Chapter Text
He stood in the corner of the room, facing the door, keeping the windows in his peripheral vision. This vigilance was, supposedly, unnecessary now, but spending decades as a spy made it difficult to shake certain habits. Dreamless Sleep was a particularly tenacious proclivity – as was self-medication, in general. In comparison, Severus had considered his constant awareness of his surroundings and his need to keep his back to the wall and an eye on the exit, as general good practice, especially for an ex-Death Eater turned traitor. He had considered it not just harmless but helpful. Until she came back.
She was on the other side of the large staff room, back to the open door as if she had never faced down death in this castle, listening and nodding to something Minerva was saying. They had been speaking for just under five minutes, since the staff meeting had ended. The room was full of other people – Hagrid, Filius, Pomona, and Poppy were all nearer to him and more directly in his line of sight – and yet her presence prickled across his skin like a swarm of insects. She had been an irritating child; overeager, inelegant, loud and brash, an insufferable know-it-all. Now, three years after the final battle, it seemed she had discovered new and inventive ways to frustrate him. She was quieter, that was true, and he no longer had to put up with her incessant hand-waving in his classroom. She was an Arthimancy apprentice, not Potions – thank Salazar. In fact, he should rarely have had occasion to see her, or think about her, at all. Minerva no longer required his presence at the high table during lunch or dinner, only breakfast, and he took all patrolling shifts alone. These tedious staff meetings ought to be the only time he would need to put up with her, since she had volunteered herself for patrol duty – the officious little chit. And yet, despite that, despite these clear undeniable truths – these facts: they had no obligations, interests, friends, or schedule in common – she was everywhere.
She was always at breakfast, despite the general trend of student attendance for that particular meal being quite low, and she never sat at the same table two days in a row. Her wild halo of curls always seemed to be disappearing around the corner as he walked the stone corridors of the castle, trailing a lavender and mint fragrance that seemed to cling to his robes and burrow into his brain. He avoided the library, once a favorite refuge, and took to owl-ordering any books he didn’t already own, because she was sure to be set up at whichever table was nearest the aisle he needed. She would have piles of books spread across the entirety of the surface of the table, stacks of them on the chairs, her fingers smudged with ink, her brow furrowed and her bottom lip pinned between her teeth. She would not look up if he walked by.
Since Minerva had taken her up on her offer to assist with patrols, she had begun attending the staff meetings. That was bad enough. Being in such close quarters with her made his impeccably tailored black robes feel ill-fitting, the high neck too tight and the sleeves too short. There were a couple dozen other people in the room and yet it felt too much like they were alone. Never mind that they did not interact, in any way. His sensitivity to his surroundings was painful in her presence, as though she was the sun and he was simply starting directly into it, burning out everything else around them. That discomfort was nothing compared to what had happened last week, though she seemed completely unaffected, as usual.
His students – imbeciles, all – had managed to butcher all the daisy roots he’d provided them, and given that it was February, he was unable to harvest more himself, as was his preference. Thus he was forced to replenish his stock from the general supply cupboard available to the staff – and, apparently, apprentices. As he moved to exit the small space, poor-quality roots in hand, the door flew open and a small body topped with wild brown curls barreled directly into his chest. She bounced back immediately, apologetic: “I’m so sorry, Professor, I wasn’t watching where I was going!” but the damage was done. He’d felt her form, burning across his chest and stomach and thighs where they had made contact with hers. Then, she compounded the problem. She knelt and picked up the dropped jar of daisy roots, and looked up at him, crouched at his feet. The sight of her there, golden eyes locked on his, rendered him breathless and momentarily speechless.
“Here you go! Lucky it didn’t break,” she said, offering him the jar of roots. When he didn’t immediately move to take it, her smile fell just a bit, and she started to stand. Unwilling to stay in in this confined space with her a moment longer, he snatched the container from her hand, growled “Granger” at her, and stepped neatly around her and out the door without a backward glance. He went straight to his chambers, chest heaving as if he’d been running from a pack of Dementors and not a tiny, bushy-haired student (former student, his mind pointed out unhelpfully). He refused to investigate whether his robes smelled like her lavender and mint shampoo.
They did not, and he was absolutely not disappointed.
“Severus!”
Poppy broke his reverie, a look on her face that told him this wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention. So much for “constant vigilance.”
“Yes?” he responded, tone curt and face impassive, as though she had not caught him wool-gathering.
She glanced across the room, trying to determine what had kept his focus. He spoke again, to turn her attention back to him. “Did you require something?”
“Oh! Yes. You have been dodging me for months, and this is getting ridiculous. You must come get your annual physical, you know it’s in your contract. I let you get away with it for this long, but if you’re not in the infirmary by this weekend I will go to Minerva. Honestly! I shouldn't have to resort to tattling to the Headmistress like a firstie, Severus. Just come get it over with and I’ll stop pestering you.”
Now he remembered the other reason, besides just general misanthropy, for hiding in the shadowy corner. The dreaded annual physical. He had put it off successfully for six months, but his lapse in attention had cost him. He felt the sneer pulling at his lip. “Fine,” he bit out, and strode away, weaving through the crowd to the door, determinedly not looking anywhere near Hermione Granger.