Not Yet (A Hermione Granger fanfic)

Chapter 16

Hermione winces as she sits up in her comfy arm chair. Then she quickly tries to hide it. She doesn't want him to know her wound from the dragon's claw still smarts, especially at night when she's tired. Since it's dark, maybe Snape didn't see her grimace.

The fire crackles nicely, warding off the cool mountain air which descended after the sun went down. Hermione takes another sip of her—well, Snape's—Firewhiskey, hoping to hide her face and take the edge off her painful shoulder.

"Is it still bothering you?" Snape drawls, breaking the companionable silence. He's sitting to her right, his chair facing the fire.

Merlin's beard, that man doesn't miss anything. But then, he wouldn't. Ex-spy and everything.

"It'll be okay," she says.

"Really? It should have healed by now."

"The tissue is healed. I think it just bruised the bone."

"You should let me look at it."

"Are you a Healer now, too, Snape?" And that's why she doesn't drink much—Firewhiskey always makes her a little annoyed with everything, and waspish.

Snape doesn't reply. He shrugs, maybe, explaining the movement at the corner of her vision, but she can't be sure because she refuses to look at him.

Finally, he says, "Sarcasm doesn't bother me, you know, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Ha. Except when it comes from Harry Potter."

He sniffs. "Yes, well, Potter always did get under my skin a little."

Hermione snorts. "A little? Sometimes, I thought we were going to witness the first time in history that looks were actually going to kill somebody." She glances at him.

Snape smirks, then says, "Let's not talk about Harry Potter, alright? Not tonight."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"We don't have to talk," he croons.

Hermione's heart gives a little flutter and she turns to look at him to see what he means. If not talk, then . . . what?

Snape smirks again—so annoying. "I prefer silence to rehashing old times, wonderful as they were." He casts a glance her way, catching her eye, the corners of his mouth turned upward in mischief.

Severus bloody Snape—he had meant to confuse her.

But Hermione refuses to be flustered, another side effect of the Firewhiskey. "You are practicing avoidance, you know."

"I'd rather not talk about that, either, Granger," Snape grunts.

"See? My point exactly," she says cheekily, wishing a little to get him riled up again, all the while fearing the biting remarks that will inevitably turn her way. Why does she enjoy verbally sparring with this man? Is it out of habit? Or just a desire to connect with him on a different level?

"It's a general Gryffindor attitude," Snape replies, "You can't help yourselves from digging around and getting people stirred up."

Hermione's eyes widen. "What? Did you just . . . ?"

Snape's eyes flash. "Did I just what?"

Had he read her mind (although they hadn't been making eye contact) or had she spoken her thoughts aloud? Or was his remark due to a different train of thought altogether?

"Granger, you are odd when you drink, no more Firewhiskey for you, I think." Snape reaches over and tugs her glass out of her hand.

Hermione giggles. (What is she doing? She never giggles.) "That rhymed."