Forbidden Flames

Part 3

Hermione's eyes rolled skyward in a display of irritation, a silent testament to her frayed patience. Undeterred, she pressed on, her words laced with a daring edge. "Very well, Mr. Snape," she hissed, her voice laced with a mix of irritation and defiance. "Your martyr complex, although captivating to some, is certainly not one of your most endearing qualities, in my humble opinion. Furthermore, I did not come here of my own volition, nor did I harbor any desire to seek you out. My life was perfectly content before I discovered the existence of your secluded cabin in the heart of this godforsaken forest!"

Her words echoed through the cabin, the tension in the air almost tangible. Hermione had reached her breaking point, her resolve solidified. If Snape intended to behave like an insufferable brute, then she would meet him head-on, ready to engage in verbal combat regardless of the consequences.

The tension in the room seemed to dissipate as Snape, instead of engaging in a verbal sparring match, took an unexpected approach. With measured steps, he closed the distance between himself and Hermione, gracefully lowering himself to a seated position on the floor. A flicker of curiosity danced in Hermione's eyes as she watched him intently.

With gentle determination, Snape reached out and carefully cradled Hermione's injured leg in his hands. His touch was surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the harsh exterior he typically presented to the world. Hermione felt a wave of vulnerability wash over her, mingling with a faint twinge of shame for her earlier outburst.

As Snape gingerly rolled up the leg of her pants, Hermione couldn't help but marvel at the intricate dance of his fingers, their movements precise and deliberate. The air crackled with an ethereal energy as tiny blue sparks escaped from his fingertips, their soft glow casting an otherworldly light upon Hermione's leg.

In that moment, the usual animosity and stubbornness between them seemed to melt away. Hermione found herself inexplicably drawn to the enigmatic wizard before her, his touch instilling a sense of calm and trust within her. The weight of their previous arguments and the burdens they carried seemed to fade into the background, replaced by an unspoken understanding.

For reasons she couldn't quite comprehend, Hermione's desire to engage in further verbal combat dissipated. The sparks of tension that had once filled the air were replaced with a newfound sense of connection and acceptance. In this intimate moment, as Snape's fingers continued their delicate dance upon her leg, Hermione found herself strangely at ease, content to let the unspoken understanding between them guide their next steps.

As the conversation took an unexpected turn, Hermione's voice softened, a touch of vulnerability lingering in her words. She ventured to ask the question that had been swirling in her mind, hoping against hope for a positive answer.

"I suppose you do not have an extra portkey to Romania?" she murmured, her voice carrying a hint of hopefulness. Snape couldn't help but emit a loud snort, a momentary burst of amusement breaking through his otherwise stern countenance. His lips twitched ever so slightly, betraying a trace of a smile that danced on the edge of his mouth.

"It is unlikely," he replied, his voice laced with a tinge of resignation. Hermione's shoulders slumped slightly, disappointment evident in her features. She offered a heartfelt apology, expressing regret for imposing her company upon him.

"Are you sorry?" Snape's question, laden with intrigue, hung in the air, catching Hermione off guard. Confusion etched across her face, she hesitated before responding.

"I'm sorry, what?" she stammered, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. Snape's lips parted to reveal a rare glimpse of his amusement.

"Ironically, my first and only company over the past few years has become you," he revealed, his words punctuated by a hint of wistfulness. The unexpected admission caught Hermione off guard, her gaze lingering on him, a mixture of surprise and curiosity flickering in her eyes.

After a pause, Snape broke the silence, presenting a proposition to Hermione with an air of caution. "You can stay, you have a crack in your leg. This is a serious injury. You have to let your leg heal. You shouldn't be able to walk much and use movement magic for at least two weeks." he finally uttered, "if you swear to me that you will not tell anyone about my whereabouts. I prefer the solitude of my own existence." Hermione's mouth fell open in astonishment, but she refrained from uttering a word.

Sensing her compliance, Snape instructed her to retrieve her wand, his voice firm yet tinged with a hint of vulnerability. Hermione's fingers trembled as they closed around the familiar grip of her wand. She repeated his words, her voice steady and resolute, sealing their agreement in an unspoken pact of secrecy.

With the ritual complete, an unfamiliar tension settled within Hermione, a mix of anticipation and intrigue coursing through her veins. It was a sensation that both captivated and startled her, something she had never quite experienced before. But Snape's next question, delivered in a casual tone, caught her completely off guard.

"Have you already had breakfast?" he inquired, his words innocuous yet carrying an undertone of warmth. Hermione furrowed her brow, retracing the events of the morning in her mind. Did she indeed have breakfast?

"I ate toast this morning," she recalled, a flicker of remembrance crossing her features, "but I won't refuse tea if you don't mind."

With a gruff grunt, Snape abruptly stood up from his chair, his movements sharp and purposeful. After a brief absence, he reappeared, extending a delicate cup of tea and milk towards Hermione. Wisps of steam swirled from the surface, enticing her senses. Hermione brought the cup close to her face, inhaling the aromatic vapors through her nose, a comforting sensation that eased the remnants of the morning's nervous tension. With cautious anticipation, she took a small sip, relishing the warmth as it spread through her body.

Seated once again, Snape settled into the adjacent chair, his posture rigid and his gaze fixated on the dancing flames within the fireplace. An awkward silence descended upon them, filling the room with unspoken thoughts and lingering emotions. Hermione fought the urge to fidget, attempting to make herself as inconspicuous as possible in the presence of her former professor. However, it seemed that Snape had forgotten her existence entirely, his attention consumed by the flickering fire.

As Hermione finished her tea, she mustered the courage to break the silence, her voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "Is there any way to contact my friend and inform him of my...delay?" she inquired, her gaze flickering towards Snape. He met her gaze briefly before gesturing towards a grand desk positioned against the far wall.

"I believe it is possible," he responded, his voice measured and detached. "Once you have finished with your tea, you can find everything you need on the desk."

"Thank you," Hermione murmured gratefully, appreciating the small semblance of assistance. Snape merely shrugged his shoulders in response, not bothering to meet her gaze. There was a distinct air of detachment that surrounded him, as if he were consciously guarding himself against any form of emotional connection.