A Matter of Honor
by Amy McWilliams (McAmy)

Book 3: Love and Honor

Chapter 10: A Long-Awaited Confidence

Hermione woke, but did not open her eyes. A smile crossed her face as she remembered their kiss. She had been terrified, returning to the classroom, but was determined to show him what she felt for him.

She loved him.

And he had kissed her in return, had held her so close, but…carefully, as if fearing that she would break. She knew his scent already, from all the time spent together working over the same cauldron: the smell of potion making, natural smells of root and herb, something underneath that was simply him. But she had never felt the silkiness of his hair--and she was surprised to think that, except for the touch of his cheek on hers as he comforted her after Seamus's death and the occasional brush of his hand as they worked together (the hand that had been so cold as she held it that night in the hospital wing)…she had never felt his skin. It was warm, soft. She loved the feel of his hands…

As she sighed and snuggled deeper into her pillow, a cold nose touched hers. "Meow?" She sighed. "Crookshanks, mama is really happy right where she is." Another touch. She bolted upright--how long had it been since the alarm went off? She had time, but she needed to hurry.

Coming in the side door to avoid the long walk through the student tables, Hermione saw that Snape was there before her, and that Remus had taken her seat and was deep in conversation with Professor Sprout. Raising an eyebrow, she sat in the empty seat between them. Snape was assuring Madam Hooch that he was quite all right, but as she reached for the toast, she caught Madam Pomfrey looking at them both with a smile on her face. Hermione smiled back, and began to butter her toast intently.

Snape had said "good morning" to her, but not much else, though he'd leaned towards her at one point when answering a query about his health from Madam Pomfrey. Hermione had focused her attentions on Remus, who made no mention of their new seating arrangement. Dumbledore had arrived at one point, and stopped to lean in between the two of them to say, "It is good to see you with us again, Severus," and pat Hermione on the shoulder.

All in all, she was relieved when breakfast was over.

If she had thought that Monday and Tuesday had been long, intolerable days, Wednesday was no better. Certainty did not bring ease of mind. On the contrary, she got absolutely nothing done that morning in her office, and in the afternoon, she found her thoughts wandering as her students presented their equations on the board. At least Arthur Prichard had chosen that day to come down with the flu; his two cronies were easy enough to handle. Lunch hadn't been any easier than breakfast, though she had bowed to the inevitable and taken the seat next to Snape even before Remus had arrived.

This time, Snape had involved her in a conversation he was reluctantly having with Madam Hooch regarding the upcoming match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin. (For a man so uninterested in the game for its own sake, he was incredibly well informed--she assumed that he enjoyed taunting the other Heads of House enough to make it worth his while.) It was still two weeks away, but apparently was already a prime subject of conversation. Hermione had never understood the wizarding world's sheer fascination with Quidditch. Though she enjoyed going to matches, Quidditch fandom was a form of insanity, as far as she was concerned. She suspected Snape had included her only so he wouldn't have to talk about it so much himself.

Somehow she didn't mind.

After her last class, she went, as usual, to check on their work. The classroom door was still open, and she could hear Snape in his office with a student. From the sound of his voice and the sight of black ooze running from a desk in the back row, she assumed the student would be serving detention in the near future.

In the workroom, she found that he'd restarted their most recent trial, anticipating her plans for the afternoon. She didn't see anything that needed to be done, so began to prepare the ingredients they'd need to add that evening.

Hearing the student leave a few minutes later, she left her cutting board and stuck her head into the classroom. He was still in his office, but the door was open. She crossed the room and looked in. He was leaning against the edge of his desk, rubbing his eyes.

He looked up as she pulled the door closed behind her. "Do you know," he began, his irritated expression unchanging, "what exquisite torture it is to sit next to you in public and not be able to touch you?" She smiled.

Moving to embrace him, she kissed him gently and replied, "I do."

For a few minutes, he held her close, resting his cheek on the top of her head. She could stay there, buried in his chest, forever.

"I love you, Hermione."

"I love you too."

He stood and released her. Tracing a fingertip down her cheek, he said, in a familiar tone, "Miss Granger, I'm afraid I must insist on setting some new ground rules for our time together."

Taking her usual seat, Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what would those new rules be, Professor?"

He shot her an amused look. "First of all, if you do that every time you arrive, I can guarantee that we will never get any work done." She laughed. Serious then, he said, "It is something to consider. We spend hours together, and if we cannot agree that there is a time for work and a time for…" his eyebrow lifted, "play…"

"Of course you're right," she acquiesced, "and I promise to be good." He smiled. "But Professor, you might have to compromise just a bit on the greeting rule."

"Indeed?" His voice smooth and teasing, sending a shiver down her spine.

She rose and crossed to him where he stood at the hearth. "Indeed," she replied.

"I will…consider it," he said, his voice like rich silk, "if you will consider calling me something other than 'Professor Snape'--when we are alone."

She grinned. "Impossible. I can never call you anything but 'Professor Snape.' Except, maybe, 'My Professor Snape.'" He chuckled, and as he drew her to him, she whispered, "Severus…."

When they arrived at dinner together, Snape thought Professor Sprout was going to fall out of her chair. It wasn't as though they had never arrived together before. He scowled at her. Luckily, Flitwick was regaling their half of the table with some story or another and required no conversational assistance. He knew that Hermione wouldn't forget his promise to answer her questions, and his mind was engaged in sorting out what he could and could not tell her.

He left ahead of her--she was talking to Lupin--and went down to add the necessary ingredients to the trial mixture. They were close to solving this potion; he could feel it with every instinct he possessed. He sat down to read over her notes from the abandoned trial, and to make some of his own.

Actually managing to concentrate, he didn't hear her come in until she said, "I believe, Professor Snape, that we agreed you owed me some sort of explanation?" He shot her a glance. Finishing his notes, he made her wait in silence.

He stood, gesturing for her to go ahead of him, and guided her to his office. With his wand, he closed and locked all of the doors. As she moved to sit, he finally spoke.

"Would you mind if we…went someplace a little less accessible?"

She answered, "of course not," though she wasn't sure what he meant.

He turned to a filing cabinet that sat in the far corner, waved his wand, and muttered under his breath for several seconds. She watched, fascinated, as the cabinet…faded, was the only word she could think of, revealing a passageway behind it. With the geometry of the room, that passage should have cut through the hallway outside; she would never understand the architecture of Hogwarts.

He reached out his hand, and she took it. "Lumos!" he commanded, and led her into the passageway. It was only a few steps, but when he stopped, she cast a glance back over her shoulder, and she could no longer see the office. Perhaps the opening had closed already, or perhaps they were several floors away from where they started. He murmured again, and with a wave of his wand, a golden spark appeared on the wall before them, just above his head. It flared, and then split in two, with each half tracing one side of an outline. The sparks faded when they reached the floor, and she was shocked to see that a heavy wooden door now stood in the shape they had circumscribed.

"How does Mordred get in?" she asked, though she immediately thought the question was silly.

He looked at her, the glow of the wand illuminating his face. "Magic," he replied, with a mischievous smile.

Snape opened the door and led her into the room. She caught her breath. "This is beautiful."

As Snape crossed to the fireplace, he waved his hand dismissively. "My family has money," he said, as if it were a curse.

Her eyes made a circuit of the room: a table and two chairs to the left, with a bookcase against the wall--the kind with glass doors over each shelf, everything in gorgeous dark wood; an enormous fireplace, now lit, where Severus stood watching her; in front of the hearth, a luxurious rug, and two large, brown leather club chairs facing a long sofa, upholstered in what looked like tapestry, across a large, low, square table; more bookcases on the far wall--the room was bigger than her two rooms put together; the bathroom door, mirroring the one they'd just come through, and a dresser beside it; a large desk, set out from the wall, and behind it, more bookshelves (she longed to know what all they held; she'd barely begun to fill her own); and an enormous bed to her right, draped not in Slytherin green, but in a deep, rich purple.

She looked back towards him to find him studying her reaction. "It is beautiful," she said.

He tilted his head. "Thank you."

"Where is Mordred?" she asked.

"He's usually out, in the evening, but will return before too long to see if I have anything for him to carry." Immediately he had given her an opening, but she didn't take it. Not yet.

After a pause, he asked, "Would you like some tea? Something stronger?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine at the moment. Thank you."

"Then would you like to sit?" He motioned to the sofa, and she was glad he wanted her beside him.

As they sat--not so close as to cause distraction, but close enough to feel connected--Snape wondered what she would ask him. Though he knew she would begin with his work, he doubted that she realized he had mentally given her carte blanche. He would answer, at least in part, whatever she asked.

She drew her knees up, tucking her feet underneath her, and sat facing him. He sat closest to the fire, his arm resting along the back of the sofa, not quite touching her shoulder.

"Ask," he said.

She began with the details of Halloween, and he told her about his contacts, and of the Three they hunted. While giving no names, he included more details than she expected. He had received a message from one of his contacts earlier that week--the note she saw Mordred deliver at breakfast. The man would be waiting for him at the outskirts of Hogsmeade on Halloween night. One of the others had spotted the Three together in London, and had followed them. He would not tell her where the trail had led, but it had been within reach of Hogwarts. He had met his contact; they had received confirmation, and had gone to meet the others, hoping to surprise the Three. Something had given their presence away, however, most likely a ward of warning they hadn't detected, and the Three bolted before the others had arrived. Trying to stop them, he and his contact had separated, and two of the Three had cornered him.

She had not needed to prompt him so far, but as he came to this point, he hesitated. She reached out and touched his cheek. "Tell me," she said. "I want to know."

Meeting her gaze, he told her. He remembered several spells, remembered one of the men attacking him physically, keeping him from using his wand, while the other continued to cast. He remembered hearing the man cry out "Crucio!" and thinking, even as he fell to the ground in agony, that the fact it had not been Avada Kadavra was important--it meant the man couldn't cast the killing curse, or he surely would have, and that might make the difference the next time.

Finally, he had blacked out, and when he'd regained consciousness, he had no idea where his contact was, or if the others had ever arrived. He'd lain there for a while, regaining his strength, and then half-walked, half-crawled to the nearest town, in too much pain to Apparate. He'd passed out again just as he'd seen the lights of a house. And he'd awakened in the hospital wing.

"I remember knowing you were there before I opened my eyes. Dumbledore told me later that you stayed through the night." He looked at her, concern written across his face. "Did you speak to me while I was unconscious? I don't remember…"

She smiled, doing her best not to cry. She answered simply, "I asked you not to leave me."

She moved towards him when she heard the groan he made in response. He pulled her to his side and she rested her head on his shoulder, laying one hand on his chest.

After a few minutes, he rose. "Before you ask your next question, can I offer you some tea? I need a cup myself." She nodded.

"I am sorry for the wretched night you must have spent by my side," he said quietly as he prepared the tea. She loved that he never spelled the kettle to boiling, but went through the ritual as methodically as if he were brewing the most intricate potion. "I never wanted you to be hurt; that has been one of the main reasons for my insistence that you cannot be a part of this work I have chosen to do."

"I thought maybe you didn't believe I could do it," she said, without accusation.

"No. Though from time to time I will admit to forgetting, briefly, what you are capable of. Next time I do so, you have my permission to set fire to my robes." A look; she laughed at the memory. "There are several reasons, actually, though your being hurt has been the primary one. If they realized that you knew too much, you might become a target. Also, we have not always used legal means to further our search. Finally, you have quite the knack for getting into trouble--don't think I've forgotten your days as a student."

His tone turned from instructor to lover. "From the moment you knocked on my door and asked to speak to me regarding an honors project, you became important to me. For different reasons at different times." He turned to look at her. "Before last night, I refused to…admit it, to articulate it. But it was always the truth. And now…"

"And now…"

"Now, you are the most important thing in my life."

Her brow furrowed. "And you are the most important thing in mine. Don't you see? That's why I want to understand; that's why I want to help." As he began to respond, she cut him off. "I'm not saying I want to go with you, or that you're doing work I can ever fully understand. I only ask that you let me try, that you let me be a part of your life--even the part that you hide so well from everyone else."

He sighed deeply. "I will try. But Hermione, I cannot promise you that I will ever let you see that part of my life clearly. It is dark and ugly, and I have worked too long and hard to put it behind me. I will not contaminate you with it. There are things…things you cannot know, for I would not wish the knowledge of them on anyone."

He spoke forcefully now, and she came to him. The teakettle began to squeal, and he made a sound of irritation. She put her hand under his chin, turned his face so that he looked into her eyes.

"I am not asking you to change for me, Severus. I wouldn't want you to be anything but what you are. And I'm not asking you to divulge dangerous secrets or to relive your past for the sake of my understanding. I just want to know you--as you are now."

"All right," he said, and then his tone shifted. "But let me take the bloody kettle off the fire first."

When they were seated again, tea in hand, he said, "Ask."

"So what's going on with the Three now?"

He sighed. "We're not sure. I have reconnected with all but one of the men I was working with that night. My closest contact--the one I met in Hogsmeade--is safe, and has written to say that he will let me know when there is any news."

"Do you know these Three? I mean, did you know them before?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me when you hear something?"

A pause. "Yes."

She sipped her tea, debating her next question.

Placing her cup on the table, she drew her feet under her again and said, "Professor Dumbledore said to me once that you thought he was in danger." Ignoring whatever it was he muttered under his breath, she asked, "Can these people reach Hogwarts? Or is it their plan to lure their targets out into the open?"

He looked at her with a mix of surprise and admiration. "I'm not only good at Arithmancy and Potions," she said in her best classroom tone.

The corner of his mouth turned up. "I can see that," he said. "I do believe that Professor Dumbledore is in a modicum of danger. That is to say, I believe that these Three will aim their strike at those whom they believe to have done the most damage to Voldemort before his death. Dumbledore is one of those people."

"And you are another--you and those others who were working from the inside," she said, riveted despite her worry.

"Yes."

"And so you chose to act, rather than react," she added.

"Yes. I could not simply stand by and wait for them to come after me--not when they would target others in the meantime."

She smiled. "So it turns out you aren't so bad after all, Professor Snape."

He scowled, and rose to pace before the hearth. "Hermione, I do not do this because I am a good man. I do this because I have my own grievances to repay. More importantly, I do this because I owe a debt. I was not destroyed by my own proud and foolish choices, and someone gave me a chance to choose again. I resent that, as much as I appreciate it, simply because it is neither fair nor just. And part of the way I keep my resentment at bay is to do the work that I do."

Seeing that she could not frame her next question, he added, "I did not say that it would be possible for me to make you understand me in the span of a single night--only that I would answer your questions." He was serious, but she smiled.

He leaned against the fireplace. The look in his eyes as he gazed at her made her feel everything at once: childish as well as mature, sad and proud, contented and excited, loved and unworthy together.

She sighed. "Don't tell me that you've run out of questions already," he teased.

"No," she said, "I was just thinking how amazing it was that you love me."

He laughed softly. "That, my love, is precisely the word I would choose for it. Amazing, indeed."

Mordred interrupted at that point, but he did not bring any letters. Having fed and watered the owl, Snape sat down again and said, "Ask."

She creased her forehead. "I'm not sure I should ask this one…" she began, and he took her hand.

"I thought you knew," he said gently, "tonight you can ask me anything."

"Why did you join Voldemort in the first place?"

A quick intake of breath. She was worried that she'd crossed a line. Instead, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his jacket and sleeve and pushed them up to reveal the mark on his forearm. It was pale now, but she knew that it would have burned darkly.

Running his index finger over the mark, he answered her. "I will give you the short reply to that question; perhaps--perhaps--I will say more another night. There have been many theories: that I was rejected by a woman or abused as a child, that I wanted revenge or that I sought power. Interestingly enough, nobody assumes I was a believer. But it was nothing so dramatic. Nor was it as simple as 'because they asked me.' I joined Voldemort because the Death Eaters valued what I could do for them, and promised me the chance and the resources to do what I loved. They did not ask me to be polite or politic. Too late I realized that 'valued' translated into 'could make use of.' I made my choice, and within a year, I hated it. I hated them--for their stupidity, their closed-mindedness, for their inability to think for themselves, or to see past the next task that was handed to them. They were weak and foolish, but, banded together, they were a threat. I could not see things being different anywhere else, so I stayed. The longer I stayed, the more I loathed what I had become: a mere toady. And the more I could not imagine anything better. I was smarter and more talented than any of them--and they had no idea what I could do. And once I left them--or rather, decided to stay in a different capacity--I resented not only the fact that I had been given another chance, but that I had screwed up my first one so royally. And I resented the knowledge that I would always carry my failing with me."

He looked her in the eye. "I have always been arrogant, but with good reason." He was not joking. "I have never understood a society that claims to value skill, but in truth worships luck, good looks, and the cult of personality. They grant power and influence to all the wrong people, with only the occasional exception, and then they complain that those people are not what they have made them out to be. Witness our Minister of Magic. And while they claim to forgive, they do not forget."

"And Harry Potter?" she asked softly.

"Harry Potter. He was not the one who drove Voldemort away that night in Godric's Hollow. That credit should have gone to his mother. She was the one who gave her life for his, thus granting him the protection from Voldemort's curse. And yet everyone praised 'the boy who lived.' They wanted a celebrity they could see, not one who was dead."

It wasn't the answer she had expected. "And so, likewise, you hate Harry because of something he didn't do? Or is it that you take out your frustration with society on him because he happens to be here?" She had averted her eyes.

He lifted her chin, and, eyebrow raised, answered, "Believe it or not, I do not hate Harry Potter. Not yet. I hated his father--and his father's friends, though you will be pleased to hear that my hatred for Lupin has…lessened, over the time he has been here. But I am quite willing to hate the son if he continues down the same path his father took. I resent Harry Potter for what he represents, yes. When he was here, I resented the fact that nobody could see that he was an ordinary boy--he held great promise, yes, but he was ordinary. He received every break, every favor, the benefit of every doubt. Like an idiot, he believed his own press. I wanted him to be smarter than he was--to learn not to stake his life on the things other people told him were of value. I wanted him to work to realize his potential away from the Quidditch field, since I knew that Voldemort would continue in his quest to exterminate him. But I haven't the patience to coddle, and Harry Potter would not listen to cold, hard facts. Not from me."

He sighed. "I think I will end my answer there. I will never explain my attitudes and actions concerning Mr. Potter to your satisfaction, and defending myself further will only make me sound petty."

He looked up at her. "I am not, finally, a nice man. Or a good one. I may try to explain myself, but I refuse to make excuses."

She nodded.

"Have you any more questions?"

She smiled, deciding that anything else she wanted to know about his time with the Death Eaters could wait for another time. "I have two more, and they're much easier than the others have been."

He sighed, "Oh, thank the Gods."

She laughed, and moved closer, resting her head on his shoulder again.

"Number one," he said.

"If students drive you insane, why do you keep teaching?"

He chuckled. "Perhaps I am a masochist. Or a sadist. Or both. The truth is that teaching allows me the time to research. Outside of academia, where can you find a job that gives you time off every summer?"

She laughed out loud. "What?" he asked.

"That wasn't the answer I expected."

"What did you expect me to say?"

"Oh, that if you could help just one student to learn something, keep them from making the mistake you made, make them stronger…"

He rolled his eyes. "You forget. I'm too selfish for such a worthy answer."

"I apologize," she replied.

He rested his cheek on the top of her head, and his fingers stroked her arm. "And your last question?" he asked softly.

"Why--if you are so selfish, and stubborn, and bad, and mean, and…"

"I get the point," he interrupted.

"Why do you love me?"

A noise of amazement. "That sounds like something I should ask you."

"But it's not your turn."

A sigh. "I love you because…I love you for your intelligence, your talent, your determination. You are loyal to a fault, and difficult as a rule. You are brave as well as cunning. You are, not least of all, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I love you for your humor, for your innocence, and for your incredible capacity for emotion and sympathy. Most of all, I love you for the way you see the world--as it is, but also as it might be. And your world looks far better than mine ever has."

This chapter also alludes to many of the Snape fics listed in the opening notes, and several others as well. Almost everyone who writes a narrative for Severus addresses certain things: his time with the Death Eaters, his appearance, his attitude towards Harry (I believe I read the bit about his answer on that subject making him seem petty somewhere, but can't find it now), his past with Sirius (et. al.), his family life and/or childhood, etc. It amused me to think Severus might know some of the theories of why he is the way he is. I wanted to address some of those same questions, offering answers in the tone of my own story. Other details will most likely be addressed later, here and there, but these seemed to me to be the questions Hermione would ask immediately, when finally given the chance--and the confidence.

On to Chapter 11