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Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
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- 6
A/N: Hey there, just a shameless plug for another story. If you read ‘Doing it for the Order’ and enjoyed it, the story has been nominated for ‘Best Hermione Characterisation’ in the Haven Awards. If you would like to vote for DIFTO and some other fantastic stories including a few by the lovely OracleObscured please follow this link https://goo.gl/forms/afELVBndMJgT0fyf2. Thank you for your support, DSxx
OO – ‘And it seems to have awakened her hope’ – yes, we all need a little reminder that we’re not totally shit sometimes ;) ‘No! Give into it. That's intuition knocking at your nuts.’ – hahah! This made me laugh so much. ‘Baaaah! What the fuck does that mean!?’ – yessss, more Baaah moments and WTFs! ‘I look forward to more misunderstandings and revelations’ – plenty more to come of both!
Kvarta – ‘She's downright annoying, giving me ideas when I should be focusing on my work’ – actually that’s a good point. I don’t need anything more distracting me from my work at the moment. ‘Meeting a girl like that must be thrilling but also painful’ – yes, as you point out, she’s lost a lot of that innocent hopefulness and not by her own choice. ‘Do you have to be so cruel?’ – of course I do, just so that you can love him that little bit more x. ‘But, they are both damaged profoundly, so...this is going to be...difficult’ – you might be correct in forecasting a few torrid times ahead. ‘But that's it, whatever it is...they are, in fact, two sides of the same coin’ – yessss, I love your way with words. ‘And yeah, it is a truth, the weaknesses and faults we hate in others are usually the ones we hate in ourselves.’ – Absolutely, more wisdom J. ‘she detected yet another weakness he has’ – nice pick-up, more about that in this chapter. ‘still not hurrying you - take your time’ – thank you, I’m taking this much more slowly and just enjoying drifting away on the words. Hugs and kisses to you. <3
Rosajean – Lovely to hear from you. So pleased you are enjoying this one. Now updated ;)

Chapter 5 – Now and Then
Moonlight drapes across his pale leg, washes over his stomach turning the fine hairs silver, and ends in a milky sash across one scarred shoulder. The rest of him lies in darkness, all except the shine of his eyes, unblinking as they consider the vast nothingness beyond his high windows.
The same thoughts that had roiled around inside his scrambled brain after he’d been transferred from St Mungo’s to Hogwarts now return. Whilst they make more sense all these years later, the disquiet that they bring remains the same.
He can still feel her hands. Small. Impossibly soft. Touching. Soothing. Squeezing reassurance into his.
On most days those hands had belonged to Poppy Pomfrey—at least in his mind. He remembers the fog of immeasurable gratitude he projects to the Mediwitch from behind the bolted shutters of his eyelids, but also the vague surprise at her tender bedside manner which, on past occasions, had always been rather brusque.
On other days those hands had been Lily’s. They were children together, lying under the fluttering leaves of the vast tree, hands locked in solidarity. It was just the two of them against the world, making something innocently beautiful, something hope-filled where none had previously existed. On those days he clung to her desperately, sensing with wild, indefinable panic that he might otherwise lose her.
On his worst days those hands had been his mother’s. He’d wept and they had comforted him. His mother had allowed his emotions to be; his father had not. Those hands had caressed his forehead, his cheeks, his hands, soothing the tension but never shamefully wiping away the evidence. They were encouraging him to release. And he had.
But when he’d discovered their true owner—the person to whom those hands belonged; when her voice had sounded clearly for the first time after months of muted echoes; when the tangled knots of space and time had finally coalesced into some sort of meaning—he had cast her out. With every ounce of energy he had spurned her. Throat hoarse from the effort he’d screamed, demanding that she leave and never return. And she had . . . until now.
He sighs heavily, eyes roving over his own naked form, scanning the familiar pits and burrs of his torrid existence.
The foundations for his fury were there—lurking in the shame and embarrassment of what she had seen—the understanding that, unbeknownst to him, she had witnessed all that he had spent his life desperately attempting to hide.
One didn’t button oneself to within an inch of respiratory failure unless one had a reason to do so. And his ravaged body was testament to his infinite reasons—though carelessly laid bare during his convalescence.
But troubling him more was the personal nature of what he’d potentially disclosed—rambling references to his difficult past, his fears, his sadness, his . . . desires. He would never have allowed her to be there if he’d had the choice. The fact that it had been done involuntarily, sanctioned by a meddling Headmistress looking to further the employability of her favourite, had aggrieved him no end.
But their conversation earlier that day had nonetheless shaken him—the revelation of her involvement in his legal proceedings. It was likely that Minerva had attempted to explain that intention to him all those years ago but he’d been well beyond reasoning by that stage.
While he is now tempted to speculate that the girl’s contributions to his subsequent acquittal and Order of Merlin were minimal—he knows that is unlikely to be the case. No doubt her efforts were thoroughly researched and brilliantly argued. Indeed, he’d never seen her produce a piece of work that wasn’t.
He stares the moon full-in-the-face and delivers another wretched sigh.
From every angle it unfortunately looks the same. Perhaps he does owe her.
***
As Hermione steps into the staffroom she is accosted—Pomona Sprout’s mad curls frame a round face beaming in that familiar, but slightly unhinged, way. Hermione immediately wonders at Minerva’s involvement in this sudden about-face but then the older woman takes her by the arm and she cringes inwardly, recognising it as simply a kind and spontaneous show of interest, but simultaneously having to summon every ounce of her self-control not to pull away.
Professor Sprout doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to guide her toward two chairs by the window as she relates some very nice things that Hermione unfortunately can’t respond to as she is too focused upon attempting to turn her face away from the excruciating glare without appearing rude.
On their way, they pass that familiar wall of newspaper signifying the presence of only one other in the room. The black legs beneath are elegantly crossed. She has seen them far less elegant—askew and tangled in bedsheets, writhing in pain.
She wonders at how much he knows of what she knows. It is a conundrum that has occupied her thoughts on many a night—not because she ever thought she would see him again but it became something to occupy her mind throughout years of troubled sleep. She didn’t blame him for his vicious outburst. He hadn’t been well, even then. But she couldn’t pretend that it didn’t hurt. Not after—
“And I must say you’re looking rather well.” Professor Sprout nods encouragingly as Hermione’s hand hovers against her forehead, attempting to supplement the cover of her dark glasses.
She doesn’t look well. She doesn’t even look average. But she does appreciate the sentiment.
“Thank you. I’m pleased to be here.”
It hardly makes sense but at least it’s the truth.
“Well, we’re all pleased to have you. A bit of youth in the teaching team is most welcome—as well as a few new ideas, no doubt.”
“Oh yes, I have plenty of those.” Hermione nods eagerly. “I wondered if any staff members would be interested in participating in some sort of community of practice around new pedagogies.”
She turns as a loud snort erupts from behind the newspaper.
Professor Sprout raises her voice to indicate that she is ignoring him.
“What a splendid idea. I, for one, would definitely be up for that. Perhaps you could stick a sheet of parchment to the wall here to gauge interest?”
“I will,” Hermione responds, her voice tight with annoyance.
Why does he have to be so damned disparaging?
“And you are most welcome to attend any of my classes in the greenhouse—if you wish to share ideas,” Pomona adds.
“I really appreciate the invitation, Professor, but I’m afraid that the sun does not particularly enjoy my company.” Hermione nods to her long sleeves and gloved hands.
“What a wonderful idea!” Pomona suddenly beams. “Night classes! There are an array of nocturnal plants that put on a spectacular show which the students never get to appreciate. I’ll share that thought with Professor McGonagall right away!”
And with that she heaves up from her chair and bustles out of the room.
Hermione watches her, both amused and bemused, before noticing that she is now completely alone. Snape must have slipped out—no doubt looking to indulge in further snorting at her expense.
He really is impossible.
Then she notices something—right by her elbow—that same cup that she had hung over his crotch only two days before, now filled with black tea. She leans over and sniffs—no sugar.
Her mouth stretches into a reluctant smile. Even she knows a peace offering when she sees it. He’s still impossible, she thinks as she reaches for the cup. But as she feels the temperature and realises that he has also cooled it for her, she decides that there may actually be a whiff of kindness, a smidgen of empathy, left in the man.
Lifting the cup, her smile twists into a wry grin. Sitting on the edge of the saucer is a tiny biscuit. The peace offering comes with a tiny barb. How very Snape.
***
“I’ll harvest the ingredients for you.”
The words come out in a rush as she leans in his laboratory door, not even daring to fully immerse herself in his domain.
It has already taken a ridiculous amount of time for her to summon the courage to return to his laboratory. And even more to decide to just come out with it—to address the elephant in the room head on. Now she just wants the conversation over with, to return to her quarters after a long (but enjoyable) day of teaching, where she can finally rid herself of all these blasted layers.
“How?”
She is already annoyed. What did he mean ‘how’?
“In the traditional way I imagine, grasping each item between finger and thumb, straining against any resistance and placing them in some sort of receptacle.”
Her bold sarcasm isn’t lost on him. Even she is surprised by how Snape-like she sounds.
One dark eyebrow arches in annoyance. “You’ve obviously thoroughly interrogated the matter,” he snaps with matching derision. “However, must I remind you that all of the ingredients are located outside—many in the Forbidden Forest?”
“We will harvest at night.”
“We?”
“Yes—it would be best if you accompany me.”
He spears his quill back into its holder to regard her fully.
“So ‘I will harvest the ingredients for you’ has now become ‘you will accompany me into one of the most perilous forests in the world in the dead of night because I’d prefer not to go out during the day.’”
She exhales loudly, knowing that there is no point in trying to defend herself. She has already promised Minerva that she will assist in whatever way she can—and this is currently the most useful way for her to contribute. If only he could pull his horns in for more than a millisecond at a time.
“Alternatively, if you are confident about the quality of the ingredients that you are currently using, neither of us need bother.”
That strikes a nerve. His eyes narrow and his nose twitches almost imperceptibly.
“Fine,” he grunts with reluctance.
“I’m free tomorrow evening.” She regards him expectantly.
He shrugs. “I suppose.”
But as she turns to go he delivers another question, this one imbued with distinctly less hostility.
“Is there anything further I need to know about your . . . condition?”
She is surprised that he’s even bothered to ask.
“Just . . . try not to touch me.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “As irresistible as you consider yourself, I’m confident that I will be able to withstand the temptation.”
“That’s . . . that’s not what I meant,” she stammers, her eyes sliding to the ground.
He watches her closely for a heartbeat before flicking his hand dismissively toward the door. “Don’t let me keep you.”
She leaves without looking at him again.
One corner of his mouth hitches as he gazes after her. Whatever her problem is, her blushing reflex is still in perfect working order.
***
How hard can it be?
He glares down at the toilet bowl, still brimming with water. Despite reporting it to Filch hours ago, there didn’t appear to be any improvement in the plumbing situation.
Huffing irritably, he turns away and strides with some difficulty out of the bathroom and toward the door to his chambers. He’d been heavily immersed in a new book and is now in quite desperate need of relieving himself.
Walking gingerly out the door and up the corridor, he rushes into the shared bathroom and stops.
“Oh.”
He hadn’t even considered that she’d be there. But she is. A bronzed silhouette in the low candle light, certain indiscernible curves breaching the glassy water.
He rapidly turns to leave but her voice rings out behind him.
“The toilets are free.”
He clenches his fists. He really is struggling to hold on, especially with the gentle sound of lapping water accompanying each of her movements.
“I won’t look.”
His fists clench even tighter at the amusement in her voice. Of course she won’t look, there’s a door across each of the stalls. But he can’t help thinking that this reference goes deeper than simply pointing out the obvious.
Unable to wait any longer, however, he mumbles something and lunges for the closest cubicle, slamming the door closed so that she has to duck her head under the water to muffle the echo.
But she quickly resurfaces.
She can’t help but listen. Well, perhaps she can—but his desperate need to cut her out makes her all the more interested. He hasn’t cast a silencing incantation. He probably figures it will make him look paranoid—which he is. But he’s obviously more paranoid about appearing paranoid.
He is still surprisingly quiet.
She can hear him targeting the porcelain and she smiles to herself. The sound is deeper than it should be for someone of his height—unless he’s crouching closer to the bowl . . . or he’s very well endowed.
She happens to know the answer. She’s seen him after all—more than once. She wonders if he realises.
A soft rustle as he shakes it. She feels something inexplicably stir. Quickly she suppresses it—having discovered the hard way that there is nothing more excruciating than an itch that she cannot scratch.
He zips, flushes and draws open the door.
She ducks back under the water, allowing him to escape in private. It was quite rude of her to pry after all.
Slicking her hands over her face, she combs her fingers through her hair before emerging with a sigh. Blinking the water from her eyes, she looks up at the mirror and is surprised to find his intense black gaze upon her. By the time she turns to look at him, he is gone.
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete