Beneath

Severus rose with the sun the next morning. He returned to his rooms to dress then hurried back to Hermione. Sitting down next to her, he lifted her hand, brushed his lips against it and waited.

A few hours later, she slid her thumb over his, squeezed his hand, then released it and moaned softly. Tossing her head toward him, a lock of hair brushed over her temple and fell across one eye. Her body followed, rolling over and between the white linen sheets until she was lying on her stomach. Captivated, Severus held his breath as one eye, then the other fluttered open. In that brief second, in the heartbeat between recognition and realization, she was his. He knew it. He believed it. Her eyes were so full of love and joy; he thought surely she would reach for him. But she didn’t. The light in her eyes dimmed as she began to wake. She was blinking away the warmth, as if the sun had suddenly gone out. He suppressed a guttural, outraged cry, and turned his face away from hers.

Hermione reached for him and hoarsely whispered, “Ss… Professor?” But Severus didn’t seem to hear her. He didn’t even look at her.

Crossing to the infirmary door, he paused before leaving the room. His jaw and shoulders tensed slightly, but he didn’t turn around.

“Poppy, she’s awake.”

Hermione rolled over, and gasped at the searing pain that small action caused her. Why did Severus leave, she wondered. Didn’t he care? Had she invented an entire relationship with him? Her head ached as the doubt surged over her, drowning out the tiny voice telling her to hold on to hope, to talk to him.

Wincing, she raised her head as Madam Pomfrey, ever the conscientious healer, quickly pressed a potion vial to Hermione’s lips. With its anise scent, she was surprised to taste warm cinnamon in the syrupy liquid. Her voice, ragged from disuse, sounded strange to her ears.

“Madame Pomfrey, why am I… what happened to me?”


*********************************

Hermione had awoken ten days prior. It seemed that she hadn’t changed at all, as if the dreams he thought they had shared were entirely his own. He waited, anxiously hoping for a sign that she remembered him, remembered them. Passing her in the corridors, covertly studying her at meals, and instructing her in Potions had been excruciating, but the nights were the worst. At night, in the dim silence of his rooms he could find no consolation. Idly rolling a dry quill on his library table back and forth under his palm, he inhaled deeply.

He knew it was foolishness to allow himself to continue to think of her. She did not, and would never return his feelings. It was much better to forget her, to put her completely out of his mind. Tomorrow was Saturday, he could remain in his quarters all weekend if necessary. Slowly unscrewing the cap on the bottle of Phinneas Palatines’ and pouring himself three fingers of firewhiskey, he made his decision. He would no longer allow himself to think of her. He would be master of his emotions by sunrise.

All he had to do was make it through one more night.

He saw them the next day. Hermione and Malfoy hurried past him, entering the library together. She had changed her hair. Instead of it hanging in smooth, sloping curls over her shoulders and down her back it was twisted into a delicate knot at the base of her crown. The ends stiffly fanned upward, peaking over the top of her head. The pain of loss nearly closed off his throat and for a moment he entertained the idea of chasing Malfoy down and ripping his head off of his shoulders. Composing himself, he stood a little straighter and continued down the hall. He knew he could walk a line and he focused on that task. If he could do nothing else that day, he would get from point A to point B. Words came to him, and he repeated them in tandem with the sound of his footsteps. He repeated them for the rest of his journey through the halls, under his breath, “I will not lose control. I will not lose control. I will not…”

He waited until he was certain that most of the students would be finished with dinner before entering the Great Hall. Unfortunately, he was not late enough. Malfoy was still sitting at the Slytherin table between Crabbe and Goyle, and Hermione was getting up to leave just as he arrived. She walked steadily toward him, catching his eyes and holding them. He stopped for a moment, a few feet away from her. She looked up at him, “Is there something you want, Professor?”

Cringing internally, he started his mantra again. I will not lose control, he meditated, steeling himself against her unspoken assault on his senses. She wore a new perfume. He remained still, inhaling deeply. Although there were over fifty different varieties of vanilla plant, only one genus was suitable for flavoring - vanilla planifolia. The rarest of the vanilla planifolia was Black Vanilla, and the air around Hermione was infused with it\'s headygrangrance. His need for her was so great, his palms began to sweat. He could not let her go just yet.

“You should stay away from Malfoy,” he snarled in a nearly inaudible voice. “He’s a very dangerous young man.”

Hermione luxuriated in the rich timbre of his voice. She shrugged nonchalantly, desperate to control the shiver that ran over and around her spine. Shuddering again, she whispered, “You changed.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Miss Granger.”

Across the room, Draco seethed, as he watched his nemesis. “She doesn’t want him,\" he whispered softly. \"She wants me. I’ll make her want me as much as I want her. I will! I’ll write to Mother.\" A self-satisfied smile teased his lips.

\"Mother always knows what to do.”