By Subversa
II. Irresolute Past Present
Their association was strictly Order-related; there had never been anything personal about it. Yet this interminable winter, oppressed by the ongoing war, was a time of recurrent meetings with her, attended by frequent discussions and equally frequent disagreements.
‘If you cannot see to your cauldron without babbling, Miss Granger, you may go. I will do it instead,’ he snapped waspishly, decanting the contents of his cauldron into clearly marked phials.
‘I scarcely see how you can view my questions about the genesis of this Nerve Regeneration Potion as babbling, Professor,’ she replied.
He glanced to her sharply, hearing something in her tone of disrespect—but all he saw on her countenance, rapt as she counted her anti-clockwise strokes, was a sort of gentle amusement. He bristled, a sneer marring his face. What business did this girl have mocking him? She might not be his student any longer, but the differences between them, in both age and station, dictated that she ought to speak to him with respect and deference.
She glanced up then, catching him out as he studied her, and she smiled, the warmth spreading from her up-curled lips to her dark, expressive eyes. ‘If you don’t care to discuss it while we work, perhaps you can tell me about it later, over a drink.’
His eyes dropped as he felt the unwanted flush of colour in his cheeks, and he busied himself with corking the phials and cleaning his cauldron, taking the opportunity to turn his back on her. ‘It is my custom to go to the Three Broomsticks for a drink on Saturday nights,’ he replied, neither encouraging nor discouraging her.
‘I know,’ she murmured, and he thought he heard amusement again, but he refused to turn to see her face until he was fully in charge of his own again.
They left the castle at the same time, though he would not characterise them as being together; it was simply of matter of both of them deciding, independently, to go down the pub for a nightcap. Miss Granger, however, did not seem to grasp the reality of their joint seclusion, for she assailed him with verbal prods until he was forced to return them, and their stroll through the snow under the bright Scottish moon was productive of conversation, as well as two sets of tracks, side by side, in the snowy lane.
The wind picked up, blowing bitterly against the woollen coats and mittens of those daring the outdoors, and the smaller children were gathered and herded away by anxious parents. Severus stirred from his reverie and refreshed his concealing charms, beginning to thread his way again through the trees and about the perimeter of the play park.
That first night, walking with her to the Three Broomsticks, enduring the perpetual conversation, had been the first of many snowy Saturday nights with Hermione Granger. They had spoken of countless things, learning to match their gaits as they walked and practiced the parry and thrust of verbal sparring—and many were the times when the gates of Hogwarts had loomed on their return too soon to suit him, for in conversation with her, the distance might have been ten times farther, and still he would not have been bored. It had never been personal—that would have been inappropriate—but it had, at times, been … engaging.
Then had come the end of the war. He had left the school to found his own business, and their association had come to an end.
He shook his head, disturbing the plain black scarf wound about his throat against the icy air. He was the worst of fools—an old one.
It had only been in retrospect, as years had passed, that he had come to wonder. Had it all been … impersonal? Had he not, at times, detected merriment in her?—and was it not possible that her gaiety had been an indication of … well, of attraction, rather than mockery?
Surely it wasn’t impossible.
Was it?
Desolate, he scowled at his feet, watching each boot pressing into the freshly fallen snow, until the solitary set of prints ended where they had begun, in the copse of trees in the play park in Wanstead.
Dear Merlin, dusk was falling. How he wished, as he had done each year since, that he had more work to occupy him in winter—that it was less of a null season for his business. It left him far too much time to think and to feel, always a dangerous combination.
Another Christmas Eve was coming to an end, and she wasn’t coming—but even worse, he wasn’t going after her.