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Severus would never forgive Minerva for allowing the return of the Triwizard Tournament.
Not that she had had a choice: the Ministry had insisted. To be precise, Michael Moulsecoomb, the new Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, had insisted. Rumour had it that he believed rehabilitating the image of the tournament could be the story he needed to launch his campaign for Minister. Idiot. No Minister for Magic in history had ever spent so much as a summer internship in his department.
Of course, Severus’ initial objections stemmed from the unmitigated disaster of the last tournament. A murdered child and the return of an evil megalomaniac was hardly a ringing endorsement of the tradition. But when the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegates had arrived, he had found himself facing a different problem.
Severus swept between the House tables and out of the Great Hall, his meanest scowl plastered on his face. Wednesday nights had been designated ‘social nights’, which meant clusters of students from all three schools were littered across the castle. There was no escape.
He saw the sheen of Beauxbatons blue silk under candlelight, and felt his left arm burn. A Scandinavian accent drifted past him and he saw, plain as day, Voldemort’s calculating face after his resurrection. He passed the Goblet of Fire, and the terror he had carried constantly as a double agent returned full force.
As his vision narrowed and his chest constricted, he focused all of his energy on keeping his breathing even. If he started hyperventilating, which he was sure to do the second he found somewhere to hide, everyone would know. And he would rather die than let his students realise he carried such weakness with him.
Only one person had detected his ongoing distress so far. Professor Granger had watched him not-so-surreptitiously for weeks before approaching him. She had prattled on about how logical it was for his brain to associate the start of the most stressful three years of his life with the Triwizard Tournament. She had shared her own ‘triggers’: knives, marble floors, and the smell of masonry dust. She had even offered to help him, suggesting a variety of techniques that worked for her. But Severus refused to cooperate.
Because, of course, Hermione Granger was the very last person he could talk to about any of it. As was, apparently, his nature, he had fallen in unrequited love again. He adored her with everything he had, but he knew that she could never want him as anything more than a friend. And if he started talking to her about his ‘feelings’ around what she had termed his ‘PTSD’, there was a very real risk that he might let slip other emotions.
Severus rounded a corner, robes billowing behind him, and in his haste nearly ran straight into the witch in question. She took one look at him and hooked her arm through his. “Let’s get some air.”
Having her comforting touch on him was almost worse. His traitorous body felt safe with her, and he sucked in a great gasp of air through his mouth. No. There were children everywhere. They couldn't know.
At least he didn't have to worry about where he was walking, and could instead focus all of his attention on moving oxygen slowly in and out through his nose. Hermione guided him through the nearest door to the grounds, but students were sprawled all over the lawn outside. Apparently fully aware of the problem with this, she took an abrupt left turn, and led him to Rolanda’s broom shed.
She whispered, “Alohomora,” then ducked inside to grab a Cleansweep 15.
“You hate flying,” he said, voice tight.
“I do. Which is why you're going to fly, and I'm going to share your broom. Then, if the broom fails, I know you can catch me.”
It was a ludicrous idea. Aside from the fact that broomsticks did not simply ‘fail’, and that it was far more likely that he would screw up unsupported flight in his current state, sharing a broom was far too intimate an activity to do with a woman you wanted so badly.
But then he caught a snippet of conversation from the nearest group of students. “Last time, the final challenge was a maze. I think we should be prepared for the tasks to have a mental component.”
He took the broom and mounted it, desperate to be away from their ridiculous chatter. “Get on then.”
She swung her leg over the broom inelegantly. Fortunately, there was enough space that she didn't have to sit right up against him. But he still couldn't remember the last time he was so close to another human being.
“The maze was more of an endurance test than mental,” the dunderhead said. Severus kicked off the ground.
They soared into the sky, Severus desperate to put as much clear air as possible between him and Hogwarts. But the angle of their ascent made Hermione slide backwards on the broom until she was nestled in the cradle of his thighs. He levelled them out and leaned backwards in a vain attempt to create some distance between them.
They hovered in midair for several minutes. It was better than being in the midst of all those reminders of the last tournament. But now that he was removed from it, feeling the warmth of Hermione and her steady presence, his body seemed to want to let go. His breath was coming in shallow pants, nowhere near deep enough to get sufficient oxygen into his lungs, which only made him inhale faster. How mortifying, to lose control around her like this.
“Five things you can see,” she said. She had tried to foist this technique on him several times before, but he had always rolled his eyes and refused to play. As nothing else had worked, though, he had to concede that it was worth a shot.
A gust of wind hit them, blowing her curls straight into his face. “Your hair, mostly,” he replied, pulling a strand out of his mouth with a grimace.
When he didn’t continue, she said, “Great, that’s one. Four more.”
Severus tried to take a few deep breaths. “Fine. The castle, the lake, the forest, the moon.”
“And now four things you can touch.”
That was going to be more difficult. They were several hundred feet in the air: there was only so much available. “The broom, my robes…” The hem of her robes was whipping against his ankles, which he supposed counted as touching. “Your robes… erm…”
Then Hermione did something completely counterintuitive if she was intending to calm him down. She grabbed his hand and wrapped it around her waist, dragging his chest flush against her back. At least she knew he was already anxious: that would explain the pounding of his heart.
“You,” he finished, voice thick.
“Three things you can hear,” she said, sounding irritatingly unflustered.
“The wind, chatter from the castle… your breathing.”
“Two things you can smell.”
Severus inhaled deeply through his nose. “Smoke. Your perfume.” The technique was certainly grounding him, but grounding him in her presence. Which was unhelpful, given his need to keep his feelings for her concealed.
Hermione leaned to one side and turned her head, until her cheek was pressed against his and their lips were an inch apart. “Something you can taste,” she said, her breath ghosting over him.
Could she possibly mean…? No. Surely not. But then, she had suggested a moonlit broom ride. She had insisted on sharing a broom. She had wrapped his arms around her. And she had all but offered him a taste.
He surged forwards, capturing her mouth, trying to pour every ounce of love he felt for her into the kiss. She tasted like sweet toffee, and he increased the pressure of his lips against hers, his hand coming up to cradle her cheek.
“Sticky toffee pudding?” he asked when they parted.
“It was delicious,” she replied.
He hummed in response.
Hermione sighed and snuggled back against him, gazing out at the breathtaking view. “It’s beautiful up here.”
“It is,” he agreed. But his eyes never left her face.
They circled the castle slowly, and Severus tried to focus on the solidness of Hermione in his arms: the rise and fall of her ribcage beneath his hands, the warmth from her legs against his thighs, the delicate finger tracing patterns on his wrist. Whenever he had dared imagine a moment like this, he had assumed he would be so overcome with panic that he would never be able to enjoy it. But even though there was still so much unsaid, being close to her, smelling the orange blossom in her perfume, and knowing there was at least the possibility of something between them, sent a wave of calm through his body.
After their second lap, Hermione broke the comfortable silence that had settled between them. “Feeling less anxious?” she asked, in a kind of smug way that was still, somehow, charming.
“No,” he replied. “But I’m not thinking about the war anymore.”
“Are you ready to go back? I… might have reached my flying limit for tonight.”
Severus guided the broom back down to the lawn. They landed next to the shed, and he had to catch Hermione by the arm to stop her from toppling off. Once the broom was stowed away and the shed locked, she took his hand, twining her fingers through his. To his great surprise, when they drew near to the lights and bubbling noise from the castle, she didn’t pull away.
It was probably juvenile to be excited by such a chaste gesture, but no one had ever held his hand in public before. People did not touch him, as a rule. And though his reputation was better now than ever, most people still didn’t want to be seen to have a close association with him.
Every time they passed a group of students, a silence fell over them as they took in the pair of professors. And of course, well before they were out of earshot, the whispers started. But with Hermione’s small hand in his, he didn’t mind. Even the flashbacks were kept at bay. Perhaps the newness of whatever this was with Hermione was blocking out the past.
They reached the Grand Staircase, where their paths would normally diverge to head to their respective quarters. Panic began to rise in Severus again. He didn’t want to be alone, and he really didn’t want her to go.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asked, then added hurriedly, “I don’t mean like that. It’s just… difficult… to be alone.”
“Of course,” she replied, with no hesitation, shocking him again. Some of his surprise must have shown on his face, because she said, “I’ve been trying to tell you for months: I’m willing to help you in whatever way you need. You just have to be brave enough to ask for that help.”
And as he led her towards the dungeons, the tightness in his chest eased.