Chapter 2
There is something very much wrong about Miss Granger.
That is the only thought that occupies Severus’s mind these days, the only mystery that seems capable of abating the gnawing tedium of life during peace-time.
But peace is an illusion that must be carefully crafted after any war has been won. Kingsley explains this in so many words as he prattles on about the importance of containing talk of recent events within these castle walls— A death eater’s son, who the day previous had publicly called a young Ravenclaw a mudblood in the library, awoke this morning to find his forehead bearing a seemingly permanent dark mark in a curious crimson ink.
Severus can scarcely manage to make himself listen, much less care, as he stares at the new Minister from across the Headmaster’s desk—his desk, now. No, he is much too preoccupied with the clock haunting his periphery, each tick louder than the last as it approaches the hour, counting down closer and closer to the real issue at hand—
Hermione. Fucking. Granger.
Knock, knock, knock.
Finally.
Finally, he might get some answers.
“Forgive me, Kingsley. That’ll be my next meeting with this year’s Head Girl.”
“Gods, is that the time?” Kingsley exclaims to the clock.
Whoever could have guessed the Minister would still be here when Miss Granger arrived precisely on time?
“I should have guessed,” Kingsley chuckles at the sight of Miss Granger breezing past his threshold.
“Kingsley, how lovely to see you!” She smiles cheerfully, clasping his offered hand.
Most wouldn’t see anything amiss with the witch, with her smile just as bright and kind as ever as the two exchange pleasantries, her responses expectedly charming and well-timed. Most seem to forget that mere months ago, she stood bloodied and bruised in this very castle— in the middle of a battlefield— cutting men down like she had been born for it.They forget that she has carried a war on her back since she was eleven years old.
And all of them forget that she won that war.
But Severus has not forgotten… And he’s certainly not blind to that familiar glint she keeps so well-hidden in that deceptive amber gaze of hers.
“So how did you do it, Severus?” Kingsley abruptly asks with a strained attempt at a polite smile. “I’ve tried everything to tempt Hermione to accept my offer.”
Severus turns a sharp gaze to Miss Granger, watching as her unease slowly rises to a simmer.
“Perhaps if you expanded the Ministry’s library.” Severus replies without taking his eyes from her. He clenches the hand resting on his thigh into a tight fist, equally satisfied and enraged by the nervous laugh that quietly slips from her lips.
“We could always open the floo—“
“I couldn’t possibly risk earning Minerva’s wrath,” Severus jests, tearing his gaze from her. “Even for you, Kingsley.”
Near the beginning of the summer, Severus had begrudgingly approved Minerva’s request to offer Miss Granger an apprenticeship which she had swiftly refused, along with the honorary diploma that she and many of her peers were awarded. He had been immediately suspicion upon seeing her name on the short list of returning eighth years. He first hypothesized that perhaps she hadn’t been offered a desirable position like the rest of the trio had, briefly allowing the thought to soothe his growing paranoia. Nothing, however, could possibly soothe the savage flame of fury that has writhed in his veins since he last saw her on that godforsaken day.
Watching Kingsley shamelessly throw himself at her feet is all the proof he needs to know that the infernal creature is up to something.
She has the good sense to remain silent after Kingsley takes his leave, returning Severus’s burning glare with a steady gaze, and he has the sudden urge to lunge across the desk and shake her.
Why is she here?
“So which is it?” He finally asks.
“Sir?”
“What desk has this century’s most coveted war heroine decided to chain herself to?”
“I haven’t.” She replies evenly, arching a delicate brow. “Decided, that is.”
Another heavy silence stretches between them, her calm demeanor grating against his every nerve more and more with each passing second— Surely she must know that he can see straight through her.
“Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Sir?” She eventually asks, looking at him expectantly.
Severus merely considers her for a moment longer. Perhaps he should let her be… For now.
“Indeed, Miss Granger,” He finally sighs, relinquishing the tension of the previous moment as he leans back in his chair. “As I am sure you are aware, there has been some… unrest amongst the student body. If you see anything out of the ordinary, you are to report it directly to me. No one else. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“Good,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to a stack of papers before him and plucking his quill from its stand. “Now leave.”
***
Severus knows he should keep his distance, that he should spare such indulgent moments for when she sleeps… When she’s vulnerable and docile and there’s no risk of drowning in irises made of amber. But something is keeping her up at night, and he’s discovered her to be an entirely different creature once the night falls— and he so rarely has the time to watch her before she sleeps.
Yes, something is keeping her up at night. And he must discover what.
He finds her in the Restricted Section on this night— a common haunt of hers, he suspects. He watches her work from the shadows just beyond the edge of the dim glow emanating from the single lamp next to her. She’s twisted her hair up, miraculously secured with a single pencil atop her head, exposing the smooth column of her neck and he can’t help his eyes from straying to her mouth when she sinks her teeth into the reddened flesh of her lower lip.
She is stunning, he thinks.
He wants to scream.
“You’re toying with them.” He says instead, taking a small satisfaction in seeing her jump from her chair.
“I… I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she says once recovered, quickly gathering her books into her arms and turning to a nearby shelf.
“Kingsley, Minerva… all of them.” He says, stepping from the shadows behind her. He blocks her path with his arm, meeting her cool gaze as she turns from the bookshelf to face him.
“I know you well enough, Hermione,” he continues in a deadly whisper. “You cannot fool me.”
“I’m simply weighing each chain before I choose my desk,” she retorts in defiance, recalling his earlier jab. “Would you recommend mahogany, Severus?”
“You are lying,” he hisses, the bookshelf shaking under his fist as he cages her in with his other arm.
“Why do you care?” She snaps, only to gasp as Severus grasps her chin and jerks her face up toward his. He steps closer, feeling her warm, quick breaths fan against his cheek as he searches her wide-eyed gaze, reaching for anything that might give him a shred of ease as his chest begins to ache. But the scent of her hair is filling his lungs and he can hear her heart thudding viciously against her chest in the silence and he is suddenly drowning in molten amber and—
And oh, how he hates her for it all.
“Why do you care, Severus?” She asks again, but quiet and gentle and trembling.
His grip softens and he is entirely unsure in that moment whether it would be more painful to stay or walk away as he draws a ragged breath to match her own.
“Go to bed, Hermione,” He finally orders before pulling away, striding down the aisle with what little conviction he has left. “If you don’t, I shall know.”
***