.

He had decided to help Ms. Granger. Notwithstanding Harry and Ronald’s pitiful attempt to gain his sympathy, she had sent her Patronus to summon help when he had been lying in the Shrieking Shack the night of the final battle. He doubted she was as lost as the two men had portrayed. That she was clinging to her past instead of moving forward was not all that surprising; it was what defined her in their world thus far. Well, he’d had enough experience with that, hadn’t he?

How fortuitous that she apologized and made her offer; he had just been given carte blanche... best set the machine in motion.

“Ms. Granger, Hermione,” he began, “I’ve come to invite you to accompany me to the Victory Gala.”

Hermione looked as if she were nonplussed. “But… but you never… I’ve never seen you with…” she paused, realizing how she sounded. She took a deep breath and said, “I go with Ron.”

Severus eyed her for several long moments. He held her gaze without commenting, forcing her to continue.

“Why?” Hermione asked suddenly. She’s been so taken aback when he’d asked; she hadn’t given a thought as to why. Was that the purpose of this visit?

Severus lifted his eyebrow then exhaled softly. “I had thought the night of the Gala an appropriate time. It would simply be easier to arrive together. We would fulfill our obligations to the Ministry by attending, and then we could depart. I could share with you some of my experiences, thereby not wasting the entire evening. Does that sound satisfactory?”

Hermione stood motionless. If she attended the Gala with him, she would have her interview, but something didn’t quite fit…

“You view attending the Victory Gala as an obligation, then? Something to escape once fulfilled?” she asked.

Severus said nothing, merely nodded.

Hermione felt the same. She attended every year with Harry, Ron and his family, but she never cared to celebrate. There had been too much death and destruction. She had seen it firsthand, and she couldn’t bring herself to carry on as if everything that preceded the final battle was a bit of nasty business best left forgotten.

Hermione wondered how Ron would react to her attending the ball with Severus. Would he be angry? Relieved? She admitted to herself that perhaps he would be relieved if they didn’t attend together. She and Ron were on the cusp of something important, she could feel it. Lately she’d been noticing small things, and she could read the writing on the wall as well as the next girl.

Their relationship was coming to an end, and it wasn’t with a nasty blowout and high passion but rather a whimper and a wave. She fervently wished she felt a burning desire to rip his throat out or eviscerate him. She felt she was doing a disservice to Ronald and their relationship by letting it go so easily. She acknowledged that was what she was doing. Was she ready to let go? What came next? Suddenly, she felt lightheaded as her heart squeezed painfully hard. She grasped the closest sturdy thing, Severus’ arm.

She was letting Ron go. Oh, how it hurt. But if she was brutally honest, it was the fear of what came next that was causing her heart to contract pitifully. She would have Ronald forever, of that she was certain. He was a part of her, but… But.

Hadn’t he said it, himself? He was ready to move on but he couldn’t, because of her. She stood staring at Severus, her panic-filled eyes roaming Severus’ face, looking for something, anything, to help ease the overwhelming feelings.

Severus moved swiftly. First she was clutching his arm, then, in the next moment, she was engulfed in his sturdy robes, held tightly to his firm chest as the dizziness threatened to overtake her.

“Slow, steady breaths, witch,” Severus said, his voice low and gruff. Hermione responded automatically, trying to quell the panic from rising and cutting off her air. She drew in a shuddering breath and found the next one a bit easier to manage. And the next. And the next. One moment she was in her former professor’s arms, and the next he thrust her from him. She felt cold and alone. She wanted to bury herself once more in his robes but sanity returned, and she straightened and ran her hands through her hair before smoothing the wrinkles from her jumper.

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione whispered, her voice hoarse. She cleared it delicately.

Severus could say nothing for the space of a few heartbeats. He had no words. He had grabbed her and yanked her into his arms because of the panic in her eyes; she had need of a safe haven. But once she was nestled snugly against him, he hadn’t wanted to let her go. She had felt like home, as if he had opened the door and walked into his past, present and future. In the space those brief minutes, he found what he had been searching for: her.

Severus nodded abruptly, turned on his heel and left, wordlessly. He needed to think. He needed space and time.

As Hermione watched him go, she sank slowly to the floor, dumbfounded. In his arms, she had been safe and secure. She had been home. Home, in the way her house could never be, the way the Burrow felt to everyone else but her. The way she desperately wished Ron’s arms would feel, but didn’t. In Severus Snape’s arms, she had been where she belonged.

Oh, God, her terrified brain chanted, out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Art by Pennswoods for Chapter 3: http://hermione.magical-worlds.us/viewstory.php?action=printable&textsize=0&sid=48&chapter=all#12