characters are the creation and intellectual property of j. k. rowling. no profit is derived from this work of fan fiction.

Rated PG-13
 
 

the unspeakable universe: this lover
 

June 2007
before "The Waiting Room"
 
 

Above all, she owned books. Thousands upon thousands of books, but no novels. He asked her about it one day.

"I do read novels," she said, "but not often. They're ... false." Her voice was disdainful.

"You have a moral objection to fiction?"

"I've never found a novel that reflected my understanding of reality."

"Your understanding."

She gave him a quick smile. "Non-fiction is real, or at least verifiable. Fiction is ... undisciplined."

He understood that, at least.
 

***
 

Summer came four months after the beginning of their relationship. He was given to understand that Hermione shared a flat in London with Ginny Weasley, but, "We come and go a lot. No questions asked, what with our line of work. It's just a place to stay."

"A place to keep your books."

She laughed. "I think that most of them can stay in my office over the summer. But yes, a place to keep things."

"I have a house at Essex," he said. "A cottage, really ... it's rather extraordinary country." Marshes and beaches, torn by the wild weather. He had an image of her standing on a beach, wearing loose robes, hair wild around her face. His venefica docta, like the Roman witches he'd studied in his youth.

"Do you have a library?"

"I have books."

She licked her lips and watched a group of excited sixth years trip through the Entrance Hall. "I might come and visit you," she said.
 

***
 

It was never his intention to conduct an affair with a colleague, let alone a former student. Especially not this former student. There were a million reasons why this was a bad idea. She was young enough to be his daughter. She was his Deputy Headmistress. She was one of Harry Potter's best friends. She was Ron Weasley's ex-lover.

She was brilliant, and she had learnt to temper brilliance with reserve. She was powerful. She was lovely.

Far too lovely for him.

Remus Lupin would find out. Neville Longbottom would find out.

Sirius Black would find out.

She had thick, messy hair that tumbled down her back and wrapped itself around his hands when he released it from its coronet of braids.

The Department of Mysteries would find out.

The Department of Mysteries always found out. Everything.
 

***
 

Naturally, they were discreet. There was an incident, in the dungeons: hands clasped over a cauldron, Lupin entering without knocking.

Lupin almost certainly knew, but he understood discretion. Hiring the werewolf hadn't been Snape's decision, but Lupin hadn't betrayed them yet.
 

***
 

Once, he had been a Death Eater; he'd embraced anarchy and destruction with all the enthusiasm of a young man who truly believed that he was valuable for nothing else.

Once, he had been a sobbing penitent, collapsed on the floor in Dumbledore's office, abandoned by dignity and pride alike.

Once, he had been a spy. A teacher. A sinister figure lurking in the dungeons, feared by students and respected, but not liked, by colleagues.

Once, he had been a prisoner, and he'd emerged from that dungeon a different man. A damaged man, a living man.

He had survived. He hadn't expected that, and even with his mutilated hand, he was ... jubilant. And then Minerva had been killed, and he had become a Headmaster.

The Headmaster.

Now he was a lover, touching and touched by a young woman who regarded him with, of all things, affection. And she was strong, and powerful, and even damaged, because she'd spent a week in Lucius Malfoy's dungeon, and that was enough to scar any seventeen year old.

Damaged, but resilient.

He respected that.

He liked that.
 

***
 

He loved her.

A strange realisation, for a man who'd once declared that love was nothing more than the respectable face of lust, who grown up thinking of sex as a particularly fun form of manipulation. A strange realisation for a man who'd spent nearly twenty years in a dungeon, allowing the taint of the Mark and his own innate Darkness to express themselves in the form of an ill-temper, a sarcastic tongue, a bitter mind.

Seventeen years in a dungeon, it was true, but there'd been nearly a decade of healing since.

And her.

Because she had slender, graceful hands that constructed a potion with a competence he found more desirable than any conscious attempt at seduction.

Because she had a hunger for learning, a lust for knowledge that he shared.

Because once, when he'd been damaged and mutilated, and reeling from Minerva's death, she had sought him out, and they'd spent that year in the dungeons, simply grieving and learning together.

Because once, he'd been there when Potter and Black pulled her out of Malfoy Manor, and she'd allowed him to stay by her side even after her parents had been turned away.

Because he understood, a little.

Enough.

Enough that, after ten days of silence, she'd finally looked up at him and spoke. Lucius had never raped her, had never even touched her, but she'd spent a week in his dungeons hearing his whispered threats, and his voice was as damaging as any physical attack.

And yet, she had survived.
 

***
 

"You must understand," she said after the first time she kissed him, "that this isn't the culmination of a childhood crush."

They were standing in the staff common room. It was two am, and they were completely alone.

"I can assure you, Hermione, such a thought has never crossed my mind."

He'd never addressed her by her first name before. It had always been Granger, Miss Granger, Professor Granger.

Hermione.

"I just thought we should be clear on that," she said. "We are both adults, after all."

"And your friends?"

"They don't need to find out immediately."
 

***
 

The Department of Mysteries found out, naturally.

"It was an error of judgment," said King quietly. He always spoke quietly, and when he was angry, two red spots appeared in his otherwise pale face.

"It's a personal matter," he said.

"Granger is your subordinate. And you are mine." There was an unspoken threat: And I am on the Board of Governors, and I can have you dismissed.

Checks and balances. Who watches the watchers?

"I tell you, Snape, if this is an attempt for the Order to gain power in the Department, you will not continue in your current position for long."

Because the Order of the Phoenix and the Department of Mysteries were bonded, yet separate, and the Order was powerful. It was an uneasy division of power: he had Hogwarts, Black had the Order, King had the Department. And Potter: part of it all, yet separate and powerful in his own right, a man with a loyal friend who straddled the Order, the Department and Hogwarts.

King feared them, and hated them, because he wasn't part of the Order. But to suggest that he would manipulate Hermione simply for the sake of politics ...

It was hardly unthinkable to his cynical Slytherin mind, but it was impractical, and absurd, and wrong, and he fumed about it for days.
 

***
 

"It can hardly be unprecedented," said Hermione, lying in his bed. Soon, she would have to dress and return to her own rooms, but for now, they were warm and comfortable and together. "Relationships between Headmasters and staff."

"Certainly not."

"I mean, in the eighteenth century the Heads of Houses were two married couples."

He wound a strand of hair around his fingers. "It's not unprecedented."

"I always wondered about Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall."

"They were just good friends."

She rolled her eyes. "Severus..."

"But Madam Pomfrey was another matter all together."

"Poppy? She and Dumbledore--?" Hermione frowned. "I suppose it makes sense. She was never intimidated by him. But ... she's never said ... she's never even hinted..."

"No, they were very private." But they'd been together, that stormy summer night when he'd decided to throw everything away, to gamble his future on the chance that Dumbledore might see something, anything worthwhile in him. Because death was too easy, and he needed a penance, and Dumbledore needed information. They'd been together, and he'd understood, and he'd said nothing until now.

"She must miss him."

"I ... don't know."

Poppy never confided in him, and he never pressed.

"She was thirty years younger than he," he added.

She smiled ruefully. "They seemed equally old when I was eleven."
 

***
 

Sometimes she seemed almost painfully young, but at other times she had an ageless quality, a combination of wisdom and curiosity.

She visited him over summer, and he watched her on the beach, dancing away from the waves. She wore a short Muggle dress, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Wet sand and mud clung to her feet, and her dress was dirty. She was far from his image of a venefica docta, and she was far, far too young for him.

And yet he loved her anyway, and every time she left, he wondered if she'd come back.

She raided his bookshelves, sniffing disdainfully at the wizarding novels he owned. She borrowed his books, large piles of volumes. He never lent his books, but he let her take them, because it was a reason for her to return.
 
 

end
 

venefica docta: Latin; technically "learned witch", but with overtones of poison. Appropriate, since Hermione is teaching Potions, yes?