A/N: This was written for fun, not profit. I don't claim to own anything pertaining to Harry Potter etc. That aside, this is my first SS/HG fic. I thought I would start with something small, so let me know what you think.

Hermione was curled in the armchair by the fire, her posture mimicking that of her cat, Crookshanks, who was sleeping beside her. Severus quietly closed the door behind himself. Seeing her there, softly snoring in the chair, brought a slight smile to his lips. The smile spread into a grin when he spied the books piled at her side as well as the one dangling precariously from her slack fingers. She was nothing if not predictable. Silently, he moved to her side and slipped the book from her hands, debating whether to wake her or not. As much as he relished seeing her beautiful eyes looking up at him, he chose not to wake her in order to avoid the inevitable questioning that always followed his return.

Severus summoned a quilt from the next room; it soared through the open bedroom door and into his outstretched hands. Unfolding it, he carefully placed it across her, pulling it snugly up to her chin. He gently ran a hand across her cheek and down her slightly frizzy hair. On their good days, days unlike today, they would often joke about their unsightly hair, but secretly he loved hers. While his was greasy and lanky, hers was so frizzy it almost seemed alive.

Hermione murmured and twitched a bit before settling back down. He waited to make sure she was calm before moving away and heading for the shower.

“Severus?” said a soft voice.

He paused and turned to her. “Yes, it’s me.” Walking back, he knelt down beside her, his hands once again running through her hair.

“Mmmm… you weren’t going to just leave me here, were you?” she chastised as she peered up at him.

“I should think that you are more than capable of seeing yourself to bed. It’s not my fault you chose to sleep in a chair.”

Hermione sat up and glared at him. “There is no need to be rude, Severus.” Her eyes narrowed as she took in his torn and bloody clothes. “You’re hurt!” She jumped up, startling a hiss out of Crookshanks.

Hermione’s hands slid over his arms and chest, searching for the source of the blood covering him. Severus neatly sidestepped her. “It’s not mine,” he said.

Her eyes met his and he could read the questions in them. He knew she would ask; she always asked. Hermione was already involved too much in this war as far as he was concerned, and he refused to elaborate on the details of his missions as a Death Eater. She knew he wouldn’t share with her, but every time he came home, she asked.

“Severus…” she began.

“No, Hermione.”

She moved closer to him and brought her arms up to rest at the back of his neck. “Please, Severus. You need to talk about this.” She stroked her fingers in small soothing circles.

For just a moment, Severus allowed himself to enjoy her ministrations. This was what had been missing from his life; finally, he had someone that cared about him. Not just because he was intelligent, not just because he was useful, but simply because he was Severus Snape. She claimed to care about him, no…love him, not despite his failings but because of them—because they were part of him. Severus knew better. She had no idea what type of man he really was, and he intended to keep it that way. It was selfish of him—undeniably selfish, but he didn’t care. Hermione was his and he would do to keep from losing her. So no matter how many times she insisted that she understood why he had to do the horrible things he did and reassured him that nothing could prevent her from loving him, he wouldn’t tell her the truth.

He pulled out of her embrace and moved several feet away, the armchair acting as a shield between them. “No!” he shouted. “Let it be. Let me be.”

“Severus, I care about you. I love you. Just let me help…” she pleaded.

He tightly closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten in an attempt to control his anger. Opening them again, he turned and faced her. She had to understand why he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t keep having this argument night after night. It was a moment before he spoke, “Do you really want to know?” Severus advanced on her quickly, stopping just short of running her over. He peered down at Hermione with a familiar sneer on his face. “You think you have seen so much.” he enunciated, his tone grave, “just because you and your little friends ran around and pretended to be heroes for a few years. You haven’t actually seen anything.”

“That’s unfair! Harry, Ron, and I—”

“Where are the Chosen One and his little red haired sidekick now?” he asked. He knew the words would hurt her. He chose them for that purpose, hoping she would take up the mantle of defender and leave his activities out of it for now, but Hermione didn’t take the bait.

“Goad me all you want, Severus. Harry and Ron were two of the bravest and most honorable people that have ever lived. They fought and died for the freedom of the wizarding world. Nothing you can say will take that away from them. This isn’t about them, and it’s not about me. It’s about you.”

Severus wasn’t a fool. This wasn’t about him; it was about her and her damn insatiable curiosity. How dare she turn this around and pretend that she was just trying to help him? He didn’t need a therapist; he needed a shower and some peace and quiet. He paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, a path already worn there from so many nights like this one.

“Do you really want to know what I do?” he asked. “On almost a daily basis, I do unspeakable things to innocent Muggles, witches and wizards. Do you want to hear about how they scream and beg me for mercy? How I can show them none? Their deaths, their pain serves a greater purpose. But do you really think that fact is any comfort to them or to me as I…” Taking a deep breath, he spoke again, this time in a voice no more than a whisper. “You can’t know the atrocities I have committed. Even if I told you, it would do no good. A heart and soul as good as yours couldn’t even imagine the pain I have inflicted.”

“I’m not some innocent little school girl that needs to be protected. Is that what you really think of me, Severus?” Hermione asked as she rounded the chair to stand in front of him. “I don’t need your protection. I need to know the truth. I deserve to know everything about the man I love, the man who claims to love me.”

He looked into her eyes and upon seeing the tears just beginning to form there, he almost relented. Why couldn’t she understand that he did love her? It was his job to protect her, even if he was only protecting her from himself. Perhaps once this was all over he would tell her, but right now he needed her. She was the only thing that kept him going. If Voldemort won . . . Severus refused to even think about what would happen to her. “Hermione, I—”

“No! Damn it, Severus! No more excuses. I just want you to tell me about tonight. That’s all I want. We’ll just start with tonight.”

“You’ve no right to ask that of me,” he responded.

“I have every right.”

“It would be wise for you to refrain from asking me any more questions.”

“Or what? You’ll show me what you do to those innocent people. You’ll use those Death Eater tactics on me?” she asked.

Severus froze, a sneer sliding off his face and a wall closing over his eyes. “No.”

“I’m sorry that was uncalled for … I just want to help you.” Hermione moved in closer to him and once again wrapped her arms around his neck. “Rumor has it that I’m quite intelligent, Severus. Aside from that, despite what you believe, I have seen a lot in my life. I’m not afraid of what you’ll tell me and I’m certain I won’t faint dead away with shock from it. I’ve a good idea what you have to do.”

She may be right, he thought, but having a good idea of what he did and actually knowing what he did were two very different things. No, he couldn’t tell her, no matter how many times she asked or how many tears she shed. He didn’t care if she sat right there and outlined in detail every dastardly deed he had ever committed; there was no way in hell he would ever confirm it. She may have her suspicions, perhaps even some sprinkling of fact due to her work, but he would do his best to make sure she never actually heard from his lips what he did.

Severus pulled out of her arms. “I will never taint you with that knowledge,” he said before turning to the bathroom. Without glancing back, he closed the door behind him with a soft click. He wasn’t surprised to hear the frustrated cry that followed in his wake, or the bang on the bathroom door as an object was hurled at it.



***




Hermione glared at the closed door, barely resisting the urge to kick it like a petulant child. Closed doors, she thought. It was just like him, always shutting her out. Chasing after him would do no good; the only result would be a continuation of the conversation they had just had—Hermione pleading and reasoning, and Severus refusing to budge an inch. The whole process was futile. With an indignant huff, Hermione picked up the quilt that had fallen to the floor and resumed her seat in front of the fire.

Their relationship was a rocky one; both of them were well aware of it. It was a relationship borne out of circumstance first and foremost. The entire wizarding world had been in an uproar since Harry’s downfall at the hands of Voldemort. Muggle-born witches and wizards fled Britain, many of them heading to America or Australia, places that were out of Voldemort’s reach. That, however, was a temporary solution. Every day Voldemort’s power grew as the death toll climbed steadily higher. The Ministry was essentially powerless and most of the Order had been killed or captured.

The remaining members of the Order were still fighting despite the loss of Harry. It had taken a lot to convince them that Severus was less than guilty of murdering Dumbledore. Less than guilty was the best way to describe it since Severus had indeed cast the Killing Curse ending the Headmaster’s life, but once the true circumstances were brought to light, Severus had been grudgingly welcomed back into his role as a spy. This time, though, Voldemort was completely unaware of it—well, almost completely. Voldemort knew about Hermione.

With deception that only Severus was capable of, he had managed to convince Voldemort that Hermione was his pet, a tool to be used to further the Dark Lord’s cause. It was for this reason only that she was still alive. Voldemort believed that Hermione was passing along information to Severus—information about the Order and the Ministry. Voldemort believed that Severus was controlling Hermione through a combination of seduction and Imperio.

To Hermione, that ploy was laughable. To Voldemort, however, Hermione was just some weak Mudblood witch that was easy to control and was only allowed to live while she remained useful. These were the circumstances that had thrown Hermione and Severus together. Voldemort insisted that Hermione live with Severus so that Severus could keep a close watch on her. He thought their living arrangement was hidden from the Order; after all, now that Harry was dead, what use did they have for his little Mudblood friend? Severus had successfully planted the idea into Voldemort’s head that the Order gave Hermione bits of information—that they talked in front of her like she wasn’t even there. So, for the time being, Hermione was useful to Voldemort. This was the situation Severus and Hermione were now in. Through communal living the two had grown fond of each other, and from there, love took firm hold.

Hermione wasn’t so foolish that she didn’t realize the unhealthy nature of their relationship. On paper, the match seemed compatible, but in reality, things weren’t so simple. The argument they had just had was evidence of that. Try as she might, she couldn’t get through to him. She couldn’t make him understand that she loved him in part because of what he did almost daily. Severus wasn’t evil and she knew that. Oh, he could be cruel, in fact he usually was cruel, but cruel and evil were two very different things.

She knew Severus didn’t believe that she was trying to help him, but she was. No man could do what he had to do and not be dramatically affected by it, and no man should have to go through that without a confidant. He did the things he did because he had to—the fight was too important not to do them.

She knew what he did, even if he wouldn’t actually tell her. She read the newspaper and the Auror reports Kingsley supplied to the Order. These reports were detailed and very graphic, and since she was charged with cataloguing and maintaining all the records for the Order, she had reviewed every single one. What Severus didn’t know was that she had also read every one of the reports he filed explaining his activities. Hermione knew everything about every mission Severus had been on since he started working for the Order. He had insisted they be kept from everyone except Kingsley, but Hermione was record keeper, so Kingsley had discreetly passed the files on to her after Hermione vowed never to breathe a word of what she knew.

Severus was wrong about Hermione merely being curious. She asked him because he needed to be asked. He needed to know that someone cared for him—that someone would be willing to share his pain. She would never stop asking and she desperately hoped that one day he would tell her.

A while later, she heard the bathroom door ease open. She turned in her chair and studied Severus, his face shadowed due to the bright lights of the bathroom. His shoulders were hunched and his head was down, a posture far from his usual.

“I’m retiring for the evening,” he said.

Hermione rose from the chair, the quilt wrapped around her shoulders and walked over to him. She placed one hand on his cheek and leaned in, kissing him gently on the lips. “I’ll go with you.”

He took her hand and led her to the bedroom. Their fight was finished for now, but both knew that next time, she would ask again.