madness

1

"Marry me,"

Her eyes widened in pure shock, as she turned to face him. "Have you gone quite mad, sir?"

Her voice has somewhere between a whisper and an indignant shriek. Marry? What in Merlin's name was he on about?

He'd only just finished telling her how much of a bore she was. How insufferable she is. How he couldn't possibly spend another minute in the same room as her without losing it.

And he had, it seemed. Lost it, that is.

They'd just finished having another of their wall-shaking, ground-quaking, Earth-shattering rows. Before, the Headmistress would rush down to the dungeons to intervene, hearing from the students, no less, that the Potions' Master and his apprentice were having a right go at each other. Heated arguments, hexes on the tips of their tongues, vile and venomous words spat at each other relentlessly.  

Minerva had long given up on the pair of them. 

Severus was not to be reasoned with. And Hermione... Well, Hermione was far too stubborn for her own good. 

What a pair those two made. 

McGonagall had been hesitant in hiring her favourite cub. She was definitely intelligent enough to take on the task, that hadn't at all been the issue. It was the current teacher that posed a problem. He was terrible to work under. If having been his student proved to be as difficult as they claimed, she couldn't possibly imagine what it would be like to be his apprentice. 

And Hermione, despite her strength, was so very fragile still. 

She's come to Hogwarts, having nothing else. She was alone in the world. 

And two years later, she was standing in the dungeons, tearing her hair out and screaming profanities at said Potions' Master. 

Two long years under him. Studying, writing, observing, pushing herself to academic limits she didn't know were possible. He claimed she wasn't good enough, that she'd never be able to take over and that he was better off sticking around, after all. 

Two years she'd devoted to him. To Hogwarts. 

Two years she'd set aside and toiled through to prove herself to him. 

How dare he tell her she wasn't competent? 

She had saved the greasy git. He stood before her healthy as could be thanks to her. 

They had never discussed that night. Never talked about the fact that she'd cried over his body, pouring draughts into his mouth, smearing what little Dittany she had left all over his wounds, shoving a bezoar as far down his throat as she could. Never once mentioned that he had awoken in the shrieking shack hours after the battle had ended with the young witch curled into his side, his neck bandaged and compressed, her hand gripping his. 

She had thrown away her engagement for him. For this. 

She had missed out on suppers with her friends and Christmases. She'd skipped birthdays and christenings, weddings and gatherings. 

He had taken her entire life between his hands and thrown it to the wind. He had taken over every waking moment. 'Clean this, Miss Granger' and 'label that flagon' or 'take stock of the inventory'. 

On the off chance they were getting along, they seldom spoke. Those rare moments were spent poring over a textbook, heads leaned in close together. Those few minutes were comfortably seated in his chambers, before the fire, each correcting a large stack of essays. What little time they could be in each other's company amicably, was spent with one asleep and the other picking up wayward papers and teacups strewn about the room.