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Chapter Two

“Pathetic,” Severus muttered, shelving the last of his books rather haphazardly. Merlin, but he had it bad. He hated being so on edge. He was finding it increasingly difficult to put aside his feelings in order to be what she needed. An apprentice needed a master, and a proper one.

Even though Hermione had made the vows to him, he still couldn't stop himself from feeling responsible to care for her. His own master had been a crotchety old witch who had ordered him around without any compunction. Merlin forbid he sleep, or have a chance to bathe, let alone eat. It had been entirely unpleasant, yet had at least convinced him to hurry through the apprenticeship at what was nearly record speed. He did not wish to do the same to Hermione.

Although her initial presence had been unwanted, he had taken his duties quite seriously. A master should care for their apprentice, so he did his best to allot time for her to chatter at him. He even tolerated precisely three minutes of conversation a week about Potter. Give or take. Sometimes she slid the boy into the discussion before he caught it. But he tried not to be an arse about it. Tried. He didn't always succeed, but surely the witch knew his temperament.

Severus would make a point to take Hermione on outings to Hogsmeade or the Forbidden Forest, at first ostensibly to acquire ingredients or tomes, when truly he thought she needed air and sun. No sense in her becoming as pale as him, he thought, lest rumours circulate that he'd turned her into a vampire, or some such rot. But their walks had done him some good as well, and frankly he took them now purely to enjoy her company away from the prying eyes of students and staff.

He dismissed her in the evenings at an appropriate hour that would allow her time for whatever leisure she wished to pursue before she slept. He escorted her to meals in the Great Hall, unless they were brewing, in which case he ensured that Winky—the only free elf in the blasted school and therefore the only one to whom she wouldn't try to give ugly knitted... things—brought her a lunch.

Merlin knew Hermione was as prone as he was when it came to getting into a book or project and forgetting to eat.

To his dismay, he'd gained nearly a stone since taking Hermione on. Poppy couldn't help commenting almost weekly on his appearance. Apparently he looked “better” and “healthier”. It was starting to grate on his nerves.

Severus adjusted his cuffs, the row of small buttons liked to warp with the pull of his sleeves, but the dungeons were too cold and he was too lean for him not to wear wool year round. There. He was suitable. Well, his hair wasn't, drying already with the faint sheen of oil that just wouldn't go away, but then that was hardly new, was it?

He threw his teaching robes over his shoulders and strode down the short corridor. His boots made little sound on the stone as he opened the door that led to his office. From there it was simple to enter the corridor and hurry down to Hermione's chamber door. He knocked brusquely, same as he did every morning at precisely five minutes to seven.

Prompt as ever, the door swung inwards, revealing the smiling witch.

His heart nearly stopped. Hermione had put her hair up in a way reminiscent of the dratted Valentine's ball last year when she'd pestered him into accepting a dance with her, and her gaze was clear and happy. Clearly, she had slept well and was in good spirits.

“Good morning, Severus” she said, pulling her apprentice robes on and closing her door behind her. “Did you sleep well?”

“As tolerable as it usually is,” he replied, falling into step with her. Her strides were shorter than his, and he matched them with ease. She studied his face, and he felt the blush creeping up his neck. “And yourself?”

“Wonderfully,” she said with a sigh. “I actually fell asleep right away last night.”

His lips quirked. “Your books must feel neglected.”

Hermione laughed, and he felt the usual surge of pride that he had been the one to elicit the sound. He opened the staff door to the Great Hall, allowing her past him, the scent of vanilla and brown sugar trailing after her. If his nostrils flared and his eyes closed as he inhaled the fragrance, no one knew but him. The constant ache in his chest since he'd pulled out the contract grew, and he quickly hurried to his seat at the table.

“Morning,” Minerva managed, inclining her head. Her brogue was thick, and she was staring daggers at Filius, who was holding the coffee carafe with one hand while chatting to Hagrid. The Headmistress was even less of a morning person than Severus himself.

“Morning, Headmistress, it looks to be a beautiful day,” Hermione said. She had already poured herself a goblet of pumpkin juice, and offered it to Severus out of habit before offering it to Rolanda. He declined; he hated the stuff, always had.

Severus busied himself with serving first Hermione, then plated his own meal.

“Filius,” Minerva finally snapped. “Pass the coffee.”

The diminutive fellow quickly complied—they had all worked with her long enough to realise the imminent danger. Soon, Minerva had a full mug and was offering the carafe to Severus.

“My thanks.”

The students weren't paying mind to the staff, and the noise level in the hall increased as the inhabitants of Hogwarts became more alert through the application of food and caffeine. Even Minerva started in on chitchat. “So, Hermione. Only a few days left. Do you think that you've accomplished everything you've set out to do?”

“Almost, Headmistress,” Hermione replied, leaning forward to speak around Severus. He tried very hard not to stare at the tendril of hair against her pale neck, choosing instead to glare at Mr Forest from Slytherin, who was getting a bit rowdy. “I'm sure that Severus will work me until the very last second. He's quite thorough, not that I mind. I will likely be the best-prepared Healer on record,” she added with a laugh.

Minerva agreed. “Good. You will be a boon to—”

Severus interrupted their conversation as he pushed back from the table. He couldn't bear to hear any more about Hermione leaving him. Them. Hogwarts. “I must prepare for my morning class. Excuse me.”

Heart aching, he hurried out of the room, cloak billowing out behind him like tattered wings.

---

Hermione came into the classroom just after his second class, snagging the essays from the desk. “Here, I'll mark these for you.”

“I can do it,” Severus scowled.

“Of course you can.” She frowned, holding the parchments closer. “I'm helping.”

“I don't—”

“Need my help, I know. You know, I won't think any less of you if you for once just let me do it instead of arguing with me over it.”

“I'm not arguing,” he hissed.

Hermione rolled her eyes, then reached forward and smoothed his hair back. He froze, turned to ice as his blood became molten. Merlin, he could hear his heart. “You are. But you always do, so I don't mind too much.” She dropped her hand and stepped back. Was it his imagination, or were her cheeks slightly pink? “Anyway, I'll have these to you by lunch. What else did you want me to work on this morning? I've finished the Calming Draughts for the NEWT students and delivered them, and I've read up on the jinxes you left on the board, too.”

He frowned. “That was somewhat quicker than I anticipated.”

“Well, this is me, after all.” Hermione idly moved his inkwell slightly to the left. “Did you want lunch in the lab today, or are you actually going to the Great Hall?”

Severus grimaced, sliding his inkwell back. Blasted witch, moving things about to irk him... “I dislike the Hall, as well you know. I am certain I can come up with something for us to brew.”

“I'm out of that conditioner you gave me for Christmas,” she offered hopefully, and he rewarded her with a crooked grin. “But I have just a bit of the shampoo left.”

“Merlin save us if your hair gets free of its confines, then. Anything in particular you desire for lunch?” He paused, but forced himself to continue. “It is your last few days, after all.”

Hermione tilted her head quizzically. “I don't think so, no, but if you want to tell Winky that I'd like some of that spice cake you enjoy so much, go ahead.”

“You enjoy it,” he countered. “I merely sample in order to ensure that my apprentice is being fed adequate meals.”

“Of course,” she replied loftily. “How could I forget? So good of you, Master.”

“Don't be impertinent.”

“Sorry.”

She wasn't, of course, as evidenced by the cheeky grin. He laughed and she flushed pink. “Go,” he urged. “I have the fifth year Ravenclaws and Slytherins next, libidinous little bastards. I look forward to most of them unable to continue next year. Potentially-hazardous potions and hormones are not a combination I particularly enjoy dealing with.”

“Never thought I'd hear you call your House bastards.”

“They're the libidinous ones, the Ravenclaws are the bastards.”

Hermione giggled and headed for the door. “See you at lunch.”

Severus smiled. “Indeed.”

---

“Here. You look like you need it.” Hermione handed him his mug, which she must have stolen from his office and washed, and he glanced down out of habit to confirm that his tea was the proper colour. He took a blissful sip of the hot liquid. Perfect—plenty of sugar with a bit of milk.

Holding the mug like a balm, he sat on the free stool and pulled his lunch tray close. The mug was his favourite, a Christmas gift from her two years prior. It held more tea than the plain white mugs he kept in his kitchen, the handle was large enough for him to grip without burning his knuckles on the rounded sides, it was black, and it was, amusingly, shaped like a cauldron.

He loved the damn thing. It was, quite possibly, the best gift he had ever received. When he'd opened the present and expressed his admiration for the ceramic item, she had smiled and it was as if someone had lit his own private sun. The unexpected knowledge that he loved her, had done so for a while, scorched his soul as he gave name to the emotion.

The struggle he'd been facing in regards to how to deal with his bright apprentice, the way he felt responsible for her, the way he cared, had crashed down around him in a single breathless moment. She drove him insane, made him laugh, made him angry and inspired... and it was all he could do not to say the words on a daily basis.

But masters did not fall in love with their apprentices. They were to guide and teach and aid, not seduce.

“I've finished most of the essays,” she said, unknowingly interrupting his reverie. Hermione picked up the second half of her sandwich, biting into it and chewing thoughtfully. “I have to know, was I ever as bad as Alecott?”

Severus snorted. “Only taken you a term and a half to ask, I'm impressed.” He looked at her over the top of his reading glass, smirking. “You, Miss Granger, were considerably worse.”

“Was I? Dear Merlin. I'm sorry.”

“Allow me to correct myself. You were not worse.” Hermione perked, but he spoke again. “You are worse.”

She scowled, reaching across the work table to swat at him. “Git.”

He inclined his head in mocking surrender. “But the content of your work has greatly improved. The length is the same, and while you do still tend to regurgitate what you have read, you are also applying original thought.”

Hermione patted his arm, something undefinable in her brown eyes. “Thank you, Severus. That means the world to me.”

---

Hermione pulled the second stack of essays closer and inked her quill. Severus was sitting off to her side, eating his lunch, and she relished in his quiet company. She was going to miss this when her apprenticeship was through.

And it would be disastrous if she flubbed the teeny tiny chance she had with him.

What would she do without these moments in his laboratory? The fumes rising from the gold cauldron where his experimental brew simmered—something she couldn't comprehend and even Severus himself only had a vague notion of how it would turn out—gave the room an almost ethereal atmosphere. The workbooks and journals lined neatly along the top of the wall, ink-stained and worn, were as familiar to her now as the lines of his face.

It was her third, well, fifth, favourite room in the castle. Maybe fourth. She did like her room, but not as much as the laboratory. And maybe she could knock the Great Hall down a notch, but not the library, or Severus's quarters.

She was so engrossed with marking a particularly lengthy essay that she barely registered when Severus packed away his things to go. She wouldn't have noticed him leaving at all if he hadn't dropped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed gently.

The touch thrilled her, as did the smile he bestowed upon her when she looked up at him.

Elated, Hermione bent to her task once more, the door closing softly behind him with a swish of his robes along the stone floor.

---

His head aching from pulling more memories, Severus sat nursing a mug of tea at his desk. The hour was late, but he had managed to finish all of the marking for his classes. The NEWT students had managed to produce passable brews today, a pleasant surprise. Maybe he was getting through to the little blighters after all.

Picking up the checklist written in his cramped, spidery script, he looked it over.

Had he given his apprentice proper care, ensuring she ate and slept? He certainly thought so. She seemed healthy enough, and well-rested when she didn't get wrapped up in a book. Had he attended to her basic emotional needs? Severus knew he had tried. He wasn't the most approachable of men, but he had attempted to wrangle his temper where she was concerned. It even worked, for the most part. He crossed those two off the list, moving on.

Severus was fairly knowledgeable across various subjects, but knew he truly excelled when it came to Potions, and his passion for the Dark Arts was nearly unmatched by any alive... who were on the side of the Light, that is.

Had he passed her the proper knowledge? Yes. There could be no doubt. She knew how to brew every healing ointment, salve, draught, tincture, oil, and any other variation thereof (that was not Dark, though few were debatable) that were up to just under a Mastery level. She knew which brews she could combine without any ill effects. She had learned his own personal healing chants, could reverse several hexes, curses, and jinxes.

For a witch who was ill-suited to Potions, she was, at least, able to follow directions. Hermione was powerful with her magic, capable of dogged research and stubborn focus, so her reversals were excellent.

She would, in short, be an excellent Healer. St Mungo's would be lucky to have her. And yet...how difficult it was to admit to the wild thought that Healer-green robes would suit her!

He didn't want to let her go. He wanted to keep her as his apprentice, for he knew no way to pursue her once she was gone. As her master he could not approach her, but she would at least be here, with him... Or would it be less painful for her to go, leaving him with his memories?

Absently, he rubbed his sternum where the constant ache lived. No, he could not do that. She was ready. There was nothing more he could teach her without delving into the Dark Arts, and he did not wish to corrupt her with those. Not that she wasn't capable, he told himself, but despite her own malicious streak, Hermione was, at heart, a good woman. And he did not wish to darken her light. He only wished her happiness.

Severus stared down at the parchment, took a fortifying gulp of hot tea, and crossed out the line firmly. All of the lines were crossed.

He had no choice. She was ready. He'd have to sign his name in four days' time.

---

“It's a Hogsmeade weekend!” Hermione announced, bouncing excitedly into his sitting room unannounced. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling. “Want to go?”

Severus frowned, flipping his newspaper down. “In this cold? You must be joking.”

“Oh, come on. We went for a walk in this yesterday.”

“In the Forbidden Forest, relatively near the warmth of the castle should we have wished to escape the chill.”

“I'm a grown witch and perfectly capable of keeping you warm.” Only long practice kept his eyebrows from shooting into his hairline at the possible innuendo.

“I suppose it would be churlish of me to disregard your kind offer and be your escort,” he said smoothly. The newspaper was folded and put to the side, and he pulled the warm albeit lumpily-knit blanket from his lap. “I'll just fetch my cloak...”

Severus woke from the memory-dream rather rudely; the alarm indicating when one of his House needed him was shrilling far too loudly. How had he slept through it for so long? He nearly leapt from his bed, tugging trousers on under his grey nightshirt and shoving his arms into his dressing gown and his feet into slippers. Wand lit, he hurried down the corridor.

He barked the password and the door swung open, revealing a ring of students shifting anxiously in the Common Room. A few turned at his entrance, moving their fellows aside, but most were centered on the two figures on the ground.

“What happened?” he snapped. Hermione looked up at him, never stopping in her quiet chanting, but she made room for him next to the trembling student. Severus touched his wand to hers, linking himself into her diagnostics.

“We don't know,” Miss Honeycreek said. She was one of the Prefects, and her lips were in a thin line. “Baxter came back to the room like this. I was waiting up for him—he was out past curfew when we did the bed check. His dormmates aren't talking, either.”

“Summon an Elf to fetch Madam Pomfrey immediately.”

The girl hurried to do his bidding, and he turned back to his student. The boy was incapable of speech, his throat swollen.

“Look at me, Mister Keene,” Severus growled. He kept his touch on the boy's chin light. “Think on what happened. Are we clear? Excellent. Legilimens.”

Using Legilimency on students, especially a second year, was not something he did lightly, but he needed answers quickly. Hermione was keeping him alive, but without a second wand or knowledge of what precisely ailed the boy, the lack of progress could prove fatal, and Poppy was too far away.

Severus made the mental connection, relieved his student trusted him enough to not only comply, but also to focus on the events. He was surprised to find that no attack had taken place, and broke the connection. “Allergic reaction, went unnoticed. Fell afoul of Peeves on his way back.”

Hermione nodded, changing her spell's focus. He cast reversals for the poltergeist's mischief as quickly as he could, and heard Keene take a sudden, grateful gasp. From the corner of his eye he saw Hermione relax slightly and she switched spells, coaxing the food that had made the boy sick from his system.

They had the situation under control and Severus had ordered his House to return to their beds, reassured all would be well, when Poppy bustled in, her wispy grey hair neatly plaited and her crisp floral dressing gown flaring behind her. The matron dropped her bag to the floor. “What do we have, Severus?”

“Merely an allergic reaction now,” he replied. “Hermione and I have undone what Peeves did already.”

“Good.” Poppy searched her bag, coming up with a phial of pale yellow liquid. In his private opinion, it looked like urine, and he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose in empathy for his student. “Open and drink. Severus, I will need you to brew Mister Keene a week's doses of Borago tincture, to assist with his breathing.”

“Of course.” He rose smoothly to his feet and assisted first Poppy, then Hermione as well. Poppy Conjured a stretcher and Levitated it. “Hermione, you may return to your rooms.”

“I—”

Severus gave her as kind a look as he could manage, feeling slightly ridiculous in his nightclothes now that the urgency had passed. “We will manage from here. You require rest.”

Her brown eyes looked troubled, but she nodded. “Of course.”

Poppy led the way from the Dungeons, Keene floating along behind her.

---

Exhausted, Severus paused in his entryway. Was that...sobbing? Bloody hell, had Myrtle gotten in here again? He thought that he had warded his rooms sufficiently after that rather unsettling encounter after a painful curry experience... He drew his wand and strode forward, but the scowl faded when he saw his apprentice curled up on his settee, crying into the lumpy blanket she'd knitted for him (if only so she could read in his rooms in warmth). She was surrounded by the contents of three different shelves, along with a mound of books he was fairly certain came from her own rooms.

“Hermione?”

She lifted her tear-and-ink-stained face and wiped ineffectually at her cheeks, pushing crumpled parchments from her lap. “Sorry, I know I shouldn't be in here at this hour. How is he?”

“He is recovered. There will be some lingering respiratory concerns, but that will be easily remedied enough with potions. And now Mister Keene knows not to sneak into the kitchens for macarons.” A moment's hesitation and he crossed to her, sitting on the free settee cushion, nudging books out of the way with his foot. “Is there a reason for the tears?”

“Yes and no,” she hedged. She searched her pockets fruitlessly, and Severus handed her his own handkerchief. He grimaced as she blew her nose rather loudly, the quill jammed into her hair quivering. “I'm just... I don't think you should sign the contract.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I'm so sorry to have wasted your time,” Hermione added, sniffling again. “But I... I don't think I'm ready.”

“And why not?” Severus demanded, his voice harsh. What in the devil was she talking about? Hermione was one of the most well-prepared people he had ever met! She blushed, turning away from his intense gaze. Clearly, the witch was embarrassed...

“I froze,” she whispered. “I didn't think to check for an allergy or the source. I was just trying to keep him alive. I should have done more. I've been trying to figure out what I've done wrong, but all I can come up with is that the error is me.”

“Merlin help me.” Severus rolled his eyes and pulled her into an awkward seated embrace. “You did not fail,” he told her gruffly. “You did the right thing. Had you taken the time to do any further diagnostics, it may have rendered him unable to swallow the potion and he would no longer be amongst the living, as I'm certain even your tomes would tell you.”

She sniffled into his shoulder.

“Hermione, even Poppy would have done the same. She would have sent for Minerva or myself if I was not already present—and thank Merlin you heard the alarm before it woke me.” He tried to gentle his voice as he spoke, yet knowing he had to force the next words past his lips was torment. “You are indeed ready, Hermione. You will make an excellent Healer. The books cannot tell you everything, only experience will. Now cease your emotional outburst so I may pick a fight with you over not sending for me when you realised you were first to the Common Room.”

The last was deliberately said to make her laugh and she did, sitting up and dabbing at her eyes. “You're terrible at comforting.”

“As it happens, I am well aware of that, even though it's not in a book.” Hermione smiled at him. Her nose was red and her cheeks blotchy; she was not one who could cry prettily. But then, honest tears were rarely attractive.

“I meant to send for you,” she said softly. “But I knew you would come. Just because I heard it first didn't mean you weren't coming.”

Severus Conjured a glass and filled it with cool water, handing it to her. “Drink.”

They sat together a while longer, chatting companionably after she'd insisted on going back over the situation to decide where she could improve. It was proving difficult to keep his eyes appropriately on her face, and he'd taken to glancing at the walls, the bookshelves... anything. He finally registered that she was wearing a long pink dressing gown over black pyjama bottoms and a violet scoop-necked top along with ratty slippers that must have begun their lives imitating some sort of animal until she'd relaxed, her confidence restored.

And, of course, he'd held her, foolish man that he was. Now he knew the scent of her skin, the warmth of her body against his, the contours of her form.

“I should probably head back to bed,” Hermione said suddenly. Severus blinked; damn, he'd been staring at the clock. Had he inadvertently sent a signal for her to leave? He must have, for she was rising and thanking him for his time.

Struggling with words that wouldn't come, Severus escorted her to the door. Hermione turned to him in her bedraggled footwear and pretty pink robe, her bushy hair mussed and curling down her shoulders. “Oh... Severus?”

Unwilling to trust himself to speak, he merely raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

She gave him a hesitant smile, her fingers curling around the edge of his door; his heart nearly stopped. What was that look in her eyes? “You are wonderful at comforting.”

---