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Chapter Text

It was so late in the day that it was actually becoming early.

Rain fell from the sky in sheets, pouring down as it had been for hours, days. It clattered against the window, on the roof, it ran along the gutters and gurgled down into the drains. Hermione sat curled in a large armchair, her book open on her lap, while she read. The fire was crackling softly in the hearth, and aside from the occasional rustling of the scorched logs as they settled, the room was devoid of any sound but the persistent rain.

A loud and heavy banging suddenly filled the quiet room, rattling down the dark hallway into the little, warm room, in which she sat. Crookshanks leapt out of his basket and disappeared in a streak of orange.

Hermione jumped violently at the sound, bringing her hand up to her heart as her head swung round the room, taking in the stillness, the undamaged window, with heavy curtains drawn against the weather outside. She was uncertain at first, as to what had broken her deep concentration, but then the loud rapping rang out again, and she nervously advanced towards her own front door, her socked feet shuffling on her polished floorboards.

As she passed the clock in the hall, her eyes flicked to its face, where the big hand was pointing to Far Too Late For Visitors. She patted her wand reassuringly one last time, and then pulled open the front door.

He was dressed all in black, as he always had been. The rain had drenched every inch of him, and continued to clatter all around non-stop, running like a waterfall from the edge of the porch roof above them. His wet hair clung to his face, his black clothes hung heavily, and he leant his whole body against the brickwork next to him. His left arm was flush against the wall, and his right hand reached across his chest, clutching his left shoulder where he leant on it.

She didn’t know quite what to say, but as she opened her mouth to speak, his own baritone voice interrupted her.

“I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour, Miss Granger, but I would be much obliged if I might step inside a moment?”

Her eyebrows furrowed quickly in response, her mind working overtime. She hadn’t seen this man since her last day at Hogwarts, and had certainly never heard him say sorry, yet here he was at gone three in the morning, asking for entry to her isolated cottage as if he’d dropped by for tea.

In the split second of her confusion, however, she saw two things which changed everything, instantly.

She noticed that his teeth were grinding together, she could see the tight clenching, in his jaw. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the streak of scarlet run down the back of his left hand, hanging immobile at his side. And she saw the drop of blood fall in a sort of slow motion, before it burst on the stone of her doorstep, breaking out into a vivid circle of red. He was hurt.

Her eyes flew to his face again, her mouth dropping open. Her sense was screaming out to let the man in front of her into her house, but she was hesitating, horribly, if only for the briefest moment. The lessons she’d learnt growing up during the war were screaming at her, a beacon of caution even now, in her active mind.

Could she be sure that all was as it seemed? That he was what he seemed?

As she hesitated, however, he spoke again. Drawn, and tightly, and with a tired tone, but clear as a bell, even over the continuous clattering of the rain behind him.

“The comment I once made about your teeth was unnecessary and spiteful,” he said.

Then he toppled forward through the wards of her doorway as she instantly released them, and she was catching him clumsily with one arm and the length of her body, even as her other hand reached for her wand. She cast a levitation charm, the first that came to mind, and the sudden weight of his body was gone, before it toppled her smaller frame. She quickly shuffled the both of them the few steps into the firelight of the sitting room, and laid him down gently, onto her couch.

He grimaced horribly as he lay back, his eyes screwing up and his teeth clenching like a vice, as his shoulder pressed against the edge of the seat. His right hand was still clutching at it, white with the effort.

Hermione lifted the top half of his body while the weightlessness still affected him, trying to be as gentle as she could possibly be, but still drawing a low moan of pain from the dark man as she worked. She transfigured one of her scatter cushions into a large pillow and settled it behind him, leaning him back, so that both his shoulders were squarely supported by it. He tilted his head back against the arm of the sofa, and another deep moan issued from his taut throat.

“Siccus,” Hermione muttered.

The moisture evaporated from his clothes and body, and formed into a small cloud above him, escaping with some steam and sputtering through the chimney. Now that he was dry, she turned to her armchair, casting it away from the fire with more force than she intended, the fear she felt intense, in this situation she was now suddenly in the middle of.

Performing the levitation spell again, this time on the large sofa, she floated it gently across the floor as if it were on casters, placing him in front if the fire to make the most of the warmth of the flames. In the same moment she accio’d a bottle of whisky and a glass into her hands, and she poured a good measure hastily, leaning down over him and holding the glass to his lips.

“Here,” she said, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry it’s not firewhisky, but it’s the best I can do.”

His right hand came up to steady the glass as he sipped from it, but she kept a loose grip on it herself, as well. He gulped the liquid down in a second, it disappeared from the glass as if by magic, and his face screwed up at the taste. Then he gasped out.

“Another!”

She once again sloshed liquid out of the bottle into the glass, filling it even nearer to the brim in her haste, and once more his right hand grabbed at the glass as he downed the burning measure. Another grimace, and then he closed his eyes, and rested his head back against the arm of the sofa again.

She looked down at the glass and saw the dark smear of blood left from his hand – red prints of his fingers clotting and dripping – much more blood than she would have thought. Then the glass slipped from her own hand and shattered, as she stared at his wounded shoulder.

Despite her drying his shirt moments before, it was soaked again, all down his left side, below the wound. Even though his black shirt showed no colour, she could see the sticky gleam of the sodden fabric, as it clung to his skin beneath.

The white pillow under him was turning crimson, a plume of red spreading out as it seeped through the cotton cover, more blood than could be absorbed, rolling off the surface and dripping down onto the polished floorboards. The life was pouring out of the man and onto her floor, he was so pale that she thought for a moment she could see the shadows of his skull beneath his papery skin, and she felt an iron ball of fear and dread fall heavily into her stomach.

“Let me see.”

She spoke with raw determination, leaning down and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

He didn’t say anything, but moved his right arm aside slightly so that she could begin to undo a few buttons more, desperately trying to uncover the wound, so she could see just what was causing him to bleed so profusely. She suddenly remembered her basic wizarding first aid, the second point being wand awareness. It might be concealed in his clothing, protected by dangerous wards.

“Where’s you wand?” she asked quickly, leaning her ear close to his lips, so she could hear his whispering.

“Gone,” his single, rough reply.

She turned to stare at his face in surprise.

“Gone?”

“Gone,” he whispered again. “Taken… or lost.”

Despite her intense shock at the discovery that someone might have managed to take the former Death Eater’s wand, the seriousness of the situation drew all of her attention. She safely unbuttoned his shirt, until she could pull it apart, and see the extent of his injuries.

She had barely touched his shirt or body, but the tacky congealing fluid was already covering her fingertips, the bright red vivid in the sharp light of the fire. She tried to see clearly where the main extent of the blood was coming from, but the whole of his chest was seeped in the stuff now, her stomach turned a little and she swallowed hard.

She was not used to the sight of blood, and the last time she had seen pints like this, they had been spouting from the neck of the very man before her, eight years ago. She swallowed again, captivated a moment by the sheer amount of red that was everywhere now, and then she shook herself violently, and sent the universal distress call with her wand. The golden shadow of a large bird erupted from her wand and soared away into nothing, taking her Healer request to the Ministry.

Even so, it would be a while before any help arrived. She was purposefully not on the floo network, anti-jinx spells preventing anyone from apparating nearby, and she was a long way from any other wizarding houses or villages. She knew then, suddenly, that she was completely on her own, and that the professor and war hero would die, right then and there, in her living room, unless she did everything absolutely right.

She brightened the lights in the room and then cast a gentle Tergeo on his shoulder, biting her lip in anticipation of the horrific injuries she would reveal, and then she was surprised. Far from being a tattered mess, his skin was smooth and untouched, aside from a single cut about two inches in length, just at the outer edge of his collar bone. Even as she watched, she saw a swell of blood ooze and then trickle from the wound, and she laid the tip of her wand on the cut and muttered first the general clotting and flow-stemming charm, and a numbing spell, which she knew would take a little of the pain away.

She held her breath as she cast another Tergeo, but to her relief the cut remained clean for now, the bleeding having been contained for a moment, at least.

Her relief washed over her. Her knowledge of healing charms was really quite basic, and she had very little idea as to how to proceed, had these spells failed her. But luckily they seemed to be effective enough to buy them some time, hopefully long enough for the Healers to arrive.

Kneeling down next to his head, she stared at him anxiously, hating not knowing what to do. Some colour of sorts began to rise to his cheeks again, at least he did not look so translucent as he had just moments ago, and after a few more moments of silence he raised his head a little and whispered.

“Thank you.”

She stared once more at the cut on his shoulder. It seemed to be a shallow, minor wound, so small, so insignificant, yet she could still see the blood pouring from him, in her mind’s eye. Something didn’t seem right. Even now, the ragged edges were a raw red, as if they were blindingly hot.

She raised her hand up and gingerly moved it forward, a single finger stretching out, but she saw his body flinch as her hand neared the cut, and she drew back.

“What curse caused this?” she asked him, now that it appeared a little easier for him to speak.

“Not a curse. A sword,” he answered, meeting her eyes for the first time.

Her fear kicked up another notch, inside her. She stared at him with wide eyes.

“You were stabbed?” she shrieked.

“Yes, Granger, I was stabbed,” his teeth clenched together for a second. “By a ninja.”

Hermione blinked, her mind racing, wondering for a moment if she was deep in the strangest and most terrifying dream of her life. She stared at him in confusion, in blind panic.

“Professor… what?”

“A ninja, Granger,” he growled, his dark eyes flashing dangerously.

She felt, for a horrible moment, like she was back at school.

“As hard as it may be for you to believe,” he continued, his words still whispered, his breaths gasping. “He’s been tracking me for three days now. I can’t evade him, he is everywhere. I was lucky to escape. He was aiming for my heart.”

He curled his long, pale right hand and pointed at himself, his slightly extended index finger gesturing to the centre of his heaving chest.

“I realised he was behind me and turned at the very last moment.”

Her pulse was still thudding in her throat, and she felt the sick feeling of intense panic clawing up her spine, as she tried to make sense of what he was telling her.

“He attacked from the front,” she murmured.

Her eyes widening in horrific realisation.

“It went right through you?” she gasped, in alarm.

He didn’t respond this time, his eyes fluttering closed, the colour gone from his cheeks again. She leant forward without hesitation and grabbed him about the shoulders, pulling his upper torso forwards so that it leant against her own shoulder. The sound he made was almost a roar of pain. She reached her arms around him and stripped his shirt from his back, flinging it to the side.

She stared down the smooth, pale skin to the gash which streaked across his left shoulder blade, the exit wound to the entrance at his chest.

“Oh my God,” she gasped.

Unlike the clean cut on his chest, this wound was savage, torn, the mangled and raw edges of the gash clotted with dark, glossy blood. His skin was pulled taut in this position, showing the ripped flesh going deeper and deeper and, worst of all, she could see the thin pieces of his shoulder blade, sticking up through the wound like jagged teeth. As with the cut on his chest, the skin around the wound was a bright red, as though the area was already infected and feverish.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed against her nausea, as she laid him back down as gently as she could. A chill ran down her spine, as she saw red droplets of blood begin to seep from the cut on his chest again, and she pressed her hands down on the wound, instinctively applying pressure despite his loud groan of pain.

“Professor… the blood… I need my clotting and replenishing potions,” she said desperately.

“No, they won’t work,” he said to her, then.

He was looking her right in the eyes again, panting heavily, the sweat pouring down his face.

“Only until the Healer…” she began, but he interrupted her sharply.

“No!”

The single syllable filled the room, but seemed to take some of his little energy with it, he sagged a little more and his head rolled back. After a moment, though, he swung his head back up and looked at her again.

“The blade… was enchanted,” he continued, between ragged breaths. “It will continue to bleed… unless it is healed. Thoroughly… from the inside, outwards.”

He took a few more deep breaths. His bare chest rose and fell, rose and fell, beneath her pressing hands. Then he drew in deeply once more, holding her gaze.

“You must do it,” he said, smoothly.

“No… no,” she shook her head frantically. “It’s too complex,” she babbled. “Flesh, bone… it’s too advanced. I don’t know the charms.”

“It takes… just one. One… single… spell.”

Every word was an immense effort. There were drops of sweat falling from his hooked nose, his jaw, every inch of bare skin slick with perspiration and cracked, congealing blood. His head lulled back again, his eyes drifting closed. His breathing was still raw and erratic, his panting loud in the quiet room.

She saw the moment he steeled himself up, again, forcing his eyes open.

“I’ll… teach you,” he said.

And there was the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of his drawn mouth, even now, despite his obvious suffering.

Her mind was freewheeling though, knowing that the spell he was asking her to perform would be a severe test of her abilities, and she’d heard what could happen when powerful healing spells went wrong. Adding to the problem, the wound was positioned just below the gnarled scar tissue of his shoulder and neck, and she knew enough about the dangers of recurring injuries and latent venom in old wounds for this fact to worry her.

The enchantment on the blade was obviously a strong and dark magic. The blood was leaking between her fingers now, the effects of the clotting charm quickly wearing off.

This was major magic she was being asked to perform. She had not cast such an important spell since the war years, and now self-doubt haunted her.

“You do it,” she said, quickly.

She grabbed her wand with one hand and held the gripping end towards him. More moans of pain left him, he shook his head.

“No.”

He took a deep breath in through his flared nostrils.

“Unfamiliar wand.”

She nodded, understanding. She was scared enough by the thought of the spell even with her own wand.

He dragged his right forearm across his eyes, wiping away the sweat, and his whole body tensed with the movement. She felt the spurt of blood shoot from the wound beneath her hand and more dripped from underneath him. Once more his head fell back.

“Please…” he whispered. “Quickly.”

Her stomach dropped again at the feeling of more of his precious blood, spilling from his body and between her aching fingers, with every pulse of his heartbeat. Her own body shuddered. Her head was thumping.

To buy herself a few more desperate seconds of time, she once more cast the clotting and numbing spells. His breathing slowed considerably, but he was still sweating, still suffering greatly and nearly frantic.

“The spell is Redintegro,” he told her, able to speak more clearly now. “With a double-looped Hayes flourish and a dragged end to the south-east,” he said.

She steadied her shaking hands and practised the combination of wand techniques swiftly in one movement. He watched from the corner of his eye and nodded.

“Perfect,” he said plainly, with little emphasis on the uncharacteristic compliment. “But you must be subtle… small…”

His right hand waved, his thumb and index finger pinched together as if he too were holding a wand.

“Inside the wound,” he added.

She nodded too and copied him, her tiny wand manoeuvre smooth, despite her jangling nerves. He watched the flick of her wand again, and then closed his eyes as he spoke.

“That’s it.”

Hermione swallowed, her mouth was dry, but filled with the bitter taste of fear.

She wondered briefly, how long it had been since she had called the Healers, but it was only mere minutes since he had appeared at her door. Help wouldn’t be near yet.

She would have to do this herself, and very soon.

Another wave of fear washed over her, and it made her angry, feeling shame burning through her. Where was her Gryffindor courage? She set her jaw firmly, and squared her shoulders, desperately hoping that faking her confidence would be enough.

“Redintegro,” she muttered to herself, practising the spell.

But her brave show could not hide her abject terror. Possibilities flashed in her mind again. If she failed the spell he might be altered completely, if she got it even slightly wrong he could easily die as a consequence.

Yet if she did nothing he would certainly bleed to death, leaving her alone once again, in her tiny cottage.

Nausea flared inside her.

“Oh, God. I can’t do this,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

“You were the most capable student I ever taught,” he said suddenly, firmly, in his commanding teacher’s tone, his eyes open and staring at her. “You remain one of the most powerful witches I have ever known.”

His breathing was becoming shallower once more, the intense pain returning. When he spoke again his words were much quieter, strained.

“You can do this.”

His eyes closed.

“You must do it… hurry,” he wheezed in another shallow breath “The clotting… won’t last.”

Even as he said it, more subtle gushes of blood seeped from the cut on his chest, now she was no longer applying pressure. She could hear his blood dripping from the sofa to the floor.

It was now or never.

She stood and leant very slightly forward. His right hand touched hers as lightly as a feather, and stilled it.

“It must be in… the open wound…”

He coughed and the blood flow accelerated.

“Behind me,” he gasped.

She understood him, standing quickly and stepping behind him, the arm of the sofa pressing against her thighs. Once more she cast the levitation spell, once more his body became light, and once more she leant him forward to consider the ugly wound on his back.

Her right hand gripped her wand with her first two fingers and thumb, clinging onto it in desperation. The other hand was gipping, with more gentle consideration, onto the gnarled, scarred skin of his shoulder just above the ugly wound, supporting both her body and his. Both of her small hands trembled. She muttered once more.

“Oh my God.”

“Her… mione,” he whispered brokenly.

He dragged in another deep, wheezing breath. She leant down over him gently, moving her ear nearer.

“You can do this.”

She could barely hear him at all, his whisper was so faint. His right hand came up and rested on hers at his shoulder, with infinite softness, like a sigh.

“I… trust you.”

The thrill of his kind words was like liquid hope coursing through her veins, his faith in her unexpected and still very much wanted, fanning the flames of her own faith in herself.

Trust was why she had always fought on the right side, trust and the undeniable kindness in others. Was she not a Gryffindor? A third of the Golden Trio? With a determined, upward tilt of the chin, and no further ado, she stuck the tip of her wand into the angry wound and cast the spell.

“Redintegro!”

Her mouth twisted in distaste as she felt the squelching of her wand between his flesh, felt the grinding of the pieces of bone rubbing together and against the piece of wood, and heard his anguished cry of agony. But her hand moved swiftly and true, and as subtle as it had ever been. The spell was forged, silver sparks issuing from her wand into the deep stab-wound, glowing with a pure, star-like light.

He collapsed forward at once, pulling out of the grasp of her hand, resting on his knees and the palm of his good arm.

Moans of pain still ripped from his throat, and the skin around his wound was writhing and stretching, back and forth. He lurched forward and twitched and shook, while this macabre display continued.

After what seemed like an eternity, the strange fusion of the flesh on his back was complete, leaving nothing but a white scar, and his painful groans were quiet. His body went slack and collapsed face down on the sofa, then slipped to the side, and he rolled right off, landing on his back on the bloody floor with a thump, and one last muffled moan.

She was beside him instantly, kneeling down, irrationally afraid for an awful moment that he might be dead.

His breathing was strong and steady though, the calmest it had been, since he'd tumbled through her front door.

“Professor Snape?” she mumbled, her voice weak.

He showed no sign that he had heard her. She shook him gently, and this too had no effect.

“Severus!” she said, loudly.

And she gave him a strong shove. This time his eyes flicked open for a second or two, trying to focus on her face, but failing.

His eyes fluttered closed again, as he slipped into a deep and exhausted sleep.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat in an armchair once more, this one nestled in the corner of her small, dark bedroom, listening to him breathe.

After she’d woken him long enough to force her scant supply of blood replenishers down his throat, she’d cast another levitation spell, so she could guide his floating, unconscious body through the kitchen and up the narrow stairs. She’d positioned him as comfortably as she could, in her large, four-poster bed, checking again, that his pulse was still strong and regular.

Then she had made her way back downstairs and cast cleaning spell after cleaning spell, desperately trying to get the deep red out of her throw, the sofa cushions. Then she cleaned the floor, moving all the furniture out of the way, so that she could thoroughly scrub the pools of dark, sticky fluid with her polishing spells. There was so much blood she could hardly believe that there was any more flowing in his veins.

It had taken a long while to clean absolutely.

Then she’d rearranged her furniture, dimmed the lights in the sitting room, and had taken her place in the silent bedroom.

She stroked her hands gently through Crookshanks’ warm, soft fur, as he purred contentedly in her lap. She hadn’t drawn the curtains, but even so, very little light entered the room. It was almost a full moon, but the thick clouds and endless rain blocked the magical, silvery light. Shadows crept from every corner, reaching out to her, and the shady figure on the bed.

If she concentrated very hard, on the white sheets covering him, she could see the gradual rise and fall of his breathing, the only indication as to his living. Other than that, he was deathly still. The silence pressed around her. Her eyelids began to droop.

Once more a thump and a shout startled her, making her leap out her seat and brighten the lights, Crookshanks giving a meow of complaint as she pushed him from her lap.

At the sound of her own startled cry, the man in the bed leapt to his feet, clutching his hands to his bare chest in frantic haste.

“What is it?" he called in his sleepy panic. “What’s occurred? Where’s my wand?”

He stepped towards her, but the white cotton sheets were spilling from the bed, tangled around one of the posts and his legs. He tripped hard, his hands stretching out.

But just when it seemed he would land flat on his face, his body curled up into a tight roll and he smoothly ended on his feet again, only a foot or two from her. Her mouth was open in surprise at his spry movement, but before either of them could speak, another shout came up the stairs.

“Hermione! Where are you?!”

She recognised the voice, heard the panic in it, and she ran to the door with only a quick glance at Snape, opening it and calling down into the narrow stairway.

“Harry! It’s okay, I’m in the bedroom. Up here!”

The pounding of hurrying feet ascended, and then he was on the threshold and over it. Harry Potter in his auror robes, flicking his green eyes over her, and over the professor standing bare chested in only a pair of black trousers, and also over the large bed and crumpled, strewn sheets.

“What’s he done?” Harry asked, furiously.

Striding up to the both of them, he turned to the older man, glaring at him through the narrow rims of his glasses.

“If she tells me you hurt her…” he muttered, threateningly.

Hermione put her hands up on her best friend’s chest and pushed him away, gently but firmly, shoving him so that he sat down with a slight huff into the armchair.

“Harry, he’s done nothing. Calm down, alright?”

She knelt so that she was level with his face, smiling at him reassuringly.

“Keep your auror head, hrm?”

He smiled at her briefly, in return, and she could see his relief.

“Where’s the Healer, anyway?” she continued. “And what are you doing here at all? You know you’re not supposed to come out on personal calls.”

“I know, but I had just got back to the office when the bird came in with your address, and you know I worry about how isolated you are here.”

He spoke quickly, obviously still panicked, but they were interrupted then, as another wizard came into the room and cleared his throat. Hermione looked up at the older wizard, at least in his eighties, his hair and long beard a greyish white.

“Senior Resident Healer Macintyre Marshall Crampiddle,” he said, in way of introduction “Somebody here requires medical attention?

Snape had been standing silently while this muddled rush of supposed emergency aid had arrived, but now he spoke firmly and with authority, commanding despite his less than formal appearance.

“I was the one in need of a Healer,” he said smoothly. “Professor Severus Snape.”

The older man stepped forward and took Snape’s proffered hand, shaking it firmly.

“Fortunately, your services should not be required now. Miss Granger, here, performed an exemplary casting of the Redintegro spell. The wound healed very well.”

Hermione felt a little jump in her stomach at hearing her former teacher describe her work as exemplary, despite the years that had passed. Whilst he spoke he gestured to the new scar at his shoulder, the faintest trace of pinkish red the only indication of it being a recent acquisition.

The old Healer raised his bushy grey eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead in surprise, casting a feint mauve charm on the scar and watching it flare brightly, the light forming a shadow of the open wound above the healed skin. The gash widened a little, and purple lines of light slid down Snape’s bare chest, like blood. It made her feel a little sick.

Crampiddle stepped around to study the exit wound, his eyes taking in the fiercer light, on the professor’s back. He cast another charm of light, green this time, which fizzed and sparked as her spell had done, recreating the healing for the Healer to observe.

When the flashes of light had dispersed the old man nodded slowly and turned his watery blue eyes to Hermione.

“Very good,” he said then, walking towards her to shake her hand as well. “Very good indeed, my dear. Have you much experience with medical magic?”

“Shamefully little, I’m afraid,” she replied. “The last time I studied it seriously was back in the dark days, when we were preparing for the worst. With Harry.”

She turned to smile at the young man sitting in her armchair.

“An important aspect for Dumbledore’s Army to learn, no doubt.” Crampiddle said, with a smile. “Yes, Potter’s told me all about it. And your own reputation precedes you, Miss Granger. It doesn’t surprise me that you could perform such a complex spell so skilfully, and under such pressure. I shall be speaking to the Ministry about you, I think.”

The old Healer smiled widely again, and put a hand gently on her arm a moment. Hermione was liking him more every minute.

“Hermione saving the day again,” Harry said, standing and putting an arm round her, pulling her into a quick hug. “Always know just what to do, don’t you?”

He grinned at her, but she could only respond with a weak, awkward smile.

“Harry, don’t,” she muttered.

She pulled herself from his embrace self-consciously, as her eyes flicked across the room, to the man standing on bare feet and bare-chested, one eyebrow raised slightly as he looked steadily at the both of them. Harry always seemed to make her feel swotty, awkward with herself. And while he and the Healer had seemed to have forgotten the presence of the tall, dark man in the corner, Hermione was very aware of him. Feeling wary of his being there, somehow.

“Let’s go downstairs,” she said to Harry. “I’m sure Healer Crampiddle will want to examine Professor Snape, even after my administrations.”

They hurried from the room, but she couldn’t help glancing back at him, again. Meeting his dark eyes, still staring across the room at her, as she pulled the door closed behind them.

----------------------

Hermione filled the glass with orange juice using her wand, not trusting her tired, shaking hands, passing the tall tumbler over to her friend. She cast a charm to stir her tea, and then sat at the table with Harry, turning to look into his handsome face.

“That was a nifty bit of work from you, Mione,” he said. “We’re not even taught Redintegro during auror training. Where did you learn it?”

She shrugged.

“Snape was the one who knew it, he told me what to do. It was quite a simple spell,” she added, with a humble smile.

Harry was suddenly looking at her in surprise, his head shaking a little, in disbelief.

“Hermione… you mean you don’t know?”

He shook his head again, and then muttered, a little under his breath.

“But perhaps it was best, you not knowing… this time.”

“Harry,” she said. “What?”

His hand tapped at the table once or twice, then he continued.

“The reason we’re not allowed to use it during training is because of it’s incredibly high fail-rate. Even the greatest witches and wizards,” he said with emphasis. “Even the finest scholars at the Ministry, they seldom do it right, the first time. And without the aid of a seasoned professional to immediately reverse the effects…”

He shook his head.

“It’s horrible, Mione. Men screaming in pain, trapped in beds, nothing but sounds coming from writhing masses of flesh and bone. And, by then, irreversible.”

He dragged a hand down his face, across his mouth and stubbly chin.

“If you aren’t absolutely certain of yourself, at the moment of casting, to perform it correctly is nearly impossible.”

Hermione took a few deep breaths, and looked down with intent at the fine grain, of the wooden top of her kitchen table.

She lifted her cup to her lips and took a couple of sips of her hot, sweet tea, but the liquid fell uneasily into her empty stomach, already roiling at the things Harry was telling her. In the time that had passed since her unexpected patient had recovered, she had managed to convince herself that the task she had performed – that the danger he’d been in – had been minimal.

But the reality was far from it, it seemed, and Harry was right in guessing that it was a good thing she’d not known the truth, beforehand.

“Tell me everything, from the beginning,” Harry said.

So she related the whole tale, from the moment his knocking surprised her, to cleaning up the blood from her floorboards, afterwards.

When she was describing the second she’d managed to steel her courage and perform the spell, however, she omitted some things from her narration. The way he had gently laid his hand on hers, the way he’d said her name, and the trust he had placed in her.

Harry pressed her, asking how she’d pulled herself together, what had steadied her nerves, at the pivotal moment. But she told him that her courage must have risen when it counted, as it always had, and shown her the way with clarity. She felt a little guilty, keeping the truth from him.

But now she knew the danger Snape had placed himself in, under her care, his trust in her seemed to be more than just reassuring words. He must have genuinely believed in her ability, enough at least to prefer her trying rather than his certain death, and if his words had been so true, she felt it was important to keep them safely to herself, like a secret.

If what Harry was saying was correct, the snarky, arrogant man who had always managed to belittle her so effectively had, at the critical moment, instilled in her an absolute self-belief.

Harry continued to congratulate her unashamedly, after she had finished recounting the night, but even then there was still no sign of the two older men upstairs. Hermione refilled their drinks, and they paused in friendly silence.

“Is Ginny okay?” Hermione asked, after a while. “And Ron and the family?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “Gin’s got her hands full with little James, but she gets more beautiful every day.”

Harry’s eyes shifted away, and a dreamy look came over his face, as he mentioned his wife and son. Hermione couldn’t help the twinge of loneliness she felt, and the stirrings of the little green monster of jealousy, deep inside. She longed for a family, for herself, for children.

But mostly she longed for a lover. She craved a deep love, the closeness, the touch of someone.

Anyone.

Harry didn’t seem to notice her sadness, though, as he continued.

“Ron’s been making some great inventions at the shop with George, and they are looking into expanding to Hogsmeade too, now Zonko’s retiring. Molly and Arthur are the same as ever, but they got a lovely big extension done on The Burrow, so Molly’s been a pleasure since it was finished. It’s nice, while it lasts,” he added, with a smile.

“Does Ron… have anybody?” Hermione asked then, hesitating a little, not knowing how to say it, at first.

“Sometimes,” said Harry, scratching his face awkwardly. “None of them seem to be around for long.”

Another silence fell, this one not so comfortable, but then the stairs creaked as someone descended.

At first Hermione thought that it was just Crampiddle, making his way with caution down the rickety staircase, but Snape was following close behind.

He had his hair tied back, wearing it much longer now, and his face was surprisingly more open without the dark curtains covering it, something she’d never seen before. His long fingers fastened the top few buttons of his black shirt, that she’d cleaned and repaired, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow as they approached the table.

As he pulled out one of the chairs, Hermione noticed the pale red lines of what had once been his Dark Mark, on the inside of his left arm. Her gaze travelled up his body to his face, and her stomach dropped, as she looked straight into the dark of his black eyes. The look he gave her was fierce, intense, unfathomable.

She felt the blush rise in her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes again, feeling like an idiot for staring.

“Miss Granger, I must congratulate you again,” Healer Crampiddle said, as he folded his old frame into another of the chairs. “I understand tonight was your first time using the Redintegro spell in any capacity?”

The old man raised his eyebrows at her, and she nodded, mumbling something in the affirmative.

“Extraordinary,” he said, beaming at her. “Really a marvellous feat. I don’t know if you’ve ever considered a career as a Healer, but with your obvious talent, I could offer you a place on any of our courses without hesitation, if you wanted. Please do consider my offer.”

She nodded awkwardly, again.

“I think you need to answer some questions for us,” Harry said then, interrogating Snape without hesitation. “Hermione said you told her it was a ninja that stabbed you. Is that true?”

Hermione glanced across the table to the man opposite her. Snape was leant back slightly, with his arms crossed against his chest, as if to repel their inquisitive stares. With a slight frown, he reached his arms out in front of him, and laid his elegant hands flat on the table. His eyes were staring down at the grain as hers had done. At length, he spoke.

“His name is Murasaki Tatsuji, a member of the elusive and revered Murasaki clan, one of the most powerful underground families in both the wizarding and muggle worlds.”

Hermione’s mind was spinning with questions, but she listened intently to her former professor, his words quiet and deep.

“They are a universally feared wizarding family in Japan, open supporters of the Dark Lord during his time, and no stranger to the Dark Arts since then. They hold many wizarding families under their thumb. They’re feared by muggles too, a family with a dark history spanning over a thousand years, ruthlessly trained.”

He slid his hands together and laced his long fingers, looking down at his hands, as he spoke.

Despite herself, she couldn’t help staring at his hands, either.

“Masters of several forms of martial arts, skilled at both assassination and espionage, each member uses their considerable skills to rule with a mob-like hand, over gangs of petty criminals, around the globe. Meticulous in their planning, unstoppable in their pursuit. That Murasaki Tatsuji will kill me I have no doubt. It is merely a question of when.”

Hermione felt a cold chill chase down her spine, her head filled with the shadowy figures of masked men, relentless killers of unknown skill, that hid in the shadows. She found it hard to gather her thoughts together.

“Is there not some way he can be reasoned with?” Harry asked. “And surely you can match him, the way you can fight?”

Even as the young man spoke, however, Crampiddle shook his head sadly. Snape jerked his head too, from side to side once, his uncharacteristic ponytail swinging at his shoulder.

“He is a man intent on revenge,” Snape replied. “He will not stop until I am dead at his feet. As for my matching his skills with my own, I have struggled to succeed, even thus far. I might be able to match his magic, but there is no denying his physical ability. He can hide in the slimmest shadow, he can kill me with one hand, and he has a patience and tenacity that would drive a normal man insane.”

He brought his hands up and rubbed his fists into his eyes a moment, another uncharacteristically human gesture for him, and then spoke once more.

“A ninja – any ninja – would be a formidable foe. This wizard ninja fills my soul with terror. My magic is perhaps a little stronger, but he still has the advantage. He has already tracked me long enough to know the very core of my fighting techniques,” he admitted. “And now I am also without my wand.”

They were silent as he finished speaking, and the silence remained for a while, wrapped round them all. After a while Hermione took a deep breath, and asked the next question.

“Why is he after you?” she asked. “What is he seeking revenge for?”

His eyes, which had been focused downwards for the duration of his speech, lifted now and fixed on hers. She swallowed, nibbling on her bottom lip. This man made her nervous, and it dawned on her that perhaps she wouldn’t like to know what he’d done, to become a target.

He might have been thinking the same, since his steady gaze continued to hold her own, and despite his furrowed brow and straight lips, his face seemed to show signs of consideration. Then his eyes were staring at his clasped hands again, and he answered her.

“While I was working on the other side, I was tasked by the Dark Lord to kill an emissary from Japan, after negotiations went awry.”

Snape paused a moment, and his eyes rested on Harry, whose auror badge was glinting in the light of the kitchen. But he still continued.

“Her name was Murasaki Shiori, a strong and powerful woman, so brave she looked me in the eye and didn’t blink, as I killed her.”

Snape’s own eyes closed then.

“She was the wife of Tatsuji, not a Murasaki by birth but more than worthy of the name, and her death is the reason he seeks to kill me.”

After another brief moment his eyes opened again, she felt awareness creeping across her skin as he stared at her, their gazes tangled.

“I hope you understand that I don’t blame him for his actions, nor do I resent his choice. The pain I must have caused him is unspeakable.”

Hermione held his gaze for a brief moment more, and then felt a thrill of awkward embarrassment, glancing her eyes away again. After just a moment, though, she regretted it. She looked back to his face, wanting to express her understanding at his feelings, to convey somehow her thoughts on his compassion. But he was looking at Harry and at Crampiddle as they started talking quickly and loudly and in unison, and he did not look at her again.

“We need additional reinforcements,” Crampiddle was saying.

“The first priority is more men on the ground, and a secure place for you to stay,” Harry said.

“This position remains secluded and secure,” Snape countered. “I don’t anticipate him being able to track me here for at least a further twenty-four hours.”

He turned to her then.

“If you would be so gracious as to continue allowing me to stay?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she mumbled, with an awkward nod.

Though she tried to speak clearly, her mouth was dry, and she felt extremely uncomfortable. She didn’t know if it was the intense fear she felt, at the knowledge of a masked killer who was, even now, probably tracking his quarry to her small, isolated cottage.

Or was it the way the professor kept looking at her, so directly, so openly?

Getting quickly to her feet, she busied herself, cleaning the glasses and cups they had used and returning them to the cupboards.

“We need to send for more aurors directly. We can get more quads in to protect the perimeter, if one of us goes now, Mac,” Harry said, addressing the Healer to his left. “Plus we need to file a statement and get Kingsley to post the area on alert. Mione, could we put you on the secure floo network?”

She looked at him warily.

“It would only be between Kingsley’s office and here,” he added, hastily. “And it has no effect on your apparation point preferences whatsoever.”

“Well, okay then, I guess,” Hermione conceded, but she felt the uncertain doubt, deep inside. “I’ll be taken off as soon as it’s finished, though?”

Although Harry nodded emphatically at her, she was not reassured.

It suddenly dawned on her – really rather slowly, considering her capable mind – that this would be finished soon, but likely with the loss of human life. At best they might capture this Murasaki ninja, though that seemed unlikely.

The reality would be that either the Japanese wizard would lose his life, or the Snape would lose his.

She looked over at him, sat at her kitchen table, a man she’d always thought of as old. But he wasn’t, she realised now. Not really. He sat with his head in his hands, his long fingers slipping into his dark hair, his eyes staring straight down at the table.

Hermione leant against the sideboard and crossed her arms, paying little attention to Harry and Crampiddle’s hurried discussion, trying to estimate a precise age for him, this quiet man. Approximately twenty years older than her, she considered, thinking of the age Harry’s parents had been, when they’d died.

Around forty-four.

The number rolled round her head with some weight attached to it, drawing many different thoughts out, into the open. Her first thought was how young it really seemed – how young he seemed – to be faced with his mortality. They were living in the summer days, now, and he was just a teacher, an honest wizard, who could easily have another sixty good years left, at least. But now, in this time of peace, a shadow from his past was tracking him down, determined to kill him.

The way he cradled his head in his hands, the smooth veins prominent on the skin of his bare, raised forearms, even the unfamiliar ponytail. There was a vulnerability about him, that she’d never seen before. He looked tired and nervous and – she realised suddenly – afraid, and much too young to die.

Forty-four, and my old professor, she thought to herself. So why can’t I stop looking at him?

Her eyes lingered, taking in the white knuckles on his long fingers, the dark black of the thick line of hair hanging at his shoulder. She bit at her lower lip as she considered the dark stubble on his cheek, and the width of his thin shoulders. She suddenly remembered them bare and his lithe, smooth back working, as he rolled in that spry movement in her bedroom, and her heart raced a little.

He seemed to be lost in a world of his own, but it might have been possible that he was looking at her discretely, even that he was reading her very thoughts.

But she didn’t care if he knew these thoughts, she decided. She was almost half his age, he had once held a position of authority over her, and the events of his past were dark and macabre. But sitting here now at her kitchen table, as the early morning light crept in, he was the finest looking wizard she had ever seen.

“Are you alright with that, Hermione?” Harry said to her.

“Err… what?” Hermione said, sheepishly.

She felt another blush rising in her cheeks as Harry raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. She knew her friend had caught her staring open mouthed, and even worse, since it was so unlike her, not paying attention. She made sure she did, this time.

“Mac will stay here while I head back to HQ and set up the floo. It has to be done from that end. Then I’ll floo back with more aurors. I know at least Harding and McKinney are making their way here already, over the terrain. They should be here in twenty minutes or so. I suggest you get some sleep now, while you can. You can’t have had more than an hour this morning. You have your wand?”

She nodded quickly.

“Good,” Harry smiled. “I’ll see if I can bring a compatible match as a replacement for Snape's wand with me, when I return. In the meantime, Mac thinks he should rest too if he can. Have you got somewhere he could stay?”

Hermione nodded again.

“Yes,” she said, but it came out as a whisper.

“Try and sleep soon then,” Harry said. “I’ll be as quick as I can, but it’s ten miles before I can apparate, and the floo will take some time. Expect me before six. The others will be here soon anyway.”

“I’ll be okay,” Hermione assured him. “We’ll be okay. Go on, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Harry gave her a quick hug, and then shook Crampiddle’s and Snape’s hands, before grabbing his cloak and departing. Hermione turned to the Healer.

“Would you like a cup of tea, mister Crampiddle?” she asked.

“No, no. I’ll be alright. I’ll make a start on these forms before Harding and McKinney arrive. Sleep well, my dear,” he added with a smile, heading towards the sitting room.

Hermione was left alone in the kitchen with the professor, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do. He sat absolutely still for a few moments more.

“Professor?” she said hesitantly, eventually.

Then he finally moved, standing to his full height and stretching slightly. He didn’t look at her or say anything, but he took a couple of steps towards her, which she took to mean his intention to follow. She led her way up the stairs. When she reached the landing and opened the door to her room, she noticed that he hesitated in the doorway, not immediately entering behind her.

“Come on in,” she called out, as she began to transfigure the armchair into a makeshift bed.

He stood for a second or two more, and then stepped just one step into the room, still hovering uncertainly, like he might bolt at any moment.

“I don’t have a guest room or anything,” she said, suddenly feeling apologetic. “But I’ll be alright here, if you take the bed.”

The professor’s dark eyes swept once over the cramped, temporary bed, and then settled on her, focusing on her face again.

“You take the bed, Miss Granger.”

She felt her knees wobble slightly at the sound of his rich, smooth voice saying the word bed, but it did not stop her from protesting.

“No, you’ve been hurt,” she argued, but he interrupted.

“I managed to sleep after your treatment. As far as I am aware you have not slept at all, since my arrival. I insist you take the bed.”

His tone was clipped and strong, as it had been when he’d taught her. But then his face softened a bit, and his voice was quieter, a deep whisper, when he spoke again.

“Since I will undoubtedly be needing your assistance, yet again, I would appreciate it if you slept well, now.”

She still didn’t feel absolutely right about the arrangement, but she also didn’t want to argue with him, and since it was already past eight in the morning she would be hard pressed to get any sleep at all, if she didn’t try soon. She walked over to the window and pulled her curtains across, so that the morning light was blocked, at least a little. There was still enough light to see by, just, but the added darkness seemed to quiet the room and – irrationally – made it seem a little safer.

“Well, sleep well, sir,” Hermione said, as she weaved her way past him, towards the bed.

As she passed, however, he put a hand out and caught her arm gently, keeping her near him. Once she was still he lowered his hand again.

“Miss Granger,” he said, then hesitated. “Hermione. I must thank you.”

She interrupted again.

“Professor…”

“No, please,” he said quickly, with his head down, and she was quiet. “I must thank you, not only for saving my life, but also for trusting me, and allowing me into your home. I know what a shock it must have been to you.”

He looked up then, looking her in the eyes.

“You've still got some questions, I’m sure. But when I first arrived here I was afraid that you might not even let me inside. I really am most grateful that you did.”

She swallowed nervously; her eyes were wide. Now that he had lifted his head to look at her, she realised how close he was, how close they both were in the dim, quiet room. She looked up into his face, and realised she would only need to reach up, and she could kiss his lips. The lips which looked so appealing currently, traced into a very slight, soft smile.

She shook herself, reminding herself that she had just imagined kissing her old professor, and spoke a hasty but heartfelt reply.

“I accept your gratitude but really, it’s not needed.”

He shook his head again, and she reached out instinctively, gently grasping his arm and squeezing reassuringly.

“Really,” she said, again. “Of course I would have let you in.”

Too late, she realised she had stepped even closer to him, so close she could smell him. The smell of his laboratories, and a feint touch of woody cologne, swirling in her head suddenly.

“I have never found it hard…”

She swallowed again, awkwardly, since it seemed he was leaning even nearer to her, too.

“To trust you,” she whispered.

His face was only inches away from hers now, tantalisingly close, and it occurred to her that, since he did not seem to be pulling away, he might just want her as much as she wanted him.

And she did want him, so badly she could feel it in her heart, under her skin. The air between them crackled, with the energy she felt pulling them together, and she inched ever so slightly nearer. His black gaze swept over her face, lingering on her lips for a moment, before tangling with her own again.

The briefest of seconds seemed to stretch on and on.

Then he stepped away from her, walking with a determined stride and a clearing of his throat, back to the small, makeshift bed which she had provided. He climbed into the bed and zipped himself up, so that only his black hair was visible, sticking out from the top of the transfigured sleeping bag.

Hermione got under the duvet, before she slipped her jeans off, throwing them onto the chair next to her. The covers were soft, the cotton sheets warm, and a deep, weary tiredness swept over her. It didn’t take her long to fall into a deep sleep.

Before she did, though, she stared up at the canopy above her. Trying hard, to ignore the commanding presence of the man in her room, and how close he had come to kissing her.

Chapter Text

Hermione didn’t wake suddenly, or with a start. Rather, more slowly and lazily, drifting in and out of her dreams before she finally woke properly.

She stretched out in the wide bed, stifling a yawn, her arms reaching above her head as she groaned in the luxurious pleasure of her stretch.

Her eyelids were still heavy, but beneath her long lashes, she suddenly noticed him standing at the window, the curtains drawn wide and the light pouring in, his back to her. Her stretch was prematurely ended, as she jerked her arms back to her sides, and pulled the duvet up to her neck again. Then she silently cursed herself for being bashful, and for worrying about what he thought about her, and for just thinking too much.

She glanced across at the clock on her nightstand, squinting at the hands. It was quarter to four in the afternoon, and she felt a bit strange waking up at such an hour, but her body felt thoroughly rested and raring to go, at least. Her mind had clarity, no longer plagued with the gentle, persistent buzz of tiredness ringing through it. She brought her hands up to her face, rubbing her eyes, and then she looked once again at the figure at her window.

He was standing absolutely still, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders set and held back so that his posture was as she remembered. Straight, sturdy and very, very tall.

His eyes were fixed on something far in the distance, or perhaps many things, through the old glass of her sash windows.

His hair was loose now, falling down past his shoulders, obscuring most of his face. He was once again wearing his back shirt and trousers, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows as before, her unhindered view of his long arms, the lines of dark hair and scars, affecting her insides more than arms really should.

She shook her head, and then ran her fingers into her own hair, wincing when she felt how unruly and wild it must look.

He turned his head then, looking towards her, but keeping his body facing towards the window.

“Good afternoon,” he murmured.

Then he looked back at the view outside.

“Good afternoon,” she repeated, her voice still rough with sleep. “Did you sleep well?”

“Tolerably,” he said, with a single nod of his head.

She sat quietly amongst the white sheets for a pensive moment, looking at him, and at her hands, and back to him again. Then she flung the sheets back and heaved herself out of the bed.

It was only when she felt the cool air of the room on her legs that she remembered that her jeans were still on the chair, and realised that she was standing in her bedroom with a former teacher on whom she seemed to have quickly developed a strong and alarming crush, in little more than her t-shirt. She nearly dived back beneath the covers.

Instead she grabbed her jeans and bent over to put them on. Though she couldn’t see him, she heard him, she felt him, turning to watch her.

It’s Snape, a voice in her mind said. Snape!

Maybe it was her rational side, screaming at her. But it was losing to her desire, the strongest desire she had felt, for a very long time. And in her mind, nestled darkly from the moment she’d seen him on waking, the undeniable truth that today might be the day he died. She might as well give him a look.

She glanced over her shoulder, as she buttoned up her fly, catching his eye and smiling at him. Trying to make it as obvious as possible, that she really didn’t mind his looking. He didn’t smile back, however, and turned swiftly to look out of the window once more.

At the door, she hesitated, her hand gripping the doorknob.

Her mouth opened as she pondered what she could say, to the straight back across the room from her, but she could think of nothing that seemed at all appropriate on any level, so she shut her mouth again and headed to the bathroom.

----------------------

There was nobody in the kitchen, when she went downstairs, but the tabletop was strewn with bits and pieces of food, and dirty plates and cups. The sink, too, was full of dirty dishes. Hermione was amazed, she’d only been upstairs for seven hours, not seven days, but the room looked as though an army had eaten there.

She found it impossible to believe that Crampiddle could have eaten so much, since his old frame was so small, like a sparrow. When she walked into her sitting room, however, her questions were answered.

Crampiddle was sitting in the armchair, now positioned opposite the sofa, with her small wooden coffee table between. The healer was leant forward and considering, with great concentration, a game of wizarding chess that was set up in the centre of the table.

A young man with short brown hair and dressed in auror robes was sat on the sofa, also leaning into the table, with a look of total involvement. Another, older auror sat next to him, a grin spreading all the way across his wide face, and a third young man with sandy hair was sitting cross legged on the floor.

All four of them were holding plates of something edible, and they all were eating continuously, their hands bringing snacks to their mouths in strange, automatic motions.

“It makes no difference what you play, Dan,” the grinning man said, with a chuckle. “You’ll never beat ol’ Mac.”

“Never say never,” the old man said, without moving his eyes from the board.

The brown-haired man called Dan smiled then, and said his orders to his bishop, who boldly marched diagonally a few squares. The grinning man laughed out loud, then, and slapped Dan on the back.

“Better luck next time, Danny Boy,” he said.

Crampiddle muttered under his breath, and his queen strode forward past the bishop, and took the rook guarding the rival king, instead.

“Checkmate,” he said, and he took his opponent’s hand and shook it.

“Never say never, huh? Dan said with a grin.

“Don’t despair, Harding. There’s plenty of time for you to beat me yet,” the old man replied with a laugh, and the other two aurors were smiling too.

Hermione stepped forward into the room, and the old Healer smiled when he saw her.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” he said. “Let me introduce Daniel Harding, Stewart McKinney and Benjamin Harris.”

She shook their hands, in turn.

“You’re the one who did that remarkably neat Redintegro on Snape?” the sandy-haired man called Harris asked her.

“The very girl,” Crampiddle said, not giving her time to answer herself. “The finest example of the spell I’ve seen in quite a while, and on the very first try. Extraordinary.”

“Extraordinary you could find it in you to heal the snarky bastard,” the grinning man called McKinney said. “He almost made my auror career non-existent, due to his sadistic NEWT potion lessons. Fair play to you, Miss Granger.”

Hermione smiled back, and she kept grinning, as she sat on the window seat and let their conversations go on around her. The four men were obviously friends, and used to debates, their loud voices filling her tiny living room. It was so noisy and loud and different, from her usual, solitary life.

They still teased her about saving their former professor now and then, Stewart in particular, and she chuckled with them.

But she was distracted, as she thought about the man upstairs. Remembering the way his dark stare had tangled with hers, in the dim room, in the early morning. Remembering the way his back had flexed, as he’d rolled, the way he’d held his head in his beautiful hands.

She didn’t know how he could have altered so much, in her opinion, and in such a short amount of time. But even as she recalled the torture he’d put her and Neville through too, during her own lessons, she didn’t dislike him now, as these three young men did.

Far, far from it.

“I suppose I’d better take him some tea or something,” she said, eventually. “Harry will be back soon, won’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” said Crampiddle, looking at his wristwatch. “Shouldn’t be long now, although you never know with secure floos. Used to be a pig of a thing to set up, back in my auror days. We’ve got perimeter alarms set up now, anyway, with two patrols and intrusion warnings. Plus some added oomph, due to your fantastic wards. Safe as houses for now, my dear, and we’ll send Potter up when he gets here.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, smiling warmly. “Do you need anything?”

“No, no,” Crampiddle told her, standing too with a huff and once more shaking her hand, only this time with both hands, so warmly. “Come and play me at chess if he gets too tiring.”

“I will.”

She smiled again, and waved to the others as she made her way into the kitchen, and they smiled and waved back and called to her as she did. She was still grinning at their loud laughter, while she quickly cleaned up the dishes. Then she made a cup of tea and carried it carefully upstairs.

He was still standing with his back to the door, staring out of the window. He didn’t turn as she entered, or glance down, as she placed the mug on the sill next to him.

“I don’t know if you like tea,” she said. “I should have asked.”

“Thank you,” he replied, turning to her slightly. “I do drink tea, but I prefer black coffee. When at school –”

He hesitated then, and gave her a strange look, before turning back to the window.

“I find I need the extra caffeine,” he finished.

“I was never a fan of coffee,” Hermione said.

He was silent, back straight, hands behind him, just gazing out of the window.

Hermione stood next to him and stared out herself, watching the patches of sun and clouds roll across the rugged, jagged hills, surrounding the cottage on all sides.

They stood together in silence, but a comfortable one, Hermione wondering how she could approach the subject she had been wanting to discuss since she had opened her door to find him standing there.

In the end she needn't have bothered, because he led the conversation there anyway, of his own accord.

“You have a lovely situation here, Miss Granger,” he said. “So quiet and peaceful, and so far away from everything. The views are exquisite.”

“Yes, I love the Peak District,” she said. “My family used to holiday here sometimes, when I was little. I found that it suited my… specific requirements, quite well.

“Ah, yes,” he said, quietly. “Your requirements.”

His dark eyes still staring out, at the rolling hills, stretching towards the horizon.

She turned to look up at him, at the profile of his face in the daylight, his large nose and furrowed brow casting shadows. Still he continued to just stare outside.

She felt just a twinge of annoyance rise in her, and although she didn’t usually lose her temper – and certainly wouldn’t have dreamt of questioning her former, formidable teacher, two days ago – she could not contain her frustration, at his blunt statement.

“And how much do you know about my requirements, exactly?”

Her tone was even more cynical than she had meant it to be.

He turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, but for the third time since his arrival a smile played on his lips. Only the merest hint of one, curling the very corners of his mouth. But it was a smile none the less, and Hermione could have kicked herself for almost… almost… swooning.

He turned back to the window, and she opened her mouth to say something else, something just as cynical, but decided against it. She turned to the view again, too, blackbirds gliding silently past the window.

In a while, he spoke.

“You can’t have believed that I wouldn’t recognise your rather particular writing style.”

A sudden, sickening feeling swooped low, in her stomach.

“I’d read enough of your essays during your school career, to notice the verbose formatting, the literary-like inclination for complex sentence structures. Even the deliberately convoluted introductions.”

His smile might have widened a little, but his gaze remained fixed on the view, as did hers.

“But, to balance it all, the simple, sure and absolute conclusions. Always certain, irrefutable. So knowing.”

His tone here made her glance at him, but it wasn’t absolutely sarcastic. There was a something softer there, something she’d never heard from him, before.

“But also so –” he broke off, hesitated for the slightest of moments. “So gentle. You never pushed your conclusions, but lead one to them, as if you were sharing a secret.”

His voice was quieter and relaxed, almost conversational now, and she smiled to herself. He hadn’t answered her question directly, yet, but she didn’t care. She had strong feeling that they were heading there.

More seconds drifted past, both of them were silent, just looking out the window. Then he spoke again, still clear and deep, but with the genuine, open tone of companionable conversation.

“Miss Granger, due to the situation we are facing, I may as well be honest with you. And so you should know that there have only been three essays which I have read in my life, that have actually given me goosebumps.”

She turned to look at him and he turned to look at her.

“Two of them were yours,” he finished simply, still with his wry smile.

She actually laughed in her surprise, in the pleasure of his confession and compliment, and she ginned widely as she replied in delight.

“No, really? Do you remember which ones?”

“With clarity,” he said, his smile slipping just a little wider. “The first time was when I read your Fourth-Year essay on the true importance of proper balance in potions with a neutral base.”

“Ah yes,” she chuckled. “The balance is important with any base, but neutral bases are impossible to achieve in truly balanced potions. I didn’t share that particular revelation with Harry and Ron, when I found it.”

She thought she might have seen him twitch, but maybe not at all, at the names of her friends.

“I still have a copy of that essay,” she admitted.

“So do I.”

There was no denying it, he was actually smiling now. His lips were still pressed together, but his thin smile was threatening to stretch from ear to ear. He turned back to the view, but the smile remained.

“As with every cohort I’d taught before, nobody else in the year had discovered the trick question, hidden in the title. And as I started your contribution, I thought for a few minutes that it had evaded you, too.”

His smile became a smirk for a moment, as he looked down at her again. But she didn’t see it, as she was the one to resolutely keep staring out of the window, this time.

“I thought, for one glorious moment,” he said, silkily, to her profile. “That I might actually have been able to give you something lower than an E.”

She laughed again and turned to him, knowing that he meant it as a sort of joke, as unbelievable as it seemed, coming from him. He turned back to window, as she looked at him. It almost seemed easier for him to talk, when they weren’t looking right at each other. She wondered if it might be helping them detach from the past, a little.

“But no,” he said, and his voice was soft and quiet. “Three inches of parchment from the bottom and there it was, subtle and brilliant. The most deserving Outstanding I ever gave.”

He paused, still smiling.

“I got chills down my spine when I read it.”

“I remember waiting to put that revelation in at the last possible moment, before the final conclusion. I was particularly proud of that one,” she told him.

His arm was so near to hers. Almost touching, yet carefully not.

“So you should be,” he murmured.

She felt a thrill of happiness, unlike any she’d had for a very long time. She felt as if she could throw her arms up into the air and run about her bedroom screeching in glee, so pleased it made her, to hear this praise and admiration from her most severe critic. Even when he had been so cruel to her, in her lessons, her essays had still been able to give him chills.

She didn’t cheer. But she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and grinned like a fool.

More moments passed.

“The second time,” he said, at length. “Was when I read your extraordinary paper on sustainable perception brews, with definitive proof of second-elemental links therein, published under the name of Ernie Macmillan.”

And there it was, the reason why she was so isolated, so far from her family and friends.

He had smoothly brought the conversation back round to her original question, and managed to take her a little by surprise, despite the subject of their conversation.

She turned and walked to the end of the bed, sitting down quickly, her knees feeling weak.

He turned to face her, but the light was behind him now, and she couldn’t see him clearly. Yet she could tell that his smile had gone.

“I thought, somehow, that it was not a pen name of your own choice?” he said.

She nodded silently.

“I immediately went to McGonagall,” he continued. “Stating my certainty that the article was undoubtedly written by you, and not that worm, Macmillan. Offering samples of your work as proof, if needed. She told me you had decided to not assert your rights to the piece against Macmillan, despite the fact it was blatant plagiarism.”

Again, Hermione nodded.

“He was my editor,” she told him, looking up at him.

He stepped nearer to her, and she could see his face more clearly, again. Could see his deep frown.

“He’d been reading over my notes, as I made significant advancements, and he claimed he knew someone at the Ministry Journal for Brewing, who would publish the paper for me.”

“Of course he knew someone!” Snape snapped. “Anyone at any magical journal would have published an article posing definitive proof of second-elemental links in sustainable brews! It’s one of the most significant finds in the field since Arkwright’s Principle Stabilisers, twenty years ago!”

He was pacing now, back and forth across the small room, sounding more than ever like her evil old potions teacher, as he waved his attractive hands in derisive gestures. But even though the subject was painful, and his tone harsh, she was smiling at his indignation, on her part.

“Surely it could not have escaped you, the impact of your discovery? You knew it was important, why didn’t you keep it secret?”

He stopped now, in front of her, standing just feet away, glaring down at her as she looked up at him. She shook her head and raised her shoulders up in a semi-shrug of uncertainty.

“I was trusting,” she said, simply. “I was hard up for money at the time, and Ernie offered to edit and promote it for me for free. I didn’t think to say no.”

Her shoulders were slumped now, and her arms drooped in her lap. She stared down at the carpet, between their feet. Suddenly she felt the dip and bounce of the bed, as he sat down beside her.

“It was a mistake. Of course it was a mistake,” she said sadly, feeling the beginning of tears creeping up in her throat, but she refused to let them win. “The worst mistake of my life,” she added.

“And you became a recluse. You bought this property, you broke off your engagement with the youngest mister Weasley, and have not been seen at any wizarding social occasion since. I looked for you,” he said, quietly. “While the potions world lavished their praise on Macmillan, I was determined to tell you, and only you, just how impressed I was by that piece. I was astounded. To say I got chills reading that article would be a significant understatement.”

She smiled again at his praise, still looking at the carpet.

“But it’s nearly five years now, and I never saw you.”

“No,” she said, with another sad shake of her head. “Ernie offered me a lot of money, when his conscience kicked in I think, and I took it happily. I moved here, where I had space and time and everything I needed, and here’s where I stayed.”

“With an apparation ban for a ten-mile radius, concealed and warded, to an even greater extent than Hogwarts. Did you really trust no-one?”

“Nobody,” she said, with the slightest of sighs. “I don’t think I really wanted to trust anyone, if you know what I mean?”

“More than you can know,” was his soft reply. “But it’s a sorry affair to find a Gryffindor reduced to such a state.”

He was joking again. She did smile, but she felt horrible inside, and was quiet.

“It’s not like you, Hermione,” he said, whispering her name again, into the quiet room. “I never thought I would see the day when you would fail to trust, anymore.”

“As much as I might have wanted to trust no-one, it’s a lesson I’ve not learned yet, it seems.”

She turned to look at him.

“I let you in, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.”

He spoke quietly, but seriously too, his dark eyes staring into her own.

“Though I still can’t imagine why.”

“Well, you were hurt. I could hardly leave you to die on my doorstep.”

“Very courteous of you,” he said, with a smirk.

“And… well. I was curious.”

She couldn’t help looking away from him then, nibbling on her lip. But he leant forward, until he could catch her eye again, despite herself.

“Curious?” he asked, still smirking at her.

She laughed, leaning towards him for just a moment, so her arm bumped gently against the warmth of his.

“Yes, curious. About what had happened to you, what had harmed you. But mostly what the hell you were doing at my door. And that’s something you’ve yet to answer. How did you get here? How, and why?”

He stood again, walking over to the window and resuming his usual stance, once more gazing into the distance. He cleared his throat, before he spoke.

“I was stabbed by Murasaki at my old family home, at Spinner’s End. I had only apparated there to fool him, but as you are aware, I was double-guessed, and a nasty sting awaited me. I was able to stun him for long enough to apparate elsewhere and – somehow - it was to your cottage, to you, that I decided to journey.”

He turned his head a little, maybe glancing back at her, but then he faced the window again.

“I would like to say it was a carefully considered decision, but what choice can be fully considered, when it is made in an instant? I knew I needed somewhere safe, somewhere secluded. I needed somebody competent enough to save me, but in a place where he might not be likely to follow, unlike St. Mungos. Everything I needed was here. I assume that’s why I chose this location.”

“But how?” she asked, again.

She was desperate to know more, even though she was secretly rather thrilled, knowing her safe haven was something akin to that in his eyes, too.

“How did you apparate here? You couldn’t have walked ten miles with that stab wound. You must have apparated near to the house, and that’s impossible.”

Something in her mind clicked.

“Unless…”

“Yes,” he said, interrupting her thought. “I used a pointfinder with it.”

“But that would mean you’d been here before.”

She knew full well that he would've needed to cast a remembering spell somewhere close, to set the pointfinder to.

“That’s impossible,” she said again, a little shakily. “Not even Harry knew exactly where I lived, before today. Nobody knew…”

She trailed off, not knowing what to think.

“I had been here before,” he admitted. “And it was possible, but not at all easy. It took me many months before I found even a hint of a clue, as to where you might have gone. And the further I delved, the more obvious it became that you were skilled indeed, at hiding yourself. I must admit that finding you became something of an obsession to me, one summer.”

He turned and looked at her then, looking somewhat remorseful, one eyebrow twitched slightly higher.

“But I hope you don’t find that too alarming. It was like a most excellent puzzle to me. I had to solve it.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I know how you like puzzles.”

And she couldn’t help smiling at him a little wryly, remembering the potion riddle of his that she had solved, in order help Harry reach the Philosopher’s stone, many years ago.

“Eventually I found the place, although it took me much longer than I care to admit,” he said, with a shadow of his own wicked smile, and turned back to the window. “And once I had, I knew I must remember it. I knew that one day, just knowing of somewhere so secure, so far away, would save my skin.”

He cleared his throat again.

“And I was right,” he finished.

“Well you might have thought to call in then,” she replied. “And given me fair warning that you might be dropping by, mortally wounded and at unsociable hours, rather than just appearing, out of the night. But I’m glad my home could be of some use to you, regardless.”

He turned to her just long enough to give her a strange look, as if he were trying to decide whether she was joking or not, and she realised that she wasn’t really sure herself.

While it was flattering that he admired her home so much, this invasion into her carefully curated privacy, and his stalker-like admissions, were worrying to her on many levels. Though, when she considered it, she was mostly just put out that he had been able to find her at all. She had thought she could keep everyone out, but apparently she was mistaken.

“I should have come inside,” he whispered quietly, surprising her.

She looked at his straight back, his hands clasped behind him. He still gazed out at the distant hills.

“I could see you through the window, alone, and I wanted to talk to you badly. I wanted to congratulate you on your paper. But for some reason, I hesitated. I found that the main reason I’d had, for finding you, was no longer relevant, and calling in on you without a legitimate excuse would have seemed out of character, to say the least.”

He gave a dry bark of a laugh then, but it was harsh, and without humour.

“But I shall be dead soon, so I can be honest with you, now.”

“Very well then,” Hermione said, rising to the challenge. “Tell me. Why did you want to find me, really? The real reason.”

She stood from her seat at the end of the bed, and went to stand next to him, joining him in his watching from the window. She saw him turn to her, from the corner of her eye. But she kept her own gazed focused on the ragged, rolling edges of the peaks, around the cottage.

“I was hoping, bluntly, to enter into some sort of business agreement with you. I’ve undertaken many hours of research on second-elemental links myself, and I thought that you might wish to further your own investigations, with the help of my findings. Perhaps even work together, to discover more on the subject.”

He brought his hands round in front of him, then, lacing his fingers and pressing the pads of his thumbs together.

“It had not been long, since your paper was published, and I thought you would be eager to beat Macmillan to the next stage. I thought that, perhaps, your past opinions of me might not prevent our being able to work together now that you’re… older,” he finished, with unusual hesitance.

“And why did you change your mind? About proposing that, to me?”

She was surprised at how calm she could make her voice sound, when her insides were spinning with a mixture of elated joy and crippling dread, as to what he would say next.

“I made my decision based on my observations of this cottage, when I saw it. Of your life here. I was thorough in my scrutiny, believe me. I didn’t want my initial assessments to be true, but they were. You had turned your back on potions, at least at a professional level. You never leave, if I understand it correctly, and you’ve no space for a laboratory. Certainly not one nearly large enough for you to carry on your research, at any viable pace.”

At some point – she didn’t know exactly when – he had turned back to the window. His black eyes stared straight out into the slowly dying day. The time was passing, and the sun was just starting to sink now, and the landscape was changing with the light, starting to become darker and more sinister, to her.

Inside, however, she was singing. God, his stubbornness, and his assumptions. She could kiss him, she thought, suddenly, her internal voice loud and clear and bright. She would kiss him. She swore it to herself at that very moment. No matter what was to come, what they might face together, she would kiss him, before he died.

And her mouth twisted up into a very Slytherin like smile which, perhaps luckily, he did not see.

She looked down at the cup she had forgotten until now, and it seemed he had done the same, since the tea was untouched and obviously cold. She looked out of the window again.

A fair amount of time had passed, and no sign of Harry, still. She turned to the professor, her eyes looking at his profile, once again. She glanced at his lips and licked her own, subconsciously. She looked once more at his ridged brow, seemingly always furrowed in slight concern, and his eyes staring out steadily, even now.

A sudden thought came to her, and she felt cold fear stroke down her spine, like a finger.

“Are you watching out for him?”

She put a suggestive edge on the last word. He took a timepiece from his pocket and glanced at it before stowing it away again. He shook his head, his long hair swaying a little.

“I don’t expect him to find us for a few more hours, at least. And we are amply protected here, both by your impressive wards, and the extra security of the aurors downstairs.”

She felt herself smile a little at his tone, sharp and Snapeish, once again. Then she turned and looked at him again, at the same moment he turned and looked at her.

Neither of them looked away, this time.

“We have some time, then?” she asked him.

His face softened a little, the merest hint of a smile returning. When he spoke again, his tone was quiet and gentle, once more.

“Yes,” he said. “We have some time.”

“Good,” she replied. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Chapter Text

She made her way across the quiet room, and he followed her, only a step or two behind.

When she opened the door, she paused for just a moment on the narrow landing, listening. The happy sound of laughter bubbled up from downstairs, and she turned to smile at the professor, before opening the door to her bathroom and stepping inside.

It was a small room with a toilet and sink, a long bath set against the wall beneath the frosted window, and a shower in a tiny cubicle in the corner.

She slid the shower door open and stepped inside the small glass box, squashing up against the wall, so that there was enough room for him to follow her. She waved her hand in a gesture of welcome, and spoke with a smile, in her best hostess voice.

“Do come in.”

He hesitated for a second, or maybe two, and then stepped in beside her. Managing, somehow, to keep his body from touching hers, even in the tiny space. He raised his eyebrow at her.

“I hope you realise how long it’s been, since I last accompanied a lady into her shower,” he said. “I am afraid I won’t know the proper way to act.”

She smiled up at him, letting out a little laugh which echoed round the glassy walls, enjoying the faint curl of a smile stretching his lips, again. Was that flirting? she wondered, and grinned.

“I am sure you would always act as a gentleman should,” she said to him, her voice hushing to a whisper. “I won’t keep you here for long.”

She leant against him, standing on her tiptoes, so she was nearer to his height. She tugged his head gently, and he leant closer, so she could whisper into his ear. She spoke slowly and clearly, and with almost no sound, her cheek brushing up against his soft hair.

“The entrance to my laboratory is in my shower.”

The cubical shifted, slightly, and a small doorway appeared in the tiled wall, showing a dimly lit set of wooden stairs, leading up to the left. She ducked through the doorway first, and he followed her once more, having to fold his body up before he could fit through the narrow gap. The staircase was narrow too, and creaked beneath their feet.

Then Hermione emerged into her secret potions laboratory, and her former teacher followed, behind her.

The room was impressively large, more space than the rest of her cottage combined, five huge, Victorian factory windows set high into each wall, so that the light filled the room. There were twelve benches arranged in the centre of the space, elaborate apparatus filling most of the surfaces, and more were lined around the walls, with shelves of jars and books between them. Another door was set into the far wall, a large clock above it.

The day was slowly starting to end, and the light was beginning to fade, but the windows on the west side of the room let in the glorious rays of the slowly sinking sun, and the golden beams poured amongst the benches and glass like liquid.

Hermione stood for a moment, enjoying the sight of her own pride and joy, as she always did. Though it was better this time, for the company, and the light.

She had been able to fashion this space however she had wanted, but she had kept it as simple as she could, except for the windows. She had never enchanted them, never charmed them so they showed better weather, a different view. She always found the sight of hills around her beautiful, however she was feeling, whatever the time of day. She glanced up, to where the whisky-coloured wooden beams of the building supported the arched roof, high above them.

Then she turned to look at him.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever shown this to,” she said, quietly.

He was standing with his arms at his side, his shoulders maybe ever-so-slightly slumped, his mouth a little open in his surprise. His body was still, but he tilted his head back, as he tried to take in the room before him, the sheer space reaching out and above.

He started to walk forward, his black boots tapping slightly on the polished floorboards, slowly weaving between the first few benches.

Then he stopped and looked directly at her, his dark eyes staring across the room, and into her own. His face lit from the light pouring in from the west, but also rays glancing up, reflected from the glass objects in front of him. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“How did you do this?” he whispered. “It can’t all be protected by you, as a Secret Keeper.”

“No,” she agreed, almost laughing, on the inside. “Only the stairway is protected by the Secret Keeping, which is effective enough, since there is no other way in. But this whole laboratory is encased in a space-altered room.”

“You have situated a space-altered addition to the roof of your house, and hidden it?” he asked.

His forehead was furrowed, in his confusion, and she’d thought he would ask something similar. Of course, as far as he knew, space-alteration could only be built from scratch.

“No, professor,” she said, liking the look on his face, as she hesitated very slightly. “This whole laboratory is situated in the small space between my bedroom and my roof. The ‘attic’, if you will, though in reality it is little more than a crawlspace.”

He blinked at her; his forehead still furrowed.

“The space-alteration had been focused on the room,” she added, just to make sure she was clear.

Despite her trying to not be obtuse, he leant forward and rested his hands on the bench in front of him, as he repeated her, anyway.

“On the room.”

His voice was slightly raised, now, and he shook his head.

“Focusing space-alteration into a room is impossible. Build it into an object, yes. But you can’t permanently expand a small space with magic.”

Hermione knew what he was thinking, and he was right. Yes, you could make a car or a tent or a bag with extra space inside, but you could not make a room or similar space larger than it truly was, at least while keeping it safely stable, at the same time. Until now.

“I can,” she said, simply.

His mouth did fall open with surprise then, and even though she would have given anything for a photograph, she knew she would remember the look on his face for the rest of her life. His eyes continued to stare into her own, and although her looked like he wanted to speak, no sound came from him.

Finally, eventually, he managed to stutter out a broken statement.

“Second-elemental links,” he paused, with a sound of disbelief. “In room dimensions?”

“Sustainable brews were only the very tip of the iceberg of understanding I have uncovered, through my research of second-elemental links,” she said, nodding, unable to keep the happy pride from her voice.

“Room dimensions were really one of the simplest areas I have looked into. The Ministry has still has some reservations, regarding my certainty of its stability, and so have prevented me from publishing my findings, before now. But I have managed to put the knowledge to some good, here and there. I secretly helped Arthur Weasley when extending The Burrow, recently. He’s one of the few people I still write to.”

“But how certain are you?”

His question was almost frantic, still leaning across the bench towards her, his hands gripping it until his knuckles were turning white.

“Are you really absolutely certain, it won’t collapse?”

“Professor,” she said, gently. “How certain would you think I’d need to be, in order to use it on my own laboratory? Where I spend most of my hours working, and where I keep everything that is important to me, and my research?”

She was emphatic, but not sarcastic, her words rushed but sincere.

“How certain would I need to be, to use it on the home of a beloved family? Please believe me, I am certain. It is stable, and safe.”

He took his hands from the workbench slowly, and nestled them in the crooks of his elbows, as he crossed his arms across his chest. He smiled his thin, wry smile again, and said one single word.

“Explain.”

----------------------

It took quite a while, for her to explain to him the route of research that had led her to discovering the multiple uses of second-elementals, such as for expanding rooms. And she surprised him further, with other significant discoveries she’d made, during her solitary years in the lab.

She showed him the leads she had unearthed during her studies of Muggle correspondence courses, on chemistry, quantum physics, and other sciences. The subject-matter became more and more complex, and he kept her on her toes all the while, with regular, intense, informed and specific questioning.

The time slipped away as they walked slowly from bench to bench, discussing all levels of the various experiments Hermione had set up, some of them years before.

“Oh dear, the time!” she exclaimed, when she finally glanced at the clock.

She was suddenly filled with immense remorse, hating herself for getting distracted. They should have been spending the past hour finding some way to protect him, to stop the relentless hunt of a man who, even now, was coming to kill the wizard in front of her. The waste of precious minutes seemed foolish to her suddenly, absolutely stupid.

But the conversation had been so good, and so involving. His questions, and his knowledge, and his humour.

“You’re right, it is getting late.”

One large hand slipped his timepiece, from his pocket, once again.

“There should still be time, though. He may be adept at killing, but I am certain your remarkable protection will keep us safe, for even some hours more. We will hear the alarms if the perimeters are breached. There’ll be plenty of warning.”

They were standing near each other, at one of the benches, running along the wall. And he stepped forward again, one small step, suddenly so close she could feel the heat of his body, next to hers.

“I am honoured that you trusted me enough to show me this place,” he murmured. “And your work. Thank you.”

She smiled at him, a little awkwardly, since her heart was suddenly racing in her chest.

“Professor Snape, it was a pleasure,” she said.

But her calling him that seemed to make him stiffen up a little, and he withdraw just the slightest bit, and she mentally berated herself for being so formal, suddenly.

“Would you allow me to use some of your equipment, please, Miss Granger?” he asked.

And his tone was formal too, suddenly, his voice clipped and short and sounding annoyed, just as it always had done. She nodded, sheepishly.

“Yes, of course,” she mumbled.

He immediately stalked away from her, collecting things here and there, obviously having noted their positions during their extensive tour. She stood for a moment or two, shifting her weight slightly from foot to foot, unsure of what to do, now that he had so easily assumed control of her laboratory. She called across to him, as he set up a cauldron, on one of the empty benches.

“What can I do?”

He shook his head, briefly, as he quickly worked.

“Nothing, for now. Although I would be grateful if you would remain nearby, should I require your assistance, later.”

“Of course,” she said, again. “I’ll just be in the office.”

She walked through the door in the wall beneath the clock, into the small, crowded room, which contained all of her paperwork. At first glance, it appeared to be an impressive array of chaos, with parchment and books piled everywhere, and stuffed into the shelves, on every wall.

It didn’t take her long, though, to find anything she needed. As was the case today, as she immediately pulled down her textbooks on anti-jinxes and apparation. She soon found the sections on pointfinders, and she read carefully, practicing the charms she needed to amend her security spells.

As she worked, she realised how dim it was, the few candles she’d lit doing little now to hold back the creeping dark of the night. She lit the lamps above her with a spell, and then leant through the doorway, charming the cluster of lamps in main lab, too. She felt a strange warmth inside her, watching the way he blinked in the sudden light, and when he looked across at her and smiled his thanks.

Though he immediately returned to his brewing, she couldn’t help lingering a moment, appreciating the view of his tall body, his shoulders, as he worked. Appreciating, too, the strange and yet warming view, of somebody sharing her lab.

Returning to her task, she made a few more notes, and then set about making the amendments to her anti-jinxes. Her wand moved subtly, as she muttered the spells, and she could feel the wards and protections around the cottage altering, with each of her castings. When she’d finished, she set a pointfinder spell, and then stepped several paces away. When she tried to apparate to the spot she’d magically remembered, she felt only the dull, disappointed feeling, of a stunted spell. The amendments had worked.

Rubbing her eyes, she dimmed the lamps in the office, and went to join him at the workbench. He didn’t turn, as she approached, but when she was near he spoke to her.

“Do you have any pins? Or needles, perhaps.”

She nodded, though he wasn’t looking at her, still focused on the simmering cauldron in front of him.

“Yes, downstairs in the bedroom. Shall I fetch them now?”

“I don’t need them immediately,” he said, as an answer.

So she lingered for a while, stood just next to him at the workbench, watching his surprisingly attractive hands as he worked.

It had been a long time since she’d last seen him brew, and she found herself watching with intense fascination, as though she was back in his classroom again. The swift movements of his preparation, his precise and caring touch, showing a gentler concern for delicate roots than she’d ever seen him show towards the people in his life.

She had always prided herself on her own, impeccable brewing skills, but watching the professor again was still enlightening. He had an absolute talent that could not be denied, an instinctual feeling for his work.

The half-blood prince, she thought suddenly, and she swallowed dryly as memories of his dark past flashed in her mind.

“Professor,” she said, hesitating a little. “When exactly did you lose your wand?”

He kept his focus on the ingredients he was grinding together, in the stone mortar, in front of him.

“Just after I was stabbed.”

“But you would have needed it to cast the pointfinder,” she said.

“That’s right.”

He still remained focused on his task.

“But that would mean you didn’t lose your wand at Spinner’s End?” she pushed him.

He sighed deeply, resting the pestle on the edge of the mortar, and laying his palms down flat on the workbench. He turned his head to look at her, and she suddenly realised how tired he looked, how worn. When he spoke, he sounded slightly exasperated.

“No, I didn’t lose it at Spinner’s End. At least, I don’t think so. I was in a state of shock, and in considerable pain. In any case, I remember casting the pointfinder spell, but by the time I arrived at your home, it was missing.”

His dark gaze slid down back down to the workbench again, his head drooping forward, his long hair falling forward to cover his face.

“Unfortunately, I had been holding it in my left hand.”

He brought his right hand up and rubbed at his left shoulder, where the sword had left his newest scar, and she wondered if it was hurting him still.

“I must have dropped it,” he said, then. “There may be a chance that Murasaki has it, but that seems unlikely, as he would have traced the pointfinder to us already. I think, in reality, it is lost completely.”

His body sagged a little more, as he leant into his long, outstretched arms, with a deep sigh.

“It was important to you,” she said.

“What wand is not important?” he snapped back, whipping his head around and glaring at her.

Then the fight went out of him, his shoulders dropping, as he pulled the pestle and mortar towards him and started working the ingredients together again.

“But yes. It was important to me,” he said, quietly. “It was the wand I used back in my Hogwarts days. Ten inches, silver birch. Heartstring.”

He paused his steady grinding, for just a moment.

“It belonged to my mother.”

She put a hand up on his shoulder, instinctively, consolingly.

“There’s still a chance you might find it,” she tried to reassure him.

“You seem to have a rather weak grasp on odds, Granger,” he scoffed, coldly. “I sincerely hope you don’t go putting money on the horses.”

She pulled her hand away again, annoyed.

“I know more about probabilities than you think,” she muttered, scathingly.

He had dropped the pestle again with a clatter, his hands slapping onto the bench, and his voice was quiet, but only just contained.

“There’s a significant difference between understanding the odds, and blind faith.”

“And between probability and defeatism,” she retorted, hotly.

He scoffed again, shaking his head, and turned to her, his hands fisted at his sides as he glared at her. His dark gaze was fierce, pinning her, so she couldn’t have looked away from him, even if she’d wanted. His voice, and his body, shook with suppressed anger.

“Assuming I dropped the damn thing while apparating, it could be anywhere between here and Newcastle. It must be at least a hundred miles! If I’d only managed to keep hold of it, I might have had a chance at beating this man. But I didn’t, and so he will kill me, and I am afraid.”

He took a step closer on that last word, and she had to tilt her head back a little, so she could still look into his haunted eyes.

“You can try to press your insufferably predictable, Gryffindor optimism onto the situation, but in actuality it will do neither of us any good. You must accept it. There is no chance. It is impossible!”

His voice had risen, by the end of his oration. A few awkward seconds passed, as they stared at each other, their bodies and the atmosphere tense. Then he resumed pounding the ingredients in the mortar which, by now, had been reduced to a fine powder.

Hermione stood for several seconds more, nibbling on her bottom lip, as she considered what he’d said. His fast lecture, about so much more, than just his missing wand. He’d admitted he was afraid, and she could barely imagine, just how scared he really was. She understood he was at the end of his rapidly fraying rope. Rather than rising to him, she held her head high, as she stomped down the wooden stairs.

She quickly walked into her bedroom, lighting the lamps with a spell, as she collapsed, face first, onto the bed. She shoved her face into it, screaming a little, but quietly. She’d forgotten the power his words could have over her, how infuriating they could be, though she knew he didn’t really mean them.

She scoffed, remembering his comments about her house, her optimism.

He couldn’t scare her, though. Not now. She was older, wiser. She knew that he made mistakes, too. She would stand up to him, but gently, and quietly, by helping him.

Opening the drawer next to her bed, her hand clasped around the small box of sewing pins, rattling as she gently slid the drawer closed, again. She hurried back to the laboratory, but on the landing she suddenly stopped, frozen.

Silence pressed in around her, in the dark hallway. Shadows stretched, in the darkness. A cold chill of fear crept up her spine.

Then a glorious burst of laughter echoed up the hallway, from the living room, reaching through the night. She took a deep breath, relaxing a little, as she climbed back up the stairs.

It was long gone six, now, and still no sign of Harry. She wasn’t worried, though, since he was her second Secret Keeper. Although he’d not visited her cottage before, he knew where her lab was. He’d find them, when he arrived.

She couldn’t help glancing over at the professor, the moment she stepped through the arched doorway. He was hunched over his cauldron, deep in concentration, and he did not turn as she approached. She didn’t say anything either, at first, but gently placed the box of pins on the bench next to his elbow, with a very slight clatter.

“You said, today, that space-alteration in room dimensions was impossible,” she said, after a moment. “Please don’t assume you know the limits of my predictable optimism.”

Not waiting for his response, she went back into her small office, rootling through the small drawers in the cabinet at the back. While she was gone, his hand hovered over, and then gently rested on the box of pins she had left for him, though she did not see.

When she came back, she stood next to him, their arms almost touching, but not quite. He kept stirring the cauldron, still not looking at her.

“I’m sorry for failing to control my temper,” he said, quietly.

“Do you think this might be any good to you?” she asked him.

He took the narrow box that she was offering and slid the lid off, his dark eyes looking down at the long, thin piece of wood, nestled in green velvet.

“Bellatrix’s wand?”

He turned to her in surprise, both eyebrows rising.

“I acquired it as a replacement for my own, during the war. But my wand was returned to me, when it was recovered, following the victory.”

She carefully extracted the black, twisted piece of wood from the box, testing the weight of it, in her fingers.

“I kept this close to me, though. A memento, of all we went through. And as a reminder. To not let power go to my head.”

She smiled at him, a small, wry smile, and he had a matching one on his lips.

“I didn’t know you favoured heartstring, but now I do, I thought perhaps this might be compatible. And perhaps of some use?”

“I did not know that you favoured heartstring either,” he said. “And I must say I find the knowledge quite a revelation.”

It was her turn to look at him in surprise, then.

“Why?”

“Because, unlike unicorn hairs and phoenix feathers, a dragon must die, for a wand to have a heartstring core. It usually represents a sort of ruthlessness in the owner, which may explain your intense tenacity for study.”

“Amongst other things,” she interjected, with a smirk.

He returned it, making her knees wobble a little, as he reached out and gently took the wand from her. She tried to ignore the aching sparks of desire, that chased across her skin, when his long, warm fingers brushed against hers.

“I would have thought you more likely to be the owner of a unicorn hair wand,” he was saying. “But now that I give the matter consideration, it does seem to make sense.”

She didn’t really know what to say to that, so she said nothing, as he gingerly held Bellatrix’s wand and sent a few experimental sparks flying. They were strong, bright, and she wondered if it wasn’t the first time his magic had been channelled through this particular wand.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to her, suddenly. “This changes everything. With this… there might be hope.”

Her heart swelled, hearing those words, coming from his lips. Seeing the hope that really was there, now, a flicker of it burning in the black depths, as she held his steady gaze. Before she could overthink it, she stepped in closer, and wrapped her arms around his torso. She was sure to be careful, not wanting to hurt him, but still hugging him close.

After a moment, his arms wrapped around her too, and he leant his cheek against the top of her head as he returned her embrace.

“It’s alright,” she said, gently stroking his back. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

Chapter Text

She wasn’t sure exactly how long they stood together, leaning into each other’s warmth, as they hugged in the quiet of her laboratory. But it easily could have been a couple of minutes. She held him tight, hoping she was giving him strength, hoping he could feel the faith she had in him.

When they finally broke apart, there was an intensely awkward moment, side-eyeing each other as he turned back to the cauldron, clearing his throat. She asked what he was brewing, so it didn’t stretch on.

“Lifesbane,” he muttered.

She instinctively stepped back from the simmering cauldron.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you know how to brew that,” she said.

“It’s relatively simple, and harmless right now, in the brewing phase.”

At that reassurance, she stepped a little nearer, morbidly curious. Lifesbane was the deadliest of poisons, able to kill any living thing in a matter of moments, with only a drop. Most were forbidden from brewing it, and this was a singular opportunity, for her to learn how it was prepared.

“Unlike a wizarding duel,” he explained. “The outcome of this conflict is likely to be swift, and deadly. I need a weapon of stealth, to match his.”

More precious seconds ticked away, as the poisonous potion simmered and brewed, on the workbench. He answered all of her questions, on the ingredients, on each step of the process. He didn’t blink an eye in letting her help with the preparation.

Without either of them noticing, they moved nearer to each other as they worked, until her arm brushed occasionally against his black shirt. She continued to watch the graceful movements of his beautiful hands, while he at times could not help but instruct her, helping her improve her techniques. The ingredients simmered away, slowly reducing down, into a deadly concoction.

She glanced up at the man beside her, and her attention was drawn to his large nose, poking out from behind the long curtain of his dark hair.

He glanced down at her then, his face turning slightly, and she looked away quickly, focusing on stirring the potion. After a moment, he went back to scribbling notes, and she took the opportunity to look at his nose again. She didn’t know why it fascinated her, other than the fact she’d never really had the opportunity to properly look at him, and his nose was the only part of him she could currently see.

It really was quite big, she had to concede, and most definitely hooked. But it was also graceful, long and quite narrow. She tilted her head and leant forward slightly, so that she could see more of his face, and she decided that his nose was actually quite elegant, when it wasn’t in full profile. Her gaze flicked over the rest of his face, and she caught his eyes, looking directly at her.

She smiled, and went back to stirring the potion, flicking her wand over the swirling liquid in perfect circles. After a couple more stirs, she glanced back at him again, and found him still looking at her, one eyebrow quizzically raised. She laughed, the sound echoing, in the large room.

“What were you looking at?” he asked, frankly.

But his tone was amused, almost friendly, and his shadow of a smile was back again. She chuckled again, and decided to be honest, answering just as frankly.

“Your nose.”

“Oh.”

And his shoulders hunched slightly, as he went back to writing, tilting his head further forward so that his hair obscured his entire face. Another swell of laughter came from her, as she reached towards him.

“No, don’t.”

She reached up her slim hand and brushed his long hair back, making him flinch, his hand coming up as if to grab at hers, but halting, before he did.

“Don’t hide it,” she said, her other hand coming up too. “I like it.”

She held his head gently, holding the hair away from his face, as she considered his nose again. Long, and strangely enticing, and she had a sudden urge to kiss it.

But instead, she found herself suddenly staring into his dark eyes again, his look intense and unreadable, burning into her. She was suddenly aware of his rough stubble, the edge of his ear, warm beneath her palm. Of how close they were, again, hardly any distance between them, as he swallowed deeply. A sudden, nervous thrill went through her, and she pulled her hands away, mumbling as she turned from him.

“It suits your face.”

Then she tried not to roll her eyes, and her own, painful awkwardness. She might have been more eloquent, wishing she could articulate the beauty she saw, in the worn lines of his face. Thinking that she should have followed through with her promise to herself and just kissed him, right then.

She mused a moment, partly over the idea of cutting her losses and leaping on him right now, and partly on the fact that she was definitely overthinking this. But then he spoke, and her chance was gone.

“I think we’re done, here.”

She glanced up at him in disappointment, but he reached out and spooned the poison to test the consistency, and she realised with relief that he was talking about the potion.

“It requires at least fifteen minutes resting in the cauldron, before I can distil it.”

They looked at each other, a little uncertainly, for a moment.

“Perhaps we should join the others downstairs?” he suggested.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I could do with something to eat, if the others have left us anything. And I wonder if Harry is back?”

----------------------

When they got to the landing, he stepped towards the bedroom.

“I’ll follow you down in a moment,” he said.

She nodded, padding down the steps, in the dark.

As she descended the narrow steps, though, the crooked stairway unlit, since she’d not lit the lamps on the landing, a sudden, irrational fear of the dark crept through her. A sticky fear, that caught in her throat, as she stepped down into the black void, that was her kitchen.

Empty silence pressed in around her, slinking across her skin.

Listening to the sound of her own fast, panicked breathing, she waved her wand, a dim glow illuminating the room. The door to the hallway was closed, which explained the lack of light, but she still found it deeply unsettling. She’d seldom, if ever, closed that door, herself.

Another chill of fear ran down her spine, or perhaps some warning, from her intuition. Her free hand trembled as she clutched at the door handle, then she twisted it slowly, and opened the door.

The hallway was dark as well, but a beam of yellow light cut across the passageway from the sitting-room door, which stood wide open. She could only see this beam of light, like a blade swiping in the darkness, the angle of the hallway meaning she couldn’t see inside the small, silent living room.

But the darkness clawed at her, and the silence all around was like a blanket, and the hairs stood up on her arms as another chill chased across her skin.

She walked forward, automatically, each second feeling as thought it was stretching on into hours. She felt as though she were moving in treacle, needing to get to the beam of light, while at the same time feeling with every inch of her being, that she absolutely did not want to go into the living room.

Yet she could not deny the inevitable, her heart beating wildly as she moved forward with painstakingly slow denial, holding her breath.

The light was bright, dazzling her, and then she saw the deep and sickly red.

Vividly bright, shimmering on her floor like the lake at sunset, the blood a flood of colour. She could not see, or think, of anything but the red.

And then her mind was working once again, racing, her body struggling to survive in its panic, her chest heaving in shallow, irregular breaths. Her eyes were wide in shock, as they swept the room, taking in the smashed furniture and slashed flesh.

“He’s here,” she tried to call out. “He’s here!”

But there was no sound, her voice gone, her mouth hardly moving. Shaking, like the rest of her, as she saw the bodies in front of her, the cast-burns on the wall, the smell of the spells in the air.

Time seemed to snap back all at once, and she turned back to the dark hallway, finally managing to cry out.

“Severus! He’s here!”

Before she could dash back up to the bedroom, though, one tiny thing made her stall.

A noise?

A breath.

Tears she couldn’t contain filled her eyes, as she carefully scanned the details, of the painful scene before her. Desperately trying to see through the death, all around, to find the source of the sound.

Her eyes glanced over McKinney’s usually grinning face, caught in a look of surprise, while slick, congealed blood slid down his body, from the gash at his throat. His eyes were glassy, and she knew he was dead.

She wiped her hand against her eyes, to no avail, her vision still blurry. She couldn’t clearly see, and didn’t need to clearly see, the way Harding’s body had crumpled to the floor, his wand crushed beneath him, or the seeping, scarlet lines on his back, where his robes and his skin had been torn. She tried not to look at Harris at all. She could see, through the crimson red and the scattered chess pieces and the blur of her tears, that he had no head.

Her sneakers slipped, in the deep red, and she felt it soak sickly into the knees of her jeans, as she knelt next to the gasping healer.

“Mister Crampiddle,” she gasped through her tears. “Tell me what to do!”

His eyes flicked open, and he focused on her face, his own breaking into a smile as he saw her. He watched her, trying to assess countless gashes on his chest and legs, but he shook his head from side to side. A gesture so small, and yet so significant.

“Nothing for me,” he said, simply.

His hand slowly lifted, at his side, and she held it in her own. He gripped at her.

“You must warn Harry,” he said, urgently. “He mustn’t come alone, without warning.”

She nodded at him emphatically, through her tears. The old man was wheezing, there was blood all over him, all around him, their hands sticky with it. Bitter bile rose in her throat. Through his obvious pain, his heavy breathing, he still spoke.

“Tell him Harding beat me,” Crampiddle said, pausing to smile. “At chess… just before…”

He couldn’t seem to finish, and she nodded at him again, the tears streaming silently down her face. She couldn’t help glancing over, to where she could still see patches of the soft brown hair, on Dan’s head. Then she felt the hand in hers go still, and her stomach twisted painfully, as she looked back at the healer.

His eyes closed softly, but his smile was still there, just.

“Please tell my wife… I love her,” he whispered.

His forehead was suddenly smooth, his face clear and – she thought – happy, as he whispered with his last breath, in a jovial tone of absolute certainty.

“I always have.”

Hermione’s body shook with the sobs she tried to keep inside, desperately trying to be quiet, but she pressed her face into her bloodied hands while she allowed herself just a few precious seconds, her sadness whirling in her mind. Then she breathed in deeply, and held her breath, counting down.

Three. Two. One.

She sprang to her feet, leaping towards the writing desk in the corner and tearing a piece of parchment from the stack on top. She grabbed desperately at the scatter of self-inking quills, her arm wiping across her face, to drag away the tears that continued to fall.

She tried to scribble on the paper as she ran to the door, but it was impossible for her to write clearly while she moved, and while her hands were shaking so, and so she forced herself to stand still as she wrote.

Stood in the centre of a glossy red sea.

Murasaki here!

She scribbled frantically, her gasps still sharp and broken, the scratching quill the only other sound.

Crampiddle, Harding, McKinney, Harris – Dead.

More than ever before she was aware of time, of slow, gradual time sifting away from her, with every scratched letter. It was less than a minute, since she’d entered the room, too long, and not long enough, and she couldn’t stop thinking of the man upstairs.

The men upstairs.

Don’t come alone, Harry!

And then it was done. It had taken a moment and had felt like a day.

She swung round, almost throwing herself into the hallway as she rushed to the kitchen, making for the stairway.

A house-shaking thud rang out from the room above. She cast the universal distress call as she ran, slipping because of the blood on her shoes, one hand holding the frantic note high above her head. The golden bird snatched the paper from her grasp before disappearing, leaving a wisp of golden trail, in their wake.

She stumbled, as she climbed the stairs. Her wand still tightly grasped in her sweaty hand, her head tilted back and her heart pounding, and her eyes strained as she rushed up into the darkness of the landing.

She could hear the frantic scuffling and tumbling of men fighting in the room, as she approached, the smell of magic in the air again, crackling in her hair.

Running, running, but feeling as if she was not moving at all.

The only thing she knew at all, about ninjas, on any level, was their use of the darkness. It was the only think she could think of, as she – finally – ran into the dark room. She gasped out a charm to light the cluster of lamps above.

Though she kept the light dim, it blazed through the room, burning the darkness and into her eyes.

“No!” Snape cried.

From the corner. She instantly trailed her wand on the other figure in black, crouched next to the professor, his big hand clutching at the black of the assassin’s clothing.

Her reactions were cat-like, despite the passing years, and the cast was fast and good. But her stun still missed, the crouched man springing up into the air, unleashing all his coiled tension, moving with a speed that caused her fastest curse to be too slow.

Painfully too slow.

She was frozen with – shock? Fear? Just the wonderment, of watching the wiry, masked man twist through the air. Loose, black robes fluttering, the strange shape of his black toes, the bright glint of the short blade, sure in his hand.

Snape cast a hex at the spinning man, and it brought her out of her stupor, firing off two herself.

It was no good.

Even the combined effort of two war veterans was not nearly good enough. The spry shadow in a sinister hood barely landed, before he was leaping again. His feet and one hand pushing from the floor, as he slipped the thin blade into the sheath, on his back.

She ran erratically across the room, her wide eyes fixed only on the masked man, keeping him in her sights as he leapt towards the cover of her large bed.

“Stupefy!”

She desperately tried to catch him, to stop him in his swift flight, as did Snape. But even though she compensated her aim and continuously cast, the slick, black figure was always incomprehensively ahead of her spells.

“Stupefy!”

“Stupefy!”

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The magic coursed through the room, scattered sparks of streaking spells bursting on the walls and floor, and still they tried to stun the shadow of man.

Snape was dodging across the room too, vivid sparks of red and green shooting from his wand as he aimed, his face a scowl beneath the streaks of hair falling across it. Still their efforts could not stop the assassin, who landed on his feet on the other side of the bed, and then scrambled up the wall and onto the canopy of the four-poster, like a giant, black spider.

Silence rang for a second, or maybe two.

Hermione stood panting, eyes strained on the spot above, where he had slipped from her sight. Chilled to the core, by the intense fear that washed over her, observing the fluidity and unnaturalness of the Japanese wizard. She stood with her feet apart, bent at the knee, gaze flicking frantically to the shadows above.

Silently willing one to move.

Then a streak of black burst from its hiding place, and he flew across the room like a dart, his hands and feet stretched out before and after. Though they both instantly cast spells up at him, from below, he flew through the air unimpeded.

Then his stealthy, gloved hands reached up behind him and whipped out not just one sword, but two. Still in the same leap-powered movement, he crossed them, and then slashed them through the cluster of lamps on the ceiling, shattering them into a shower of sparks and flames. The flickering light, and the light of the last of their spells, dimly lit the ninja for a second, as he curled into a ball and spun away, down into the darkness that descended.

Hermione was aware of the change, and was aware, too, of a glimmering light around her, which was unexpected.

In a moment she understood. She was stood in the silvery rays of the moon, pouring in through the large window, capturing her in a box of beautiful, but deadly, light. Everything beyond her was black.

In the exact same moment she instantly tried to move, and she heard the swish of movement to her side, as she dived left, towards the cover of darkness. As she cried out her spell, she heard the deep voice she recognised, calling from the dark.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

“…To your right!”

The wild half-second of movement stretched out, as she slightly adjusted her aim, and the confusion of the hectic scrabble unfurled. She fell heavily on her side, with a sudden, dull pain, knocking the breath from her. Whipping her head around, she saw the red sparks of her spell lighting the darkness, and somehow – miraculously - catch a mere inch man’s body, in the black night.

The glowing light lengthened, as it wound out and around the torso of the ninja, twisting around him in a long rope of red sparks. Trying to bind him into a stiff statue, and emitting a dim enough glow to vaguely light the form of him, as he somehow managed to resist against her magic.

He fell forward onto the uttermost ends of fingers and the tips of strange toes, perched on limbs stretched out like a starfish, his thin body suspended, hovering horizontally, just inches from the ground. His body shook, black silk fluttering as the spell wove around him. But the assassin was still not rendered motionless, she could see him straining still, fighting the spell, seeming to be winning.

“Depulata…”

The word was just a breath in the dark, but she felt it as though it had been whispered on the back of her neck, goosebumps chasing across her skin. Her bruised side throbbed fantastically, but she knew the spell he was casting, and she knew, too, that she could help.

“Unus…”

His deep voice whispered the second word of the incantation, as she drew in a painful, short breath, and muttered the words herself.

“Depulata unus…”

A glowing yellow shimmer sprung from her wand, getting brighter, as it drew more magic from her. She didn’t aim at the ninja, pinned to the floor, but instead aimed at the professor. The light from her spell illuminated the sharp lines of his face, joining with his casting to strengthen it, as they muttered the last word in unison.

“Expulsum.”

The beam of light glimmering at the ninja burst into blinding sparks, and he was caught, twitching, in a glowing sphere of shattering brightness, before he seemed to implode from view, vanishing away in the power of their combined banishing spell.

The room was dark and silent, other than their panting breaths.

Hermione heard Snape moving, saw the blue magic of his protection spells reaching out to every corner of the room, as she muttered the illuminating spell again. She blinked in the light of another cluster of glowing lamps, swelling on the ceiling.

Her breath was still shallow, painful. The ache in her side throbbing intensely. She craned her neck forward so that she could see down her own body, struck prone, the pain too intense for her to bend. Her mouth dropped open, in surprise.

There was a tear in the fabric of her hoodie, the area around it no longer the burnt orange it should be, but rather the dark and seeping almost-black of sopping, dripping blood.

She gasped and dropped her wand, as her fumbling hands reached up to her neck and caught at the zip, one hand clasping her collar while the other dragged the tag open and quickly pulled the sides apart. Her t-shirt was now crimson instead of white, the fabric gaping apart, sticking to the skin on her stomach and waist.

Giving a clear view of the slippery, deep gash, which parted the soft flesh of her stomach, all the way from above her navel, to where it disappeared round to her side.

As if seeing it for the first time made her feel it, the stinging cut of steel seemed to slice across her flesh, and a searing wave of overwhelming pain sang through her entire body. She collapsed back and the wound was parted, spluttering out a sickly splash of blood, her hand clasping futilely for her wand.

“Severus…?”

Though she tried to call out, her voice emerged as a whisper. Her hand reaching up, in her painful delirium, and she saw it was red with blood, as her eyes drifted closed.

She felt his warm hand clasping hers, suddenly, his long fingers lacing with hers. She heard him casting the numbing and clotting charms that had worked on him, and she was grateful for the marked, sudden relief, from the pain. Then he scooped her up in his arms, pausing just a second to clear the bed, of anything but the crisp, white sheet.

She lay nestled with her head against his warm shoulder, feeling suddenly extremely tired, like she desperately needed to sleep. Or perhaps it was because of the closeness of him, the warmth of him.

The numbed pain danced with trails of his deep, earthy scent, in her mind.

Though he laid her on the bed with infinite care, the wound was still jarred open by the movement, and she let out a cry of pain that was feral, almost inhuman. Her eyes were screwed shut tight, at the burning pain, easily the worst she had felt in her life.

She noticed, with horror, the taste of blood in her mouth. She gagged at the taste, the sudden tensing cutting through her, and her body writhed in agony. Forcing her eyes open, she looked up through her tears, beyond the falling trails of his hair into his sweaty, furrowed face, as he shoved her sodden shirt up with a swift and agonising movement. She watched his dark gaze trail over the spurting, gaping gash, in her flesh.

Her eyes fluttered closed again, the pain howling, screaming in her mind.

A strange warmth on her face. She opened her eyes, and looked up into his, as he leant over her. Cupping her cheek and jaw gently, in one hand, as though she was made of priceless crystal. The wand in his other hand deathly still, as it hovered above her sliced flesh.

Even through her agony, she felt the burning link between them, and in his deep, dark eyes, she saw the concern, and the dismay, and the cold, icy fear. She saw and knew and understood every emotion in his strained face, because she herself had felt them for him, in the very same situation, less than a day ago. But it was worse for him, she realised, since he knew the risks.

She didn’t know what she could possibly say. She didn’t even know if she could speak.

But she knew she had to reassure him, somehow.

She brought up her hand to his, with a short gasp of breath. Holding his deep, intense stare, she moved his hand, slowly, just inches across her face. She could feel the smoothness, the roughness, of his skin against her cheek, against her lips. His black eyes stared into her, as she pressed a warm, sure kiss, in the middle of his palm.

She saw, in that infinitesimal slice of time, the shift of his slightly raised eyebrows. The flood of emotions, in his widened, beautifully expressive eyes. But her whole mind was occupied with one single thought.

No, not black.

She could think of nothing else.

The deepest, darkest brown.

Then his gaze flicked back to the savage cut, and the wand was stinging inside it, and slipping around in the flesh. Her screech was ragged, her eyes scrunching shut, her hands clenching into white fists, as the pain sang along every nerve.

“Redintegro."

The soft, sure wave of his beautiful voice washed over her.

Starlight in her mind, absolute agony and a sickening searing, and blackness.

Chapter Text

Her head was thumping, her mind filled with a foggy haze. She kept her eyes closed.

She brought her hands up to her head, rubbing at her face, her eyes, and then flinched when she felt a pain in her side. The twisting memories of the swift and dreamlike fight spun quickly back into her mind, and she sat up with a gasp, her eyes flying open and then squinting in the unaccustomed light.

“Where is he?” she cried.

Although she wasn’t really sure exactly who she meant, by it.

“He’s gone. Personal banishment!”

A deep, rich voice reminded her, and she felt warm hands grabbing gently at her wrist and shoulder, trying to still the slight flailing of her limbs, in her confusion.

“We might have sent him to France between us.”

His reassuring words and warm, calm hands soothed her, waking her properly. She blinked as she adjusted to the light, and looked at him, disappointed when he immediately pulled his hands away again.

“How long was I out?” she asked.

“Only a few minutes,” he said, reassuring again.

But his face was still creased in a frown of concerned concentration.

“You… require some clean clothes,” he mumbled, glancing down for a merest moment.

She looked down too, swallowing sickly, as she saw the reddish brown, crusting stains, on her once-white t-shirt, seeped into the denim of her jeans. With an ugly gasp of disgust, she moved to pull her top off, and then cried out at the sharp, insistent pain, in her side.

“Let me help?” he asked.

She nodded meekly, not really having much choice in the matter, but appreciating his offer, despite that. She clutched both hands to her side, the pain still intense, feeling too sick to even cast even the most basic of spells.

“There’s a fresh t-shirt and pyjama bottoms in the second draw down, over there, please.”

There was a part of her that was amused when he picked the bottle green, checked pyjamas, over the several pairs of red she knew were in there. He sat behind her, when he returned, preserving her privacy as he gently helped her ease off the filthy t-shirt. She glanced down, realised it had seeped through to her underwear, and she did use her wand then, to accio what she needed.

When she tried to reach up and undo the clasp at her back, he immediately undid it for her, a part of her mind momentarily distracted by how quickly and efficiently he managed it. She awkwardly slipped her clean, black cotton bra on over her arms, and he did it up for her just as efficiently.

She tried not to think of the quick brush of his warm fingers, against her skin.

“It still hurts?” he asked, when she flinched again.

She nodded quickly, and then heard him casting behind her, his magic seeping into the side of her waist. Instantly, the pain diminished, quieting to a gentle ache.

“Better,” she breathed out, in relief. “Thank you.”

Able to move more freely, then, she stood up to remove her stained jeans. There was a part of her that was acutely aware that she was undressing in front of him, but though the past day had instilled a deep desire in her to do precisely that, his eyes remained discretely and professionally diverted.

He stood, keeping his back purposefully turned to her, as he used his wand to strip down and clean the bed. She peeled her filthy denims off, her stomach churning, at the way the fabric clung stickily to her skin. Once she’d kicked them away, she swiftly changed her underwear with another spell, and cast a lot of awkward but thorough cleaning spells, all over herself.

Still feeling horribly nauseous, she sank back down onto the edge of the bed as soon as she’d pulled on her checked pyjama bottoms, appreciating the fresh, clean sheets.

Without asking, he vanished away her stained clothes. She was grateful, never wanting to see them again.

When he sat down next to her, he still kept his eyes overtly diverted, his dark gaze not wondering downwards for even a glance. His frown deepened, with what look like a hint of sadness, as his concerned eyes scanned her face. Reaching out, he started muttering gentle cleaning spells, which washed over her like a warm, summer breeze.

She wondered, for a moment, at the way he was being so kind, so caring, in a distant sort of way. She found herself thinking about all of the Slytherin students who must have been comforted at some point, by a brisk, but gentle, distant Head of House. She realised something had slipped inside her, subtly changing, so that she no longer appreciated his efficiency as a student appreciating a teacher, but rather as a friend appreciating the help of a friend.

He was still casting; his cleaning spells having shifted from her face to her undoubtedly unruly mess of hair. Her eyes glazed as she realised how much blood must have been on her, as she was reminded of the scene downstairs, and the sickly, deep, inescapable red.

His own eyes shifted, even more concerned, as he looked at her.

“It’s bad, down there?” he asked, quietly.

She felt the colour drain from her face, as she nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

“Then we’ll stay up here for now.”

His tone was slightly louder, reassuringly commanding, and he stared down at his hands as he gathered the clean, black t-shirt up in them. She couldn’t help staring down at his hands, too.

“I’ve cast a cave inimicum on the room,” he continued. “Which should hold him out as long as we don’t both leave, and break the protection.”

He reached out and grabbed her hands as he talked, and she went with it, letting him briskly shove the crumpled t-shirt over their joined grasp and thread it up her arms.

“But we must act quickly,” he said, as she raised her arms, so he could tug the t-shirt roughly over her head. “If I thought to use a pointfinder, then I’ve no doubt he will think of it, too.”

“No, he won’t,” she replied, slightly muffled by the black cotton fabric. “I changed the anti-jinxes to include pointfinders earlier.”

His surprise was obvious, as her head of wild curls finally popped through the collar, and she blew them out of her face with a puff, as he stared at her.

“You did? When?”

“While you were brewing. Just a few hours ago.”

Once more, she found herself hypnotised by his deep brown eyes, as he stared back, his face near hers.

“Remarkable,” he murmured.

And she suddenly felt his big, warm hands, slowly stroking down her back, across her body, as he finished tugging down her t-shirt. Touching her, not like a teacher or a healer, but like a lover. Goosebumps chased across her skin, and he must have felt them, still staring into her, as she reached towards him, too.

But she inadvertently nudged her side with her elbow, the knock light, yet still sending a stab of pain through her, from her fresh scar. He snatched his hands away as though she’d burned him, getting quickly to his feet, avoiding looking at her as he started pacing. He cleared his throat and spoke again.

“We must not delay in distilling the poison. Even without the ability to travel directly to the cottage, we must assume that he is at least able to apparate as near as he can to your protective radius, which means he is probably already making his way cross-country again, as we speak.”

His strides were long, as he continued to pace back and forth, checking the time with the timepiece slipped from his pocket.

“The poison has just about rested for long enough,” he said, then. “But if I don’t distil it soon, it will be useless.”

Her head was suddenly spinning – had it really only been about a quarter of an hour, since they had left the laboratory together? Was that what he’d just implied? It felt like hours and hours, her body was aching with a deep and sudden, intense tiredness, she wasn’t even sure if she could stand.

She knew she must, though, since they needed to head back up to the lab, despite the fact she still felt weak, and sick with fear. When she stood, however, he came over to her and gently pushed at her shoulder, making her sit down again.

“No, don’t try and move too much, yet. It will take a few minutes longer, for you to heal thoroughly.”

She nodded, pressing her hand to her side, where she could still feel the slight throb of pain, now and then.

He knelt on the floor, in front of her, so she didn’t have to crane her head up at him anymore.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice serious, questioning. “You can make alterations on your anti-apparation jinxes? Yourself, from here inside the house?”

“Yes,” she replied. “From anywhere in the cottage.”

“Then I need you to remove them.”

Stark fear chased through her, and she automatically shook her head frantically, her hands coming up to push the very thought away. But he reached his hands out too, clasping hers gently in his, reassuring her.

“Only for a moment! A few seconds only. Would I be able to apparate into the lab then?”

She nodded, distractedly, staring down at her hands in his. Then she met his eyes again.

“It’s safe to apparate there. I told you the space is stable. But if Murasaki tries to apparate while the jinxes are down…”

“I can’t deny there’s a chance he might,” he said, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. “I’ll protect you, if he does. But the poison is imperative, and it must be distilled.”

“We could both apparate to the lab,” she said, trying not to think about the feeling of his warm, long fingers, wrapped around hers. “It’s Secret Kept, and he probably doesn’t know it’s there.”

He shook his head, then, black hair brushing against his cheek.

“I’m not assured that he wouldn’t find us, and I wouldn’t want to fight in your laboratory.”

She glanced away from him while she considered this, seeing the volatile elements explode in the presence of duelling magic, years of her work and experimentations being reduced to shattered glass, as the outcome of a fight there. She knew he was right, they could not possibly stay or fight safely in the lab, yet one of them needed to cast the distilling charm on the brew upstairs.

She bit at her lip, nibbling anxiously, but then she met his eyes again and nodded.

“Alright. I’ll take the jinxes down.”

But as she said it, a giant wave of fear swelled up, inside her.

His hands squeezed hers a little tighter, for a moment.

“I’ll be as fast as I can.”

He stood up and walked quickly to the end of the bed, standing with his wand ready, looking directly at her. She reached for her wand, and gave him one more look of apprehension, before muttering the words to remove her protective anti-jinxes. His eyes stared into hers across the room, before he turned quickly, once, and was gone.

She held her breath, and began counting silently, in her head.

Time was like treacle again, every second lurching by at an injured pace, giving an infinite number of opportunities for her mind to fill with abject fear. Fear that the man who might appear in front of her, dressed in black, would not be the one that she so badly wanted.

Still she counted the seconds away, but her mind was also pleading to someone, anyone.

Don’t let him come, she thought, to herself. Please don’t let him come to us now.

Another second crawled past, and she suddenly had the horrible dread that maybe the assassin was already in the room, with her. She screeched and scrambled to the end of the bed, her heart thumping in her chest, as she stared all around her. Ignoring the ache in her side, as her frantic gaze swept to the corners of the room, to the canopy above, scanning every crevice, every shadow.

She felt the smallest change of atmosphere, as if the pressure had dropped, and then magic crackled as he appeared with a twist before her, once more.

She gave a little cry of relief as she stepped off the end of the bed, using the post to steady herself in her slight pain, and he stepped towards her too and held out his hand.

“The jinxes?” he whispered quickly.

Immediately, she spoke the words, shocked at herself for needing his reminder, as she felt the anti-jinxes settling on her home, once more. She took his offered hand, wavering a little.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t have been so afraid.”

He guided her gently backwards, so that she sat down on the edge of the bed again, and he knelt before her, still holding her hand in his.

“Is the potion okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, with a little, dismissive shake of his head. “Distillation may take some time, however. But you shouldn’t be sorry, for finding the situation tense.”

She couldn’t help smiling a little, at that whopping understatement. But she was staring into his eyes again, and he was staring back, so close. Then he looked down, his hair falling in front of his face, as he stared awkwardly at the floor.

“I was afraid for your safety, too,” he admitted, quietly.

Emotions tumbled about inside her, as she considered him kneeling at her feet, hiding behind his hair again, holding her hand so gently in his. Now that he was so close to her – so very close – she had the opportunity to go through with her promise to herself. And yet, now she was faced with it, the idea absolutely terrified her. She valued the tenuous friendship, that was growing between them, would hate to risk it. Would hate to be rejected, by him, too.

But in this quiet, dangerous room, it suddenly seemed certain that he absolutely would not reject her. And that thought scared her more than anything else. It had been so long, since she had trusted anybody, in that way.

Then her eyes shifted down, and she focused on his thin but parted lips, the black of his stubble. She lifted her free hand, gently brushing his long hair aside so she could see his face, softly cupping his cheek, needing to feel the roughness of it against her palm. His dark eyes flicked up, meeting hers again, staring intensely, as she leant in closer.

Closing her eyes, she thought of nothing but the glorious smell of him, the warmth of him beneath her hands. Against her lips.

He did not respond, but neither did he push her away. Instead he was absolutely still, as she dragged her lips slowly, once, across his. She lingered just a moment longer, leant in near to his warm body, her lips no longer touching his but still being tickled by his dark stubble.

She pulled back slightly, as she opened her eyes. Finding herself pinned by his dark stare, as he wove his hand into her hair, at the edge of her face. She leant into his touch, as the air crackled like magic, around them.

Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her properly.

Long-forgotten feelings sang along her nerves, beneath her skin, her hair standing on end. She could hardly breathe, as his hot lips moved over hers, his rough, unshaven face scratching at hers, in a way she had never felt before. His warm skin and his soft hair and the taste of him; everything was exquisite. She surrendered to him completely, entirely, not able to think of anything but her want for him, as their lips and tongues tangled in a heady rush of desire.

His right hand was still threaded in her hair, with just the slightest of pulls, making her senses spin. Then he wound his other long arm round her waist, pulling her to the very edge of the bed, so that her whole body was flush against the heat of his. She couldn’t help her quiet gasp, at the feeling.

He broke the kiss, then, leaning away from her. She opened her eyes, to look up at him.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, quietly.

Disappointment welled inside her, at the realisation that he didn’t want her, despite having just kissed her so desperately. Despite his hand, still gently cupping her face, his long fingers in her hair. But then his dark gaze dropped to her lips, intense, as his thumb slowly brushed across her cheek, and then dragged, softly, along her bottom lip.

“Yes we should,” she whispered.

And she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her body against his once again, sighing with pleasure as he kissed her deeply.

God, but he was good at this. Eager, demanding, and yet still with a surprising gentleness. Each of his deep, passionate kisses melting, one into the next. She clung to him, feeling suddenly dizzy, intoxicated. Wanting him so much she could barely breathe.

She broke their kiss, needing to catch her breath, pulling away slightly so she could look at him again. Look at the fiery, intense heat, in his hypnotising eyes. Then, doing what she’d not had the courage to do before, she kissed his elegant nose. She couldn’t help her quiet laugh, at the way his eyes suddenly shifted, looking surprised, confused. She kissed his nose again, then pressed another kiss against his lips.

Then she flicked her tongue out, licking it across his slightly parted lips, watching his eyes widen even more.

“Jesus,” he exclaimed, gruffly.

And he sprang back from her, pulling free of her arms as he stood awkwardly, a few feet away. She felt the coldness of his sudden absence. His eyes lowered as his head drooped again, his hair hanging down, as he quietly spoke.

“I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

He raised his head and looked at her directly, pain and sadness, in his deep brown eyes.

“You can’t imagine how sorry I am, but I don’t think I can do this.”

She stood on shaking legs and walked a step or two towards him. His shoulders were rising and falling, with each of his deep breaths, his tall frame still looming above her and reminding her of their complicated pasts. The problems, which could so easily arise, from the heated situation they were in.

She knew she should be seriously considering what she was doing, as he seemed to be. She knew that if she thought about it too much, she would find many reasons why being with him, now, was a very bad idea.

But she didn’t care about anything, right then, other than the man before her, whose dark eyes were making her ache inside.

They’d both been hurt, were likely to get hurt again. But she didn’t care about any of the consequences, in this moment. Everything else could wait.

She reached a hand out, tentatively, towards him.

“But… do you want to?” she asked him.

He held his hand out too, his long, beautiful fingers reaching across the void between them, and lacing with hers.

“Yes.”

“Then, yes, you can. It’s alright.”

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and she saw his expression change before her eyes, his deep frown melting away into a look of intense, careful concentration. But there was still the shadows of surprise and uncertainty, lingering, as he considered her. Reaching up, she touched his expressive face, as she stepped closer to him.

“You can,” she repeated, and kissed him again.

His kiss was even more passionate, as he grabbed her face in his hands, craning his head down so that he could kiss her thoroughly. She was melting against him, as he pulled her body against his. She tilted her hips, moaning softly as his hands slid down her back, pulling her even nearer. He was hard for her, as their hips ground together, and she threaded one hand between them to stroke the length of him through his trousers. His body started in surprise, and he groaned, low, into their kiss.

The deep sound made her heart race.

But then he was pulling away from her again, panting a little as he grabbed her hand and held it, gently, away from him. His eyes were dark, heavy, the desire in them making her breath catch. He shook his head, slightly, and there was still a look of trepidation about him, as he searched her face.

“Please don’t worry,” she said.

She turned her hand in his, so she could thread their fingers together again, loving how familiar it felt, already. How right it felt.

“I don’t know what will happen later,” she told him with feeling, her eyes fixed on his. “And I don’t care. Only this matters, just now. Please.”

She reached her free hand up into the dark softness of his hair, and she took a handful and pulled it gently, as he had done hers. His eyelids fluttered, his head tilting back into her grasp, with a sort of purr of desire. She was unsure she could bear the aching need, that the view of his stretching throat sent through her.

“I want you so badly,” she confessed, her voice husky.

“I want you too,” he said, stepping closer.

The guarded walls around both of their hearts crumbled away into nothing, then, as they fully accepted one another, in the dim light of the quiet room. His hands gripping her wild hair as he kissed her desperately, drinking her in, like he was drowning in her. She clung to him, swallowing down the incredible taste of him. Fire sang through her, hot lust, her want for him so sharp it ached.

Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, at his neck, working downwards as he kept on kissing her, like he needed her to live. She felt the same way, right then. When she’d opened his shirt enough to touch him, she leant forward, her nose snuffling the skin at his shoulder and throat, breathing him in as his big, warm hand stroked the back of her head. She pressed soft, gentle kisses, against gnarled scars, her fingers still undressing him.

Then she tugged his shirt away and discarded it, staring at his scarred chest and stomach, the scant, dark hair, trailing in a line to his waistband. His body was unlike any she’d undressed before, worn, used, and more beautiful than she could ever find words to describe.

She looked up and met his eyes again, as he stared down at her, deep brown eyes burning into her, as she ran her hands over his bare chest.

“You like what you see.”

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway, glancing down to watch the way he flexed beneath her dragging fingertips.

“Very much.”

She heard him give a short, quiet breath of a laugh, and looked up again. He shook his head, obviously baffled.

“Odd girl,” he murmured.

Laughing quietly too, she grinned up at him, appreciating this change in him. In them. She’d never imagined she’d ever be flattered by him calling her odd, but then, she’d never imagined him saying it with the sexist smile she’d ever seen, either.

“I suspect it’s mutual,” she teased.

And she whispered an undressing spell, to help her tug off her t-shirt and bra, in one fluid movement. She dropped them to the floor, enjoying the way his mouth dropped open in response, his eyes narrowing with desire. His dark gaze definitely not diverted, now.

“God,” he whispered, immediately reaching out towards her.

She reached for him too, stepping into his touch, kissing him as his hands ran over her body, as she ran her hands over his. She loved the fierce way he kissed her back, and she moaned into his mouth, her body shuddering as his beautiful hands stroked her naked skin, her hardened nipples. His mouth compelling and insistent, but soft, too. So painfully erotic she felt as if she were melting inside.

Together, they shuffled towards the bed, and when she felt it behind her she tumbled backwards, pulling him with her. She clutched at him desperately, her hands clinging to him, lost in more breathless, endless kisses. Loving the weight of him on top of her, the way he teased her, his long fingers stroking, caressing.

It was all so different, from her previous, awkwardly fumbling experiences. He knew what he was doing, and she could tell, enthralled by the way his sure hands moved over her, sending tendrils of aching desire shimmering beneath her skin. The way he ran his lips along the sensitive edge of her ear, his hot breath chasing down her spine, how he gripped her hip and helped her tilt against him, his hard erection rubbing against her making her eyes roll back, even through their clothes.

His kiss was scorching, as she sought his skin with hers, pressing her chest up against him as he kissed her ear and neck. He worked his way slowly down to her collar bone, his legs tangled with hers as he leant on one elbow, the other arm still wrapped around behind her, pulling her slightly from the bed.

When he finally put his mouth on her, his tongue swirling around one hard nipple, before sucking it into his hot mouth, she couldn’t help her loud, gasping moan. He seemed to like it, since he spent the next few minutes using his warm lips, his hot tongue, his beautiful fingers, to make her moan as much as possible.

He was still sucking on her, his smile wide as he moaned against her soft body, and his hand dragged across her skin, his fingers tracing lines of beautiful feeling across her chest and stomach. Her hands splayed across his naked torso as well, she tried to touch – to feel – every inch of him. So smooth, like ice, and yet it felt as if he was burning her hands, he was so hot. Their combined gasps of mutual feeling lingering in the quiet room.

In time, his hand made its way down between their tangled legs, his fingers easily slipping beneath the elasticated waistband of her checked pyjamas. Her breath caught in her throat, as his fingers teased, playing along the hem of her panties, before finally touching her aching, slick pussy. He leant his chin against her breasts, for a moment, moaning softly.

“You’re so wet for me,” he gasped.

His hand still teasing her, as he stared up at her, looking like he was in pain, he was so aroused. She could only stare open mouthed at his expression for a moment, the feeling of his fingers dragging across her wet clit making her whimper, and she dragged both hands through his dark hair as she answered him.

“I’ve told you how much I want you already,” she said, in a low voice. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She grinned at him slyly, managing to imitate his impatient tone quite well. He stared into her eyes as he smiled, wickedly, back. Then he shuffled down her body and slowly stripped away her pyjama bottoms and underwear. His hand ran up the inside of her leg, as she leant back on both arms, panting and naked beneath him, breathless with anticipation. He lowered himself between her legs, kissing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, tasting her. Then he looked up and, still holding her intense gaze, swept his tongue against her hard, aching clit.

She gave a strangled cry, falling back and covering her face with her hands, unable to take the feeling of him licking her, coupled with the sight of his dark, smouldering eyes. But then she couldn’t think about anything, except the blinding, gasping pleasure, burning through her. Her moans were high and loud, now, her hands pulling in his long, dark hair.

God, it had been so long, since anyone had even touched her, like this. And this was Snape, she reminded herself, leaning up on one elbow to look down at his dark head, between her legs. And both of these facts, taken together, meant she was on the brink of climax all too soon, her legs shaking and her body trembling.

“Oh my god,” she groaned, barely words. “Feels so good.”

Her eyes rolled back in her head, as he growled against her, his breath hot, his tongue speeding up a little. She watched one of his big hands sliding up from her hip and across her stomach, enthralled, by the contrast of his pale skin against hers.

“God,” she panted again. “I’m coming!”

Only mere moments before she did, her body shaking, her eyes squeezing shut, as the strongest orgasm she’d had for years ripped through her, leaving her winded. She gasped for breath, moaning incoherently as she shook on the bed, his big hands holding her down as he kept on licking her, teasing out every long, jerking shudder. Endless, golden pleasure, burning in her mind.

Afterwards, she could only lay there panting, stars spinning behind her closed eyelids, feeling like she was nothing but a bundle of satiated bliss.

She felt the bed move as he shifted, pressing a kiss against her trembling thigh, kissing his way up her body again. She took deep breaths, focusing on the feeling, determined to remember it forever. No matter what happened, later, she’d never regret doing this, with him.

But as she focused on the gently tickling scratch of his chin against her stomach, and the slight coolness of the tip of his nose as it softly pressed into her with each kiss, he suddenly stopped touching her entirely. She leant up on her elbow again, so she could look down at his head, hidden by his tangled hair. He was looking down at the fresh scar on her stomach, the pinkish-white line reaching around to her side, and his hand hovered over it without touching.

His shoulders lifted as he sighed, his breath cool on her skin, and he whispered softly.

“I’m sorry.”

He did touch her then, the very tip of his finger running along the thin white line, and she reached forward and pulled him towards her. She hugged him close, first, warm and solid, as he lay between her spread legs. The dusting of black hair on his chest brushed her skin, his weight settled comfortably against her, as she kissed him deeply.

“Don’t be,” she whispered, against his lips. “You saved me.”

He pulled away from her a little, leaning up, so he could look down at her. It was almost as if she could see the wheels of his mind spinning, as he considered her, and she knew what it was like, to be caught in such a train of conflicting thoughts. She brought his head down, kissing along his frowning forehead.

“Don’t think,” she told him, as she whispered away the last of their clothes with a spell.

She slid her hands down his back to his ass, grinding her hips and making them both gasp, as she drove against his hard cock. His eyes were narrowed, staring into hers, his panting breaths warm on her cheek.

“Just… don’t think,” she whispered.

And she felt a drop of his perspiration fall onto her forehead, as his hands trailed down to her hips, gripping her firmly as he slowly slid into her, with a strangled groan.

She moaned too, at the feeling of him filling her. She couldn’t help it, he was so hard, and she could feel every inch of him as he thrust himself deep inside her. Her hands clutched at the sheets beneath her, at his arm, as she stared up into his emotive, deep brown eyes. He remained still for a second, staring down at her face and nakedness as he hovered above her, panting at the feeling. Until she flexed her body around the length of him experimentally, and she watched his face line with hot lust, his mouth dropping open.

He leant forward, as his gripped her hip even tighter, and he slowly pulled out and thrust into her again. She was moaning, overwhelmed, feeling absolutely taken as he held himself deep in her. She clung to him, his flexing arm, his unscarred shoulder. The line of heated red, painted across the pale skin of his high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, was one of the most erotic things she had ever seen.

His hot lips dragged deliciously across hers, once, to match with the slow pace of his third thrust, and he muttered a swearword against her soft mouth, making it turn into a wicked smile.

“Mmm,” she sighed. “Severus.”

He froze, looking down at her, his lips parted, the surprise in his eyes. The confused awe, that she recognised clearly, that she was feeling too. That something could feel this good. This right.

“Hermione,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her again.

As he began to increase his pace, making her gasp into his mouth, at the incredible feeling of him moving in her. She shuffled beneath him, and again he knew what she wanted, what she needed. Shifting one leg and angling himself, until he could go deeper, faster, the drag of his body against hers making her gasp in surprised delight, it felt so good.

“You’re beautiful, incredible,” his deep voice rumbled, as they clung to each other. “God, I needed this. I didn’t know how much I needed this.”

His deep words made her hands pull in his hair again.

“Me too,” she whispered. “I needed you, too.”

Then she was lost entirely, not even able to think, could only exist in this passionate world of deep, intense pleasure, that they were spinning out, around the both of them. Lost in his dark stubble, scraping deliciously against her neck, as he kissed her sweating skin. In the way he held her body so close to his, to meet each one of his fast, deep strokes into her. In the sound of his voice, making her pulse thud, with each deeply murmured word of praise.

She gave herself over it completely, to him, holding nothing back as they chased away the danger in the quiet night, the fear. Feeling alive, the need to live, chasing a reason to survive.

She revelled in his beautiful, scarred body. Watching the flex of his shoulders, the heaving of his lean chest as he groaned, the way his stomach tensed as his hips thrust smoothly. She cried out at the beauty of his glistening, marred skin, the beads of sweat running down his temples, the incredible feeling of him moving frantically in and out of her.

She suddenly had a moment of intense clarity, remembering just who he was. That it was one of her former teachers, a fellow veteran and secretive, revered spy, fucking her so hard her body shook. And she fucking loved it, loved seeing him like this, so real and human and raw, and so close to losing control. So fucking hot she could barely breathe.

By the time she realised he was going to make her come again, she was almost there, already. Her second orgasm chased through her, stealing her breath away, the pleasure blinding, her high moans nearly screams. He swore again, and whispered her name.

For a moment she was dazed, lying with her eyes closed, so overwhelmed she felt she might cry. Then she heard his deep voice, murmuring above her.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, again. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

Her eyes flew open, his dark gaze meeting hers immediately, and she ground her body against him and clutched his hot length tightly, as she pulled herself up to kiss him. She felt goosebumps chasing across his skin, beneath the hand she was stroking down his long, flexing back.

“Yes. Come for me.”

She whispered against his parted, gasping lips, and kissed him slowly, erotically.

“I want to watch you coming for me.”

His face twisted into a beautiful portrait of painful ecstasy, as he groaned deeply, pushing deep into her one more time as his orgasm made his body jerk. She watched him, his intense eyes staring into hers even as he climaxed, biting her lip as the pleasure lined his face. She could feel the heat of him, pouring deep inside her. And she knew she’d never forget it, these burning, intensely erotic moments, that he’d shared with her.

He leant down and kissed her, gently, once. Then he leant against her, dipping his face into the nook of her shoulder, their bodies still heaving for air.

“Thank you,” he whispered, against her skin.

“Thank you, too," she whispered back.

Feeling satiated, relaxed. Secure, under the safe, comforting warmth of his body.

Chapter Text

She wasn’t sure if they had slept, in the time that passed as they lay wound together, in a tangle of limbs. Her eyes were heavy, and she couldn’t clearly remember the euphoric minutes which passed by, directly after their frantic union. She just accepted the weight of feeling, which was settled around them, as she lay against his warm chest.

Listening to the beat of his heart, as his fingertips ran lightly across her back, her shoulder, down her arm.

Wanting to remember this moment, this incredible feeling, she tried to focus on every detail. Every part of every second rushing by, making the most of this brief calm, they were sharing together. Her leg snaked up and threaded over his hips, and his other hand caressed it lovingly, the slight roughness of his palm still burning sparks of desire, beneath her skin.

More time slipped by.

Her eyes were staring down at his long legs, his big, bare feet, when she felt him sigh. Her head rising and falling, gently, with the movement of his body. She stroked her fingers through the dark hair on his chest, as she spoke.

“He’ll be here by now, won’t he?”

“Probably,” he replied.

She kept listening to the soft, steady thump of his heart, beating under her cheek. Feeling the life and warmth radiate from his body, as a cold chill of fear ran down her spine.

“Will the poison be ready soon?”

His hands stilled, then, as he pulled her a little nearer to him.

“Yes, it will have distilled completely by now,” he said quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest. “But it is up there, and we are down here.”

“And he is here, too,” she said, still looking down at his long toes.

“He’s probably just outside the door.”

They were whispering in the quiet room.

“Can he hear us?”

“No,” he told her, but still he spoke gently. “He’ll know that we’re here, but he can’t hear us, or get to us, with the spells we put round the room.”

She lay quietly, feeling as much of his warm skin as she could against her own, the sickening fear building inside her at the thought of just what might happen, once they had to leave this small moment in time, they had taken for themselves.

Genuine terror clutched at her heart, when she remembered the hooded figure streaking across the room, faster than she could cast. The gleam of his twin short blades, the way he had resisted their attack. Searing crimson burned in her mind, and she clutched her lover nearer, as she tried not to think of the pool of red she had seen downstairs.

“I thought you would kill him,” she whispered into the dim room. “I wanted you to kill him.”

“I will never kill another person with magic,” his deep voice rumbled, even when he whispered. “I don’t think my soul could take it another time. But my fight with Murasaki is still one to the death. It’s why we need the poison.”

“You could apparate to get it?”

She felt him shake his head slightly, before pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“He would be able to tell that the anti-jinxes had been removed, and he would come for you, if not for me.”

His hands still clutched her to him, as they lay quietly together.

“We could always just stay here until Harry and his force of aurors come, and leave Murasaki to them?” she suggested with a smile.

And she lifted her head so she could see him, as he grinned widely, with a slight chuckle of laughter. The sight of him laughing made something catch in her chest.

“It’s tempting,” he said, through his wicked smile. “Though I’m sure Potter would act irrationally, if he stumbled across you in this particular position.”

His dark eyes drifted down to linger, for a moment, on her naked body, draped over his. She felt his big, warm hand, dragging down her spine.

Immediately, her mind imagined the scene he had described. Her best friend would no doubt have many things to say, at her decision to share her bed with the man next to her. Knowing Harry, his Gryffindor haste would make his temper rise, before she could even begin to explain.

She suddenly thought about what the other members of the Order would say if they could see her now, and his colleagues at Hogwarts, and Ron. A cold, but different, type of fear settled in to her, as she realised that the path for them would not be easy, should they survive this.

A difficult path that, perhaps, he would not want to walk with her, at all.

“You have a beautiful smile,” she said instead, changing the subject. “It changes your whole face.”

And she laughed as he raised an eyebrow, peering at her, like she’d suddenly gone mad. He chuckled again and brought his hand up to cover his mouth.

“I told you not to hide from me,” she scolded, teasingly.

She was laughing again, as she pulled his hand away, her heart nearly bursting at the sight of his grin of a smile hidden behind it, as beautiful as she’d said. She leant up, enough so she could kiss him, and for a few minutes they were lost again, in soft, slow kisses. After, she smiled as she lay her head back down onto the warmth of his firm chest, breathing in the wonderful smell of him.

“You have a beautiful everything,” he murmured quietly, as he held her tightly, and a dull, heavy pain ached in her chest.

After a few more quiet minutes, alone together in the stillness of her bedroom, the impossible could not be delayed any longer. They slowly moved apart through the white sheets, both of them strangely shy and withdrawn, as they gathered up their clothes. She pulled on clean underwear, trying to ignore the painful tangle of emotions in her mind, and searched the room a moment for her t-shirt.

His hand was warm as it settled on her shoulder, sliding softly along her skin and down her arm, as he turned her round to face him. Her eyes lingered on his naked torso, before looking up, into the warm gaze of his deep brown eyes. He was grinning again, and she smiled up at him too, as he slowly raised her hands into the air.

He pulled her t-shirt down her arms for the second time that night, his eyes burning into hers as his hands swept across her arms and back, making the tiny hairs stand on end. The drag of the cotton, and his warm skin, across her body, almost made her want to cry.

He pulled her close, kissing her again.

If they survived this, if they could be together, it’d would be this she would love the most, she realised. Not the moments when he tore her clothes off, but the moments when he put them back on her, again.

Their kiss was sweet and gentle, and passionate, and meaningful. And then it was over, and they were dressed and standing a few feet away from each other, with a nervous distance between them.

“You need to go up to the lab,” she said matter-of-factly.

He nodded slowly.

“And the only way is across the landing,” she added.

He nodded again, meeting her eyes.

“You’re just going to make a run for it?”

And she couldn’t help the exasperated noise she made, when he just silently nodded, once more.

“Well we can find out if he’s outside the door, at least,” she said, a little exasperatedly.

But deep fear was ringing in her mind. She turned the handle and slowly opened the door a tiny crack, knowing they would still be protected by the cave inimicum, so long as they were both still in the room. She aimed her wand just through the small gap, near the ground, the cyan-coloured light of her spell spreading out like a fan, back into the room.

It hovered as a nondescript mist for a moment or two, and then she saw it form into the shape of her hallway, with a dark shadow gathered in the corner. Showing a presence, outside.

“There’s someone out there,” she whispered with a dry mouth, fear swirling in the pit of her stomach.

He was by her side in a moment, clutching at his wand as they both stared down into the shimmering glow of the mist, watching the cluster of light start to slowly move.

“Wand out,” his low voice reminded her.

She clutched her wand desperately, in front of her, watching the cyan mist with eyes widened in fear.

Suddenly the door burst open and what looked like a trail of flame streaked into the room, dissipating the smoky image as it flew threw it, making them step back in alarm. Severus aimed his wand as it disappeared under the bed, but Hermione slammed the door shut and chased after it, crying out.

“No! Don’t!”

She knelt on the floor, as he cautiously approached.

“It’s Crookshanks.”

Reaching under the bed as she spoke, she fished out the large, ginger tabby cat. Crookshanks glared up at Severus with an unamused look, on his smug-like, catty face.

“Where have you been, hmm?” she crooned.

But as she went to snuffle her face in his soft fur, she noticed he had patches of sickening, dark red all over him, and she hurriedly cast thorough cleaning spells on him and herself, as she tried not to think.

Severus stared at the cat for a moment longer and then sat down heavily on the end of the bed, his hand pressed against his heart for a moment, and then reaching up to cradle his head.

She put Crookshanks down, after she’d finished cleaning him, despite his protesting wriggling. Crookshanks looked around for a moment, before padding over to the tired man, and rubbing against his thin legs. Severus sat frozen for a moment, and then he reached down and tickled the tomcat behind his ears, the thin smile curving on his lips making her smile too. He petted Crookshanks for a while more, the ginger tabby purring as contentedly as she had done, and then the cat leapt up onto the crumpled bed and curled up as he lay down to sleep.

“Yes, you stay here Crookshanks,” she said, and the fear settled on her once more.

She opened the door slightly as she cast the cyan mist again, and they looked at it for a few moments, seeing no other shadows gathering in the sketched outline of the landing outside.

“Will it show him if he’s not moving?” he asked her.

“It should do, unless he’s really still.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she nibbled her lip nervously, before elaborating.

“I mean really, absolutely, unimaginably still.”

They both stared down at the empty box of cyan light, glowing eerily.

“I want to go with you,” she said suddenly, looking up at him.

He shook his head as his shoulders drooped, hiding behind his hair, again.

“Not to the lab,” he reminded her.

“I’ll wait in the hallway then.”

She still stared up at him, willing him to look at her. Then he did.

“Please?” she whispered.

“Alright,” he said, giving a little nod.

They stared into each other’s eyes, a thin, intense thread of feeling, stretching between them. But now, once again, they did not act on it. They simply stood for a moment, looking at each other.

“Do you have a badge or brooch handy?” he asked her.

She nodded and walked over to her small writing desk, picking something out of a little porcelain dish on top, putting it into his outstretched hand as she walked back to him.

“Ah,” he said, with a smile.

Looking down at her Prefect badge.

“I never had one of these.”

“You were never a Prefect?” she asked, in surprise.

“Of course I was,” he replied, looking slightly affronted. “We just didn’t get badges like this, back in my day.”

“What, back when there was no legal currency, and everybody traded with chickens?” she joked.

He looked down at her with his warm, dark eyes slightly narrowed, as he smirked at her.

“I think they’d managed to get the concept of coinage working, just about,” he said.

She smiled at him, too.

“Just not badges,” he added, and she laughed.

“Well you can have this one,” she said.

His fingers closed around the badge in his palm, as his head swayed quickly, in disagreement.

“I want you to have it,” she insisted. “My Head Girl badge is the important one, anyway.”

And he laughed quietly with her, this time. She decided she’d never get sick of seeing him laugh.

“Why did you need it?” she asked him.

“Although my advancements are shamefully amateur, compared to your lofty discoveries,” he replied. “My research into second-elemental links was sometimes fruitful, especially concerning magical bonds.”

He opened his hand again, and waved his wand, as he cast a couple of complex spells, on her Prefect badge.

“I had a theory I’ve not been able to trial, before now,” he continued, as he pinned the badge to his black shirt. “But I think I can amend the attachment charm to form a link between our magic, now we…”

He hesitated a moment, looking into her eyes.

“Know each other,” he said.

A rather biblical way of stating it, she couldn’t help thinking. But it was right, she realised, as the thread of intense emotions stretched between them again. She knew the taste of him, the sound of his gasping breaths, the feeling of being one with him.

“Do you mind holding this, a moment?” he asked, then.

And he held out his empty hand towards her, with a smirk. She chuckled again, grinning, as she slid her fingertips across his palm. Turning his hand slightly, so she could lace her fingers with his, and hold on tight.

“What a line,” she teased him.

He grinned back at her, doing something to her insides, as his hand squeezed hers a little tighter, for a moment. Then he cast several more complicated spells into the badge, and it glowed softly in different colours on his chest, as each settled into it.

“I’ve charmed it to detect any changes in your anti-jinxes,” he explained. “And if it’s worked, this should also let me know when you’ve cast any spell, and where. Try casting something?”

She let go of his hand and took a step back, waving her wand, casting another illumination spell. The badge on his chest glowed with a corresponding light, the same as her spell.

“If you drop the jinxes, I’ll be able to apparate to you immediately.”

They looked at each other, across the distance there was between them, now.

“Deactivate them the moment you see him,” he said deeply, and she nodded at him.

They stood watching each other in the eerie, cyan glow of her detection spell, for a moment longer. Then the shadow of her hallway turned to mist again, as he dragged the door open, and she followed him out into the empty darkness of the landing.

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It seemed like she couldn’t breathe, she was so afraid.

Every inch of her skin tingled as she stepped out into the blackness of the narrow hallway. The silence drummed in her ears, as did her loud heartbeat, as she walked on shaking legs. He turned to face her at the bathroom door, and pointed a long finger down at the floor, indicating for her to stay. She nodded up at him, quickly. His eyes stared into hers, as his warm palm cupped her cheek, for a brief second. Then he was gone, leaving the warmth of his touch lingering, on her skin.

Her body trembled as she drew in a sharp breath, pushing her back up against the wall, her head swinging from side to side as she stared around her.

Her eyes were slowly getting used to the dark, but even so, the black shapes and shadows were confusing in the night. Everything seeming to be shifting, just outside the line of her vision. She swung her head again, from side to side, feeling like there were shadows where there shouldn’t be any. Panic rose inside her.

A sliver of light cut across the darkened floor, from the smallest of gaps in the bedroom door, still slightly ajar. It trailed along the carpet like a piece of golden string, towards the dark pit of the descending stairs. To her other side, the large window stood bare, the milky, white light of the moon, shining in through its thin glass.

Lines of shadows hatched across the floor, the walls. Too many to take in, in one glance, a mess of dark and light. He could approach from either side. Or from above, she thought suddenly, looking up anxiously at the ceiling. He could be hiding, right now, in the shadows at either end of the hallway, and she would not be able to see him.

She could taste the fear in her mouth, bitter and vile, her throat feeling like it was constricting.

Hurry, Severus, she thought. Please hurry.

The thin thread of golden light was like a boundary, between those shadows she could see, and those she couldn’t. Beyond, there was only a deep blackness, which she could not define. She tried not to stare too long, into the dark void of the staircase, but it drew her eyes more than anything else.

The more she looked, the more she thought she could see the faint outline of a person, crouched in the dark space above the stairwell. Paranoia ripped through her, as she tried to be rational. A man couldn’t possibly be crouched up there, near the ceiling.

She continued to glance around her, until a chilling vision suddenly came to mind, the terror in the depths of her soul as she’d watched him scuttle up her bedroom wall, like a deadly spider.

A sickening fear ran through her, as she spun back round to her right, stepping away from the wall. She stared up at the lines which could be arms and fingers, the curving shadows which might be a calf or a back, desperately watching for any twinge of movement, tempted to cast a bright light. Not knowing if it would be better or worse, than the spine-chilling horror of seeing him slowly creeping across the ceiling, out of the shadows. She gasped for breath, her breathing frantic.

And she almost fainted clear away, as she felt the hands snake around her face and neck, from behind.

They were gloved, and they were strong, and they definitely did not belong to Severus. The choking cry she uttered did not escape her, partly because of the painful grip of the hand clamping down over her surprised mouth, but mostly because it was stifled by a sweeping wave of fear-riddled paralysation.

For a split-second, she could only tense the muscles in her back, scant protection against the shattering stab to her spine, she felt sure was coming. It didn’t, though, in the next split-second, a tiny shard of time, but enough for her to remember the words to alter the anti-jinxes.

She screamed them into the iron grip of the black, gloved hand, with all the power she could muster, in her shock-filled mind. And still in the same breath, she called out the spell to activate the second layer links in the dimensions of the hallway, her wand casting into the darkness in front of her.

Time seemed to stretch, as the hallway did, too. A single second, an almost immeasurable slice of time, drawing out as the dimensions around them shifted, elongated. Putting a sliver of space between the assassin’s hands and her, between her and Murasaki.

Just enough space for her to twist. She awkwardly turned, still in the same, endless second, staring at the floor just a few feet away. The twisting of space-time, as the second-elemental links stretched and bent, affected her apparation, too. She spun, in slow motion, through dimensions, keeping her eyes on the black, masked figure, all the while. Casting her body-bind spell before she’d even finished rematerializing in the room.

Time snapped back, the next second happening all in a rush.

Had she said her spell out loud, or had it only rung out in her mind?

She knew instantly, the light of her spell snaking through the air, watching it capture the ninja as he leapt, with lighting speed, towards her. She didn’t even have time to blink, as she saw the red light twisting up and around the steel blade like a snake, freezing it in place. Rattling, as he tried to resist her magic, the honed edge hovering just an inch from her wide, staring eyes.

And in the same, endless fraction of time, she met his hooded eyes, staring through the thin slit, in his mask. The same exact moment the air behind him became denser.

His black hair flicked about his face as he apparated, his tall frame becoming solidly black against the deep blue window, her eyes glancing past the ninja to watch him. The twist from his apparation became a stride forward, and he raised his arm as he turned a little more. Then his hand dropped to his side, leaving a glass-headed pin sticking straight out from the black, silk-wrapped neck of the ninja.

He must have apparated just a second after her.

She took another step back, her mind still trying to process everything that she’d seen, that had happened, in the past few manic, frantic seconds. That she still saw, in front of her. The black assassin, bound mid-attack, by the red light of her spell. Severus, stepping back too, only once, whispering the counter-curse. She opened her mouth to protest, but he caught her eye over the ninja’s shoulder, frowning as he gave a small shake of his head.

The sword dropped to the ground, with a clatter. Hermione watched the smaller man, still shaking violently, as he reached up a glove hand and plucked the pin from his neck. He glanced at the tip of it and dropped it to the floor, turning with obvious effort, towards Severus. Severus stepped forward, so that they were facing each other.

“Sumimasen,” Severus said, with obvious feeling.

As he pressed his big hands together, palm to palm at his chest, and bowed, very deeply.

“Arigatō gozaimashita,” the masked man muttered back, solemnly.

Bowing as deeply as could, while still shaking violently, his hands pressed together, also.

Then Murasaki brought his hands to his neck, pulling frantically as he dragged his black silk hood and mask off, revealing his face and short black hair, underneath. He continued to spasm wildly, barely able to move because of the shaking, dropping down to his knees as he tried to turn to her.

“Dōzo,” he gasped up at her.

His mouth working, as he struggled to breathe, his shaking hands holding something out to her.

“Take it,” Severus said quickly, seeing her confusion.

She reached out to take the small object from his gloved hands, looking into the face of the man grimacing with pain before her, surprised at how young he looked. He seemed not much older than herself or Harry. She dragged in a deep breath as he clutched at her hand, pressing a small, cool object into it, and then he fell on to his hands, panting. She thanked him, not knowing if he would understand her.

He looked up, and met her eyes, holding one hand to the black silk that covered his heart.

“Shiori,” he whispered.

Then he collapsed onto the floor, twitching once, before he finally lay there, sprawled and still.

Chapter Text

Hermione stared down at the lifeless body for a second longer, and then rushed through the slightly open door beside her, blinking in the bright light of the bedroom.

Her head was spinning, and she sat on the end of the bed, her hand still gripped, tightly, around the small object he had given to her.

After a few deep breaths, once the dizziness had abated a little, she looked down.

It was a miniature portrait, mounted in a tiny, simple gold frame. The girl in the picture was stunningly beautiful, with large black eyes and shining, straight black hair, arranged on her head with exotic flowers and long, ivory pins. Her painted lips like red petals, in contrast to her white make-up. Blossoms seemed to be raining down behind her, and she stared out of the picture for a moment longer, before lowering her eyes and drooping her head, sadly.

Murasaki Shiori. Hermione stared down at the beautiful, young wife of the Japanese assassin, her mind a whirl of emotions, as she tried to piece her scattered thoughts together.

His hand rested on her shoulder, and she jerked her head up, quickly, looking into the eyes of her lover.

“Help me move him,” she said, firmly.

A crashing wave of guilt rushing through her, as she hastily stood, and freshly made the bed with clean sheets, and determined casts of her wand.

“Hermione… we shouldn’t move him,” he said, behind her.

But he spoke quietly, and without any conviction.

“You know we shouldn’t.”

“Just help me!” she cried.

She hurried out onto the landing, slowly and gently lifting Tatsuji’s body, with her wand. He stood next to her, carefully aiming his wand too, helping to steady the corpse of the young wizard. They floated him slowly into the quiet room, and onto the fresh, white sheets. She carefully placed his hands together, on his chest, and laid the tiny portrait, tenderly, on top of them.

Having been disturbed by her hurried changing of the sheets, Crookshanks lingered close, brushing against her legs as they carefully arranged the body of Murasaki. Then he jumped back up on the bed, curling up, next to the assassin.

Hermione moved to shoo him away, but once again Severus’ big, warm hand rested on her shoulder. He looked down at the sleeping ball of orange fur.

“His is a welcomed presence,” he said, quietly.

Her breaths were painful in her chest, a lump caught in her tight throat. Her shoulders shook, as silent tears slid down her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop. But she made hardly a sound, as she cried at the clash of emotions inside her, the extremes of the last few hours finally catching up with her.

His hand slid down to her wrist, pulling her firmly into his embrace without giving her time to hesitate, and as his long arms crushed her to him, she thought he probably needed it as much as she did. They held each other tightly, as he buried his nose and face into her wild hair, speaking against her neck.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“Of course!”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his face. Into his beautiful, haunted eyes. His expression was so full of grief she could barely stand it.

“Severus, it’s not your fault. None of this was your fault. It shouldn’t have happened this way, but it just did.”

She gripped his beautiful hand in hers, holding on tight.

“Please believe me,” she begged him.

He stared at her for a few long, painful moments. But when he finally opened his mouth to speak, they suddenly heard the rumbling of many people running through the house, up the stairs, shouting loudly.

She sprung apart from him, pulling her hand from his and dragging it through her tangled hair awkwardly, as she watched the usual, impassive expression settle on his face.

The next second Harry and several other aurors burst into the room, filling the space with their shouting commands. But her best friend still saw her embarrassed glance, towards their old professor.

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Her body felt as though she had been awake for weeks.

She was desperately tired, weary to her aching bones, ready to fall asleep right there, at her kitchen table.

There were so many questions. So much repetition, Harry, and his supervisor, and his supervisor, all wanting to hear them recount it, themselves. She and Severus recalled the events again and again, as they sat side by side, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Through some sort of silent agreement, neither of them mentioned just how they had spent their time alone in the bedroom together, as they waited for the poison to distil. People obviously had their suspicions, though, as they watched them both fidget awkwardly. She saw Harry’s green eyes glancing at the blush, that she could feel, creeping up her cheeks.

Forms had to be completed and signed, official statements taken, the small kitchen was a hive of activity as countless people moved through the small house, assessing the scenes in the living room and upstairs.

Hermione was reprimanded slightly, for moving Murasaki’s body, her friendship with Harry helping her cause, since he immediately stood up for her sympathetic actions.

Japanese representatives from the Ministry came, eventually, to take Murasaki back to his clan. Dan, Ben, Stewart and Old Mac were also moved, reverently, through her small fireplace. A troop of ministry workers cleaned her cottage around her, as the hours wore on, and the talking continued.

Then, eventually, they had finished.

Severus’ protection as a war-time spy was deemed more than sufficient to excuse his actions, during this long-standing, deadly feud. Sympathy for the Japanese wizard was dulled somewhat, too, by the anger the aurors felt at the loss of their own. It was finally deemed that no further investigation would take place.

Harry remained close to Hermione’s side, as her scar was examined, and her well-being efficiently taken care of. And then finally, blessedly, she was allowed to go to bed. She could see the pale light of the pre-dawn, through the small kitchen window.

She glanced down at Severus, but he still sat with his elbows on the table, his head in his hands.

She heard the Chief Auror questioning him, as she began to walk up the stairs. She just managed to make out his deep reply.

“I must sleep now. But I will be leaving this afternoon.”

Her heart ached at the realisation that he would be leaving her, and so soon. But as she shuffled Crookshanks aside a little and slipped beneath the soft covers, changed for a third time that night, she heard his quiet, steady steps on the stairs.

He came into the room, his deep voice whispering behind her, warding the door as she snuggled her head down into the pillow, and pulled the duvet over her. She felt the bed dip, as he slid between the covers, and he immediately reached out and dragged her close, so he was spooning her. Holding her tightly, as he buried his nose in her hair.

She laid her small hand on his big one, stroking softly, as she drifted into a deep sleep.

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She slept and slept and slept.

Every time she woke it seemed impossible for her to pull herself together, and drag herself from the bed. She slipped back into her dreams, again and again, getting lost in whirling images. Corpses. Fights. And her body, moving together as one, with another.

Suddenly, she remembered him saying he would be leaving, and she sat up, her eyes snapping open.

She needn’t have worried about his departing yet, though. He was stood at the window, staring out, his hands clasped behind him.

Climbing out the bed, she walked towards him, barefoot on the carpet. Reaching out, she intended to touch his arm, but he spoke as she approached, and she hesitated.

“Potter is still downstairs, with a few others. He wants to talk to you.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said.

But she stood next to him instead, as they stared out of the window, at the rugged hills being lashed with rain, once again. A few minutes passed, in silence.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, eventually.

“Yes,” he said, quietly. “Soon.”

“I… thought we could talk,” she said, hesitantly. “I thought maybe we could talk about working together.”

She felt herself blushing, as she glanced up at him. His neck craned forward as his shoulders sagged, and he shook his head, hiding behind his long hair.

“I don’t think I could work with you… opposite you…”

He was stumbling his words as badly as she had done, and it seemed so unlike him, somehow, that it unsettled her.

“Not now, after…”

He hesitated again, and glanced down at her.

“Everything,” he finished, lamely.

There was hurt in her voice, when she replied. She couldn’t help it.

“You don’t want to work with me now?”

“Of course I do,” he told her, looking into her eyes. “But I wouldn’t be able to trust myself, around you.”

“Why does that matter?” she asked him, genuinely confused. “You wouldn’t need to trust yourself. Why would it matter, when I want you, too?”

Admitting her true feelings to him, and to herself.

“It would not be so easy for everyone else to accept,” he said, smoothly.

She remembered her thoughts about what the other Order members would say, what Harry and the Weasleys would say, if they found out about the two of them, together. She thought about the knowing, smug grins on the faces of the aurors downstairs, when they’d omitted parts from their story, earlier.

“To hell with them,” she said, firmly. “I don’t care. I wouldn’t care what they said about us.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asked, speaking to her gently. “You might think that now, but being ostracised is a very different matter, in reality. The facts of the past we have shared cannot be denied. I was your teacher, your protector. There are many people who still question my true motives, during the war, and now. Though your time at Hogwarts might seem far away.”

He stared into her eyes, but did not try to touch her.

“For both of us,” he continued. “It would not seem like long enough, to a lot of the parents there. A relationship between us could, even now, end with me losing my position. Not that I would care… but I would hate for you to have to live through the worst accusations, of my past.”

She reached her hand out and touched him instead, her hand shaking, as she gently gripped his arm.

“What’s happened in the past shouldn’t matter to us,” she told him, honestly. “And it shouldn’t matter to anyone else either, now. Not after everything that’s happened, these past two days.”

She was shaking inside, but she tried to keep calm, to reason with him, the logic of the situation.

“I know your motives,” she said, squeezing his hand. “And I trust you. What’s behind us doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’m not so convinced,” he admitted. “I saw how you pulled away from me, when Potter arrived. Don’t you think there’s some part of you that would be intensely uncomfortable, with my dragging you down to the dungeons, back at Hogwarts? I have to admit the idea of it makes me a little… uneasy. I very much doubt it was something you imagined, during your lessons with me.”

There was a part of her that wanted to argue with him, but he was right, as usual. She’d never had any sort of a schoolgirl crush on him, and something inside her recoiled at the idea, of seeing him stalking the corridors of Hogwarts in his teaching robes. It wasn’t a strong part of her, but it was enough to make her admit to herself that it would be harder to completely ignore these complications, than she had first insisted.

“It’s immaterial,” she said, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t matter, not really. Not when there’s a chance we could be happy, together.”

He chuckled quietly, with a matching, slow shake of his head.

“Talking about chances again,” he said, softly. “I don’t trust your acute judgement in this area.”

And he smiled a faint smile, which she couldn’t help but return, despite the pain in her chest.

“I fear you might have miscalculated again,” he continued, more seriously. “I’m not sure I could be the one to make you happy.”

She felt a kick of anger at that, at him thinking he could decide that, for her. Her voice had an edge to it, when she responded.

“You don’t think there’s a chance I could be happy with someone I trust, like I do you? That I wouldn’t be content with someone with your intellect alone, despite all we’ve shared?”

“I’ve no doubt that there is a very good chance of some brilliant young wizard making you very happy,” he told her. “But there is little chance of that wizard being me. I am too old, too jaded.”

“Don’t make this about age,” she countered, her tone low. Dangerous. “You’re not old.”

“I’m not young,” he retorted. “And only getting older. But that’s not what I meant, how I feel, when it comes to the question of making you happy.”

He searched her eyes for a few seconds, his dark gaze deep, considering.

“Although I have been able to live with the actions of my past,” he told her. “I have not forgotten them.”

His thumb stroked slowly across the knuckles of her hand, still clasped in his.

“My search for self-redemption is ever ongoing, and there are countless other questionable actions that I have taken, that may yet reach out from my past. Putting you in danger, in their desire for revenge, or retribution. Too many dark marks, that I would not have contaminating your goodness.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head, his other hand reaching out and gently stroking her cheek.

“You are like an angel, and I feel blessed for this time that we’ve shared, but I sincerely doubt a person like me could possibly be the right choice for a such a talented, unique being as you.”

She shook her head too, pulling away from his placating touch.

“This is insane,” she said, angrily. “You, and your chances, and probabilities, and impossibilities! I want you, and you want me, and together we could do brilliant things.”

The defeated look, in his deep brown eyes, made her heart ache.

“I didn’t know how much I needed you, either,” she told him. “You’re talented too, the most unique person I’ve ever met. We aren’t so different, you and me. There would be no limit to the things we could discover, if we worked together. Don’t you see?”

She looked up at him, her eyes begging, willing him to give in.

“It wouldn’t be impossible,” she told him, fervently believing it.

“I do see,” he whispered. “I have always been able to see the power you can weave from your talented fingers. Could only wonder, at the things you would discover. Little did I know I would become tied up in you so tightly.”

His fingers, still laced with hers on one hand, squeezed hers, gently.

“But Hermione, you are very aware that life is not like brewing potions. You can do everything exactly as you ought to, and it can still go awry. And, sometimes, working to achieve the impossible is not always worthwhile.”

She shook her head again, but he talked over her, still quiet, and serious.

“Sometimes, in life, you can fight for the impossible, and even if you manage to get it, it is actually a hollow shell of what you expected. Worn away by the grating of the effort, and time, and opposition you have to battle through, to obtain it.”

Her eyes were wide, as she stared up into his, but she didn’t say anything, as he continued.

“It’s like my wand. I could spend time trying to find it again, and I might eventually be successful, but the strain of the effort would far outweigh the pleasure of having it again. Sometimes, in life, you need to just let some things go.”

She understood what he was telling her, but she didn’t agree.

“And sometimes fighting for the impossible is how it should be,” she countered.

Quiet, but secure, in her thinking.

“Sometimes things are just meant to happen.”

“But do you really think we were meant to happen?” he whispered.

She stared up into his dark eyes, considering him, a small frown on her forehead as she tried to work him out. Despite getting closer to him than she’d ever imagined she would, these past two, dreamlike days, she still found it frustratingly hard to read him.

Staring deep into his dark eyes, she still couldn’t decide, even now. Was he pushing her away simply because he wanted to? Or was he pushing her away because he didn’t believe in himself?

“The last two days happened, didn’t they?” The fire of her certainty burned in her, as she answered him. “It was my door, that you chose to come to.”

“And I’ll be grateful I did, for as long as I live,” he said.

His hand reaching out and gently touching her cheek, again. She brought her hand up too, stroking it down the warm, firm line of his bare forearm.

“And that you answered for me, and let me inside. You saved me, and I could believe that that may have been meant to happen. You are such an angel.”

She couldn’t help blushing, as he repeated that.

“But it’s still an outlier. Not the basis of a solid argument, when it comes to you and me, and the probability of our being happy, together.”

And he stepped away from her, pulling his hands away, until she was desperate to close the distance between them. Desperately missing his touch, the moment it disappeared.

She scoffed, a quick, sharp sigh, as she shook her head once, in frustration.

“It’s bloody typical of you,” she said, scathingly. “To turn a conversation like this into a debate. Should I write you a damn essay?”

Despite everything, he smiled at that. A wisp of a smile, at the corner of his lips.

“I’m sure if anyone could prove the certainty of impossible things, it would be you,” he said.

“I’ll have my work cut out for me,” she retorted, angrily. “If our surviving Murasaki’s attack against unbeatable odds isn’t already proof enough to convince you.”

But the fire was going from her, now. Pain creeping into her heart, as she looked into his dark brown eyes, across the distance he’d so effectively placed, between them. He was still smiling, just the hint of a smile, but there was a matching hurt is his eyes, too.

“Whenever it may be, I hope I’m the first person you come to, if you ever do uncover such proof,” he said, quietly.

It was just the smallest thread of hope, the idea that she may yet see him at some point, if she could somehow find this impossible proof, that he was asking for. But she clung onto it, anyway. Suddenly absolutely determined.

“Maybe I’ll visit at an unsociable hour,” she said, with a wobbly smile of her own.

“I can’t tell you I won’t long for it,” he admitted. “But you shouldn’t think that way. I’ll never regret these past two days, but I’m sorry that it has hurt you. That my…”

He hesitated, for a moment.

“Taking advantage of your situation, will leave more than one scar. But we should try to see it for what it was, and no more.”

Without her even noticing it was there, a single tear rolled down her cheek. But she did not try to argue. He reached his hand out, seemingly not able to resist touching her, as his thumb swept her tear away.

“You can try to press your insufferable Gryffindor optimism on the situation,” he teased, quietly. “But in the end it will do neither of us any good. You’ll not find a reason to visit me, I’m afraid to say.”

There was a part of her, the significant majority of her, that utterly, completely and fervently disagreed. But she knew there was nothing she could say to make him change his mind, right then, at least. She was patient. She would think things over, once he’d gone. She might even find that he was right.

But right now she felt as though whatever it was, between them, wasn’t over – couldn’t be over – just as it had begun.

“I’ll never regret inviting you in,” was what she told him, instead.

And she stepped forward and kissed him, one more time, before he left her. His long, warm arms wrapped around her and held her close, as he kissed her back. Deep kisses, desperate kisses, making her want to cry with the emotion she felt in his burning embrace, in her heart. Then it was over, and they stood apart and stared at each other for a moment, or maybe two.

He turned from her. She spoke, as he opened the bedroom door.

“I will be visiting you, Professor.”

He froze, for just a moment, on the threshold. Then he was gone, closing the door behind him gently, not glancing back.

Chapter Text

The rain kept falling.

Incessantly, non-stop. Even as she tried to get lost in her work, to forget the feeling of being in his arms, the skies filled her lab windows with endless, swirling, turbulent greys.

Days passed slowly, the weeks even more so. And as they did, she spent a long time thinking about him, about the things he’d said. The fears he'd shared, about his past. His honesty, about the doubts he had, that he was good enough for her.

She knew the truth.

It didn’t make it easier, though. It didn’t make her heart ache, any less.

She gazed out of the window, distractedly sipping her tea, watching the rain lashing down on the rolling hills, the way the light shifted.

It didn’t matter that she knew the truth, when she still had doubts inside her, too.

She wouldn’t like him, as much as she did, if he didn’t talk some sense. As much as she liked to think that she didn’t care what other people thought of her, her actions – over the past few years, at least – implied otherwise. When she’d been faced with the idea of a potential scandal, back when Macmillan had betrayed her, she’d run away from it all. Hidden herself away, licking her wounds, letting no-one close.

And he’d seen it. He knew it. He was the only one who’d come looking for her.

The only one to find her.

But it wasn’t the right way to live, she’d realised. Once the impromptu auror visits had dwindled to nothing, once Harry had stopped trying to come over, only to spend an awkward hour sharing polite small talk, she started to feel the loneliness creeping in again. The isolation, of the life she’d chosen for herself, in the face of others’ judgement.

And suddenly, in that quiet moment, as she stared out at the rain, she decided to change it.

Walking through to the small laboratory office, she searched through the desk drawers, until she found the worn notebook that she had enchanted, a very long time ago.

Are you free? she wrote, on the first page.

In just a few moments, more words flashed up, below hers.

Yes. I’m at home.

I’m flooing to you now.

----------------------

Harry was waiting for her by the fireplace, as the green flames vanished, and she awkwardly stepped out of the hearth.

So was Ginny.

Hermione swallowed against the remorse, the regret, making her throat tight. Hardly believing that it had almost been five years, since she’d last seen the red-haired witch, in front of her. She hesitated, not knowing how to start, how to apologise, for her distance.

But Ginny was pulling her into a hug, before she could say anything.

“It’s so good to see you,” Ginny said. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Hermione admitted.

“Will you stay for dinner?”

“I’d love to,” Hermione said. “But I need to talk to Harry, first.”

And as she spoke, she glanced over at her best friend, who was watching her closely, as if she were one of the criminals he spent his time chasing. But as she looked at him, he gave her a tenuous smile, and nodded.

“Come through into my study,” he said.

She followed him through his living room, glancing around as they walked out into the hallway, noticing how much things had changed, since she’d last been here. The childish drawings, lovingly pinned to the walls. The small shoes, lined up neatly, by the front door. Harry’s study was cluttered, the desk in the middle covered with parchment, books scattered on the floor.

“I work in here, when I’m investigating cases at home,” he explained.

He gestured an invitation for her to sit, in one of the two armchairs, placed in front of a gently flickering fireplace. She sat gratefully, glad for the warmth on this overcast day, and Ginny brought in two steaming mugs of tea, before discretely disappearing again. Hermione sipped the cup of blessedly hot tea gratefully. Trying not to notice the way her hands were shaking, ever so slightly.

“So?” Harry asked. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

For a moment she considered him, her dearest friend, hoping the next few minutes wouldn’t go as badly as she was imagining they would. Then she brought her chin up, finding her courage.

“I know that there’s a question, you’ve been wanting to ask me. That you’ve avoided asking, up ‘til now.”

He was considering her carefully, too, as she spoke. When she paused, briefly, he gave her a small nod.

“I don’t like keeping things from you, Harry,” she told him. “And I don’t want to feel like I have to keep things from you. I want you to ask me the question.”

They considered each other a moment longer, as the small fire crackled quietly, in the hearth. Then he nodded again, and he leant forward, resting his arms on his knees as he rubbed his hands together distractedly. He looked up, meeting her eyes again.

“What went on, between you and Snape?”

God, hearing it said out-loud like that, his name coupled with her, made it seem horribly real, all of a sudden. But she felt a surprising relief spreading through her, too, a blessed release, at it all being brought out into the open, finally.

Felt even more relief, to be able to give him her frank answer.

“We slept together.”

She braced herself for his indignant response, but it didn’t come. Instead he simply nodded again, his shoulders rising, in a half-shrug.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You… don’t seem surprised,” she said.

He laughed then, grinning at her, a twinkle in his bright eyes.

“I’ve had some time to get used to the idea,” he said, making her laugh too. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen an odd pairing crop up, in the middle of a crisis.”

He reached forward and picked up his mug, sipping at the hot tea, in his brief pause.

“But the more I thought about, it weirdly seemed less… strange.”

She frowned, at that.

“What do you mean?”

Harry shrugged again.

“I mean you could have made a worse choice, all things considered.”

She let out an unamused huff of a laugh, at that.

“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s probably much less complicated options too, to be fair.”

“You always liked a challenge,” he countered, the gleam still in his eyes. “But seriously, he’s a good man, at the heart of it. A hero. And he probably needs a chance at happiness even more than you do.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she shot back, glaring at him as they laughed again.

But as much as she teased him, she agreed with Harry. Severus was a good man. She knew it, deep in her soul, the closeness they’d shared had let her see that.

And she couldn’t help agreeing, too, that he deserved a chance to be happy.

“It wouldn’t be easy,” she said, instead. “I doubt others would accept the idea as readily as you seem to have done.”

“I don’t see why not,” Harry replied, downing the last of his tea. “Remember when Remus and Tonks got together?”

They smiled sadly at each other, at the memories.

“You two have a lot in common, and it’s not hard to see, with even just the smallest bit of consideration. I don’t think you’d face as much opposition as you think you might. Tell you what,” he added, grinning again. “Let’s put it to the test.”

He raised his voice, calling out towards the door.

“What d’you think, love?”

Hermione couldn’t help rolling her eyes exasperatedly, as Ginny immediately came in, having obviously been listening just outside the door.

“I think most people wouldn’t give a damn, and anyone who did wouldn’t be worth worrying about,” she said.

And she plonked herself sideways, on Harry’s lap.

“Oh c’mon, ‘Mione,” she said, laughing at her. “He was just going to tell me everything when you left, anyway.”

Harry gave another helpless little shrug, at that.

“I don’t mind,” Hermione said, laughing too.

And, actually, it was true.

“Anyway, Harry’s not asking the right questions,” Ginny said, then. “There’s only one thing I want to know.”

“What’s that, then?” Hermione asked, smirking at her.

“How was it?”

God! She knew a question like that was coming, but it still didn’t stop the deep blush she could feel, burning up her cheeks, as she thought about it. The smell of him, the feeling of his skin against hers, his deep groans.

“Fine,” she squeaked.

“Just fine?” Ginny pressed.

Hermione wouldn’t have minded in the slightest, if the ground had swallowed her up forever, right then and there. She’d imagined many things, for herself, in her future. But she’d never once imagined that she would be sat with her friends discussing what sleeping with Snape was like, for fuck’s sake.

As weird as it felt, though, she wasn’t going to lie about it.

“It was good,” she mumbled, feeling like her face was on fire.

She remembered the way he’d made her shudder, the way he’d filled her, his murmured words. His big nose, snuffling in her hair and breathing her in, deeply.

“Really good,” she added.

When she was finally able to peep through her fingers, covering her face without her realising, Harry and Ginny were grinning at her. Both looking very amused, at her discomfort.

“I think that answers your question,” Ginny said, her smile kind.

Hermione frowned again, suddenly lost, in the conversation.

“What question?”

“Whether you should see him again, of course,” Ginny said. “That’s what you came to ask, wasn’t it?”

Was it? Perhaps it was, at least a part of it. She’d not been able to stop thinking of him, of going to him, since the moment he’d disappeared through her bedroom door.

And yet, there was still a part of her, that hesitated.

“I don’t know, really. I can’t deny there’s a part of me that’s desperate to see him again. To see how things might be, between us. But I’m not quite sure I’m… ready, yet.”

She struggled, trying to put into words, the strange mix of emotions, she felt inside.

“I’d shut myself off from everyone, from everything. I’d convinced myself I was happy like that, but I wasn’t really. I wasn’t anything. I needed something more, and he saw that. Helped me to see it. I’ve spent too long, away from the world. Away from the people that matter to me the most.”

She smiled at her friends, loving being with them, having them to talk to. Regretting the way she’d withdrawn from them, for so many years.

“I think I’m just going to focus on reconnecting with people, for now. And then… we’ll see what happens.”

----------------------

When she’d gotten back to her cottage, she realised it had stopped raining.

And, slowly and surely, the days became less dreary, the rainy days of late spring making way for the roaring, long days of summer. The hills around her cottage were bathed in sunshine, the grass sometimes twinging from green to brown, puffy clouds scattered scarcely in the bright blue sky.

She paused in her notetaking, glancing out the large windows, as sparrows flew past outside.

The hills around her cottage were bathed in warm sunshine. Indecision warred in her. She was behind in several of her current projects, could really do with knuckling down.

But the temptation was just too great.

Hopping down from her stool, she hurried downstairs, and she grabbed her wide-brimmed, straw hat from the hook in the hallway, as she walked out into the summer sunshine. After glancing one way and then the other, she decided to head to the east, strolling up the steep path from her garden gate.

She’d only take a short break, she decided. It wasn’t like she was getting much work done, anyway.

It was three months exactly, to the day, since he had arrived, dripping wet on her doorstep. And for some reason this day, today, she could not stop thinking about it all. About him.

How easy it had been to trust him, from the first moment. How they’d been drawn together by something greater than the sum of their parts, until they’d had to give in to it, with quiet, breathless gasps. How good it had been, when they finally did.

She kept pondering it, the idea of him, as she strode along the steep path and up towards the summit. Her trusty straw hat keeping off the glaring sun, as she glanced back now and again at her tiny cottage, nestled far below.

How humbling it was, that he’d let her so close. That he’d trusted her too, coming to her, when he’d most needed someone to help him. Knowing, somehow, that she would, without question.

Once she reached the summit, she paused for a moment, enjoying the fresh breeze that was blowing, this high up. Down below her on one side, she could see the valley stretching down to the long lake, that shimmered beneath the wide, blue sky. But rather than walking towards it, as she usually would, she decided to go a different way, today. She headed down the other slope towards a small wood, which grew in another deep valley, to the north.

It had only been three months, yet at times it felt as though it had all happened years and years ago, like the frantic, manic war years. At times it felt like a dream, the only proof that it had happened at all being the thin, white scar on her stomach.

It had been painful. There was no denying that.

It had been painful when he’d left, and when she’d missed him every day, and whenever she thought about him while she lay alone, in the middle of the dark night.

It had hurt meeting Mrs Crampiddle, to convey her late husband’s last, loving message. The widow’s tears had hurt her, when she realised the true depth of the love they’d shared, between them, since childhood. And the memory of the time she’d spent lying in Severus’ arms had hurt her, when Mrs Crampiddle had warned her to not miss any opportunity to love.

The shade of the leafy canopy was refreshingly cool, when the winding path finally led her down to the treeline, and she followed the trail through the old, twisted trees.

But as time had passed, she’d started to feel strangely optimistic, too.

She’d enjoyed reading about the way Ernie Macmillan had been held to account, the past two years, after a prolific run of his plagiarisms had been uncovered, by suspicious academics at the Ministry. The Brewer’s Guild subsequently withdrawing his membership, and all of his qualifications. She felt optimistic about the claim she’d submitted, with more than enough evidence, proving she’d been the one to write her seminal paper on second-elemental links in sustainable brews.

She’d slowly started to reconnect with people, too, as she’d intended to. Having tea with Minerva, catching up with her college friends. It brought her more joy that she’d ever realised, to spend her time wiling away the hours at her cottage, or at Harry’s, Ron and Ginny always making up their little quartet. Her sides aching, as they’d laughed again, old times that she’d thought were gone forever, alive and well.

She’d missed Ron more than she had let herself believe, and was relieved to find that there wasn’t any awkwardness about their past relationship, now time had passed. They’d had an honest and open conversation one night, just the two of them, agreeing that their friendship was far stronger than any previous, more complicated feelings. And he was surprisingly supportive, encouraging, when she’d told him about Severus, admitting the feelings she still had.

The shade really was lovely, the woods filled with their own fresh, earthy scent. Dapples of sunlight, shifting on the ground, as the branches gently swayed above her.

Suddenly tempted to rest a little, she was drawn to the base of an old oak tree, and she settled on the slightly damp ground, leaning back against the wide trunk.

She did still have very strong feelings for him. It was useless to try and deny it.

She still wanted his touch, the memory of his beautiful hands on her body lingering in her mind, especially when she was alone in her big, empty bed. She still missed looking out at her laboratory, from her cramped office, and seeing him working there. She missed talking with him, how easy it was, his conversation genuinely stimulating, his many questions more than welcome, now.

And she still wanted to be able to kiss him, whenever she wanted.

She lay back, resting her head on her arms, and stared up into the long branches and the wide green leaves above. Flecks of sunlight shone through, as they swayed in the gentle breeze, bright flashes twinkling like the stars.

The time that had passed had shown her that their worries, about being accepted, were mostly unfounded. In fact, the very people whose opinion she had feared, before, had all practically begged her to go to him, in the past few weeks. It hadn’t escaped the notice, of Harry and Minerva especially, just how little time she’d been spending in her lab, lately.

But, though she felt there would be significantly less obstacles for them, now, it didn’t help her to solve the problem of his own doubts. His insecurities.

He’d told her, blatantly, that he doubted he could make her happy. She very much doubted that he couldn’t. That was the truth, but it wouldn’t be so easy to convince him. She remembered the way he could be simultaneously so sure of himself, and yet so dragged down, with his low self-esteem. It was those dichotomies in him, the way he was, that was one of the things she liked so much, about him.

He’d told her to come to him with proof, of some sort, that some impossible things – that they – were meant to happen.

A typically infuriating challenge, from him.

Wherever was she supposed to find such a thing? What real, tangible object, could possibly prove something that was such a pivotal, yet elusive, belief of hers? She had been pondering on the problem, on and off, for the last three months, and she still did not have an answer.

She continued to stare up into emerald leaves above her, trying to empty her hectic mind, consciously taking in the sounds and sights and smells of this unfamiliar and beautiful place.

The first time she saw it she disregarded it as nothing. And yet, she couldn’t help a second glance, while at the same time refusing to believe that it was anything more than her eyes playing tricks on her.

The third time she looked at it, however, she studied it intently, hardly daring to believe her senses, as she scrambled to her feet.

Her heart was pounding as she reached up and slowly, carefully, nudged it from its resting place, in the low branches of the oak tree, above her. Her heart thundered even faster as she caught it, staring down at her hands, her mouth and eyes wide in disbelief.

Once she had cast a spell over it, the only spell she needed, she felt like she could scream and shout and throw her arms in the air and sing. She didn’t though, but just stood staring down at her hands, thanking whoever was listening for giving her exactly what she’d needed.

Her proof.

Chapter Text

It was sunny again, the next day. The warm sunshine pouring down, both at her cottage, and in the village of Hogsmeade, when she apparated outside the Three Broomsticks.

Her heart started racing every time she was back in the wizarding community again, but she found it wasn’t anywhere near as scary, as she’d been afraid it would be. She couldn’t avoid people she knew, of course, but she found it surprisingly pleasant, stopping for a quick catch-up, when she saw a familiar face in the crowd.

She didn’t let herself get too distracted, however, making her way determinedly to her arranged meeting. She had a plan, for how she wanted the day to go, that she didn’t want to go awry.

Her feet knew the way, even after all the years that had passed. She walked quickly through the large gates into the grounds of Hogwarts, making her way to Hagrid’s hut, laughing as he threw open the door and lifted her up into a bone-crushing hug. He thanked her for the owl, making her tea as he told her how glad he was to see her, that she’d reached out to him again.

But there was a sedateness to the welcome, without Fang’s frantic capering, that still saddened her a little, after all this time.

As she sat down on one of the worn chairs, and considered one of her oldest friends, she felt the same hesitation, as to whether she should be completely honest about her reason for being there. But he second-guessed her anyway, obviously having heard everything from Harry, immediately insisting on hearing the whole story, of how they’d managed to defeat an infamous Murasaki ninja.

Hagrid stroked his long, black beard, as he listened intently to her rendition of those two, dreamlike days. And he laughed happily and clapped her on the back, when she told him just why she had come to the school that night, and he shook his head in wonder when she showed him the proof that she’d found.

He kept her supplied with copious amounts of tea, as they talked, catching up on the last five years, late into the night. Finally, Hermione looked across at her dear friend with a smile, and a thrill of fear and excitement ran through her, as she spoke.

“It’s time,” she said.

Hagrid walked her to the castle and let her inside, making sure she knew where she was going, before he leant low down and pecked her on the cheek.

“G’night,” he said. “And good luck.”

Then he left her alone, in the vast, silent entrance hall.

It was so late that it was actually becoming early.

The castle was completely quiet, the students home for the summer, and the few teachers who remained presumably all sleeping, far away in their rooms. She took a moment to look around, to take in the familiar sights, the smell of the place, and another wave of excited fear washed through her, as she headed down towards the dungeons.

The colour of the stone, the coldness underground, even during a balmy summer night, reminded her of the things he had said. The awkwardness, they might face, in her returning here. It brought hovering uncertainties to her mind, lingering, as she descended the spiral stairs.

Perhaps it would be better if he’s not in his teacher’s robes, she thought. And the more she thought about it, the more she really hoped he wouldn’t be wearing them.

Memories came back to her, a lot of them good and many of them not, as she walked along the silent corridors. Heading in the direction Hagrid had told her, towards the door to his private chambers, far beyond the OWL and NEWT classrooms.

Please let him believe me, she thought, as she turned the last corner. Her breath catching, as she neared his door. She stood outside for a moment, as she tried to pull herself together, collecting herself as she checked her proof was still where she’d been keeping it safe, up her sleeve.

Please don’t let him push me away.

A final wave of terror crashed through her, and she laughed at herself, pondering for a moment on the fact that she found the idea of knocking on his door far more terrifying than being faced with a deadly ninja. Then she reached up and thumped on the thick, ancient oak, loudly, to make sure he heard her.

He obviously had, since only a few moments passed before he quickly answered her, the locks unbolting as he hurriedly opened the door. Then he froze, in his surprise, at seeing her there.

He wasn’t in his long robes, thank god, instead dressed as she always pictured him, in a simple black shirt and trousers. Her heart sang, at the delight of seeing him, so familiar, so very dear to her. Looking startled, but pleased, too, as their eyes met, immediately.

She felt the intense thread of feeling, still, stretching between them.

“I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour, Professor,” she said, through her smile. “But I would be much obliged if I might step inside a moment?”

And though she got ready to show him her proof, clutching at the edge of her sleeve, she didn’t have time before he reached out and dragged her into his rooms.

Into his arms.

She wrapped her arms around him too, holding him close as the door softly closed, behind them. As he nuzzled his face in her hair, kissing her cheek, the edge of her ear.

“You finally came,” he murmured, against her skin. “God, I’ve missed you.”

Then he was kissing her, just as deeply, as thoroughly, as he had the last time. As if his life depended on it. She didn’t hesitate, pulling him closer as burning desire raced through her, so very glad to be back here, breathless, as she drank in the delicious, familiar taste of him.

“I missed you too,” she told him, when she had a chance, between their burning kisses. “So much.”

More breathless moments passed, as they clung to each other, aching want for him chasing beneath her skin, with each silken slide of his tongue against hers. She was a little surprised, at him being so eager, so welcoming. But she was grateful, too, sinking into the glorious feeling that being with him gave her, so amazing, and so right.

When they finally broke the kiss, so they could catch their breath, she smiled as she looked up into his deep brown eyes.

“And here I was, afraid that you’d push me away again,” she teased.

He took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

“I couldn’t now, even if I wanted to,” he told her.

“You’re willing to make a bet on us,” she asked him. “Even without any proof?”

His smirk spread across his face, becoming a grin, his beautiful smile, as he looked down at her.

“Surely you’ve worked it out, already?” he asked her. “You choosing to be with me, now, is all the proof I need.”

And he leant down and kissed her again. She sighed contentedly, sinking against him, loving the way his long arms wrapped around her, holding her so close. Loving being with him again, after all the lonely nights, the endless longing, for this very moment. Breathing in the scent of him, as her hands ran all over him, reminding herself of the hard lines of his body.

But a small part, at the back of her mind, was considering his words, still. Thinking about what he’d just said, remembering their conversation in her small bedroom, three months ago. Working out the implications, of it all.

“Wait,” she said, pulling away to look up at him. “You were testing me?”

He chuckled, grinning again, looking infuriatingly smug, for a moment.

“I wouldn’t call it a test,” he countered. “A challenge, maybe.”

He brought his hand up, gently cupping her cheek is his big, warm palm. She still leant into his touch, despite her momentary indignation.

“I wanted to be sure you knew what it was, that you really wanted. And I had the feeling that there were some things that you needed to work out for yourself, before I started being a bad influence and encouraging you, with my own inclination to be as reclusive as possible.”

He was still grinning at her, as she glared up at him, with slyly narrowed eyes.

“I’ve been interested to read more reports about you being seen in wizarding society, lately,” he said.

His head tilted a little to one side, as he raised an eyebrow at her.

“About you submitting a claim for your journal article?” he added.

God, he really was infuriating, sometimes. But he was also usually right, damn him.

“It was a bold move, on your part,” she countered. “What if I’d never shown? What if I’d run off with someone else?”

“I was days away from breaking down and writing you a letter, begging you to come to me,” he admitted. “But, God, I’m so glad you’re here now.”

“Me too,” she whispered.

And she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, felt him kiss the top of her head, before she pulled back again.

“But I could still kick you,” she told him. “I’ve been wracking my brains for months, now, trying to think up some impossible proof, for you. When all I ever needed to do was show up!”

“It’s not like you, to not spot the hidden challenge, in the question,” he goaded her.

Her eyes narrowed a little more, but she was grinning at him too, as he grasped her shoulder gently, and ran his warm hand down her arm.

“Yes, well,” she replied. “When have you ever known me to not exceed in any of my assignments?”

And she felt delightfully smug, too, as she reached into her sleeve. Watching his eyes getting wide, as she held out his wand, in her up-turned palm. Exceedingly amused, as his dark eyes stared at her outstretched hand, and then flicked to her face in wonder, before staring back at his lost treasure.

“How did you…?” he murmured, words failing him.

“I know what you might be thinking, but I didn’t search for it,” she told him, honestly and earnestly. “I just found it, while I was out walking, yesterday. Would you believe me if I told you that some impossible things are just meant to happen?”

He held her gaze again, as he looked at her, with a look that she was beginning to recognise well. Like he found her incredibly impressive, and he liked her an awful lot, because of it.

“Of course,” he replied, as he reached out, slowly pulling her closer. “I’ve never found it hard to trust you.”

And they were smiling, as they kissed again. Soft, gentle kisses, as the seconds drifted past. As the moment stretched on, getting longer, as their kisses started heating up again, too. She held on to him, wanting to be as close as possible, her hand clutching at his long back.

She realised she still had her wand, and his, held precariously, in her tight fist. Immediately loosening her grip, she opened her eyes as he slowly kissed down her neck, blinking through the pleasure to see the bookshelf, next to them. Moaning, as his lips caught the edge of her ear, as she reached out and set both wands down carefully, on the dark, mahogany shelf.

But she got distracted, suddenly, when she noticed his Order of Merlin, carelessly leant against an antique, dented little chalice. An old, Slytherin house tie.

She glanced up at the books on the shelf above, the titles as she would expect, books on potions and the Dark Arts and a history of black magic, many of them by writers she’d never heard of.

The realisation of exactly where she was washed over her, like cold water.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled, almost squirming away from him, when he kissed her neck again. “I’m in your rooms.”

He looked down at her, his forehead furrowed in confusion.

“Yes,” he said, considering her with concern. “Don’t you want to be?”

But his frank question, his inquiring tone, did nothing to help with the odd, thrillingly uncomfortable feeling, chasing through her. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, her eyes wide, as she stared up into his frowning face.

“I’m in Professor Snape’s rooms,” she squeaked.

But she was laughing at herself, too, as understanding spread across his face. He grinned down at her, obviously amused.

Then his expression changed, instantly. His dark eyes narrowing, dangerously, as his thin lips set in a severe, straight line.

“Are you thinking bad things, Granger?” he murmured, deeply.

“God, don’t do the voice!” she screeched, swatting him across the chest.

But he was laughing too, back to his usual self, his smile captivating her as he held up his hands against her playful blows.

“Alright,” he chuckled, as he pulled her close. “I won’t, I promise.”

She chuckled too, as she slid her arms up around his neck.

“Not yet, anyway,” she murmured back.

And she loved the heated look, that he gave her in return, as he leant down and kissed her again. She sank into it, into him. The time slipping away, unheeded, as she became reacquainted with his tall, lean body.

God, being with him was so much better, than she remembered. The reality far outweighing the memories of his touch, that had sustained her through long, lonely nights. Mere shadows, of the drugging, addictive reality of his big hands, stoking down her spine, slipping up beneath the hem of her t-shirt.

“Shall I show you around?” he asked, kissing her neck again.

She returned the favour, dragging her lips across his unevenly mended skin, along the sharp line of his jaw, his slight stubble grazing against her lips.

“I’m mostly interested in seeing your bedroom, right now,” she said.

He sighed deeply, an almost silent groan, as he pulled back enough to touch her face again. His palm warm against her cheek, his fingertips tracing along the edge of her ear, deep desire chasing down her spine as he stared into her eyes. Then he leant down and scooped her up into his arms, like she weighed nothing more than a feather. She put her arms around his neck, holding on, as he carried her.

For a brief moment, she remembered him carrying her like this, as the life was slipping out of her. How the smell of him had distracted her from the pain. She pressed her nose to his collar, now, breathing him in deeply. Incredibly grateful, to be here with him, now. Alive, survivors, and safe, in each other.

So glad, that they’d found each other, in the face of such danger.

When he laid her down on his bed, so gently, she grabbed hold of a handful of his black shirt. Keeping him near, pulling him closer, as she kissed him again. He stared into her eyes for a moment longer, fire burning in their deep, dark depths, before he kissed her back.

Then she was lost, swept up in the deep, intense pleasure, in no way diminished, in their time apart. Lost in him, in his tall, hot body on top of her. His deep voice gasping, groaning softly, as she ground her hips up against him. In how very good, how right it felt, rolling in his bed with him.

More time passed, quiet minutes drifting past lazily, so different from the frantic rush it had been, the last time she’d had him, like this. They took their time, exploring in a way they’d not been able to do, her fingertips drifting over his smooth skin, the contrast of his scars, the heat of him, as they slowly stripped each other’s clothes off.

She was enthralled by his hands, especially, the feeling of them incredible as they chased over every inch of her. Big, strong, taking what he wanted, not a hint of hesitation in him, this time. Grasping, teasing her, seducing her. Stroking aching pleasure beneath her skin, deep inside her, making her shake. Sweeping aside her curls and caressing the back of her head, as she put her mouth on him.

And through it all, his deep brown eyes, staring at her, into her. Watching her face, as he touched her, held her, made her moan for him.

They didn’t talk much, but they didn’t need to. This was eloquent enough. The wonder, and the awe, and the intense depth of feeling, being communicated in each touch, each gasp. Each hot kiss, each deliberate drag of lips against skin.

When he finally moved to take her, sliding one leg between hers as he leant over her, she welcomed him eagerly. Her leg dropping open, as she ran her hand up his flexing arm, braced in the mattress next to her. Her other hand sweeping his hair to one side, as he held her hip, gripping her tightly as he slid himself deep into her.

He was still watching her face, and she watched his too, his mouth parting and his dark eyes narrowing, at the feeling her body was giving him.

“God,” she breathed, or tried to. “I’ve really missed you.”

He leant down and kissed her, briefly, before he thrust, once, slowly.

“So good,” he whispered.

His eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back, thrusting a few more times, still going slow. She loved it, revelling in it, in the intense feeling of having him in her again, like this. She moaned softly, pleasure burning through her, arching herself off the bed, against him.

She felt his hand at her hip gripping her more tightly, and she gripped him back, her body clenching around him.

“Fuck,” he cursed quietly, staring down at her again. “I’ve thought about this so much. Having you again, like this.”

He sped up a little, as he spoke, making her breath catch.

“And it’s still better than I imagined.”

“Yes,” she gasped, fervently agreeing, as he took her even faster, harder. “God!”

Then she could only wrap her arm around his shoulders, their legs tangled, as she held on to him tightly. Desperately, as he took her thoroughly, absolutely. Helplessly jerking her hips to match each thrust of his, the angle fucking incredible, the drag of his body against her making her eyes roll back in her head.

It took some time, and yet no time at all, until she was frantic, on edge. Pleasure burning through her, singeing like embers, searing right to the tips of her toes. So good it felt sinful.

She moaned his name, panting for him, her hand pulling in his hair as he fucked her hard and fast, a punishing pace. Making her groan, again and again, high, like screams. She matched him, moving with him, taking it all, willingly, all that he was giving her. Her body shook, trembled, so close.

He brought one enthralling, beautiful hand up, and caught hers, at his shoulder. Lacing his long fingers with hers, as he pressed their hands into the bed, leaning down to kiss her again. His tongue soft, slipping into her, like he was still thrusting himself, wildly, into her tight body. She whimpered, so very close, and he whispered her name, pulling back just enough to stare into her eyes, again.

Then, with a searingly hot, wicked smile, he flicked out his tongue and licked it against her parted lips.

“Fuck!” she gasped loudly, her head falling back.

Groaning, her eyes rolling closed, as her climax chased through her, setting her alight. She shuddered, shook, clinging on to him desperately. One hand tightly grasping his taut ass, as she ground up against him frantically, helplessly, seeking and finding more incredible friction, as she kept on coming, her orgasm beyond intense.

Made even more so, as he kept taking her, hard and fast. Speeding her through her golden, blinding, shimmering climax, until she could barely breathe. Until he suddenly thrust deep, one hand slipping beneath her shoulder and holding her close, as his body froze. Even in her complete distraction she felt him, heard him, holding himself deep in her shuddering body. Growling his pleasure, softly, into her ear.

Afterwards he collapsed on her, and they laid together, as more countless seconds drifted past. His face pressed against her neck, catching their breath as she ran her fingers, idly, down the deep, strong line of his spine.

----------------------

It was later, and it was early. The soft light of dawn, creeping in through the only two windows, set high in his bedroom wall.

After he’d quietly helped her dress, in the dim bedroom, her heart aching, just like the last time. After they’d eaten together, talked through the night, had spent countless more endless moments, spinning sparks of pleasure between them, like cobwebs.

As she lay with her head resting against his good shoulder, her fingertips chasing through the dark hair on his chest, running along the lines of his lean body, his scars. His fingers stroked her too, her bare arm, running just beneath the hem of her sleeve, his palm draggling along the naked leg she had thrown over his hips.

“I never imagined I’d ever have this,” he said.

“Have what?” she asked him, still watching her hand play.

“This,” he said again, holding her a little tighter. “Us.”

She looked up at him, at that word.

“You,” he murmured.

And he brought his big hand up, caressing her face again, as he studied her intently. His dark gaze searching her eyes, dropping to her nose, her lips. Meeting her eyes again.

“When I realised Murasaki was hunting me, there was a significant part of me that wanted to give in.”

His thumb chased, gently, against her cheek.

“To give up.”

She couldn’t help frowning at that, pressing her hand against his warm chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart.

“The majority of my life has been…painful,” he admitted, after a brief pause. “In many ways. I was so tired, worn down by it all. Only fighting to survive out of a sense of pure self-preservation, and even that was dwindling, to nearly nothing.”

She studied him too, as he admitted these things to her. Looking at the deep lines of worry, permanently etched into his face, across his forehead. Her heart ached, listening to him.

“Then I found myself outside your door,” he said, quietly.

She brought her hand up too, murmuring his name as she gently caressed his, where it rested, against her face.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you, for everything that you did for me, three months ago,” he said. “You saved me in more ways than one. You gave me hope, something to live for. Made me fall for you, completely,” he admitted.

Smiling, as he dragged his thumb, gently, across her lower lip. She couldn’t help squeezing his hand, a little tighter, as she turned her head just enough to kiss his palm.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he said, then.

And he leant up a little, while she leant down, meeting him in the middle as he kissed her. Soft, gentle kisses, that changed, as they always seemed to do. This time they were slow, deep. As deep as her intense, undeniable feelings for him.

She leant up on her elbow, so she could look at him, so grateful, too, for all that he’d done for her.

“I’ve got a lot to thank you for, too,” she told him, in return. “I was so lonely, without even realising it. I didn’t know how much I needed you.”

She ran her hands across his bare chest.

“How much I needed this.”

She felt his warm hand stroking down her naked leg again, his fingertips teasing against the incredibly sensitive skin at the back of her knee, as he gently tugged. She acquiesced, straddling him as he shuffled and sat up. Sliding her hands to his shoulders, as his big, warm hands chased up her back, beneath the cotton of her t-shirt.

“You saved me, too, Severus,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And not just from Murasaki. I needed someone to see me. To find me. And you did.”

He pulled her closer, so he could kiss her, again. His hands sliding to her waist, as he urged her hips against him, until her body was flush with his. She could feel him getting hard for her again, beneath the cotton of her panties, his pyjama bottoms. She sighed in pleasure, as she met his burning eyes again.

“Wherever you go, now,” he said, shifting, just a little, beneath her. “I’ll find you. Whatever incredible things you achieve, I’ll be there, supporting you. Defending you.”

She gasped, then, at the feeling. Of him under her, of his heady words. Her eyes drifting closed, as his hips moved again, sparking pleasure in her. She was shaking, she realised, this determined seduction of his, both physically and mentally, leaving her utterly overwhelmed. And he wasn’t finished, as she felt him nuzzling her cheek, his lips close to her ear.

“Loving you,” he whispered, deeply.

Her eyes flew open, and she couldn’t help pulling back, so she could look at him, again. Wondering, for a mad moment, if he was making fun of her. But there was nothing but sincerity about him, as he looked up at her, with his soft smile. She felt the strong thread of feeling again, that stretched, invisibly, between then. She stared into his eyes, breathless, so full of tumbling emotions her body trembled.

“I love you,” he told her, quietly.

Her mouth dropped open, without her realising it. She couldn’t deny it was a surprise, this confession from him, and so soon.

But it was also wonderful and, more importantly, it was true, she realised. Just as she was in love with him, too. And had been, even before she’d finally had the courage to act on her feelings, the first time.

She wasn’t sure exactly when she’d fallen for him, completely, like he’d said. But she suspected it was very soon after he’d shouted in indignation, about her stolen essay. When he’d teased her in her shower, and been so impressed, by her work.

“Severus,” she murmured.

Her hand stroking his handsome face, his light stubble grazing softly against her palm, as she gave him another soft kiss. His hands stroked, warm, down her spine, as he moved beneath her again, making her breath catch.

“I love you too,” she whispered back.

His hands slid up into her hair, as he pulled her lips to his, kissing her in that way he did, like he needed her to live. It was the same for her.

She sank into him, deep, breathless kisses melting one into the next, as she moved on top of him, her hips swaying automatically. Their remaining clothes cast off, with murmured spells, as they held each other. When she finally reached between them, so she could guide him into her, he groaned deeply, as she took him.

She was aching a little, but it was a good ache, the deep, intense feeling of this moment more than overpowering anything else. She slid down his hard length easily, spreading her legs until he filled her, like he was made to be inside her. His hands slid down her back, gripped at her hips, his dark eyes staring into her, as he thrust up just a little more. Until she’d taken all of him.

And then love her he did, thoroughly, completely, yet again. Somehow able to weave even more incredible feelings, inside her, able to tease even more pleasure from her tired, weary body. Until she was riding him roughly, chasing it with him, reaching for another of the incredible, breathless climaxes, only he had ever been able to give her.

And after he rolled her to her back, still hard in her, kissing her again as he took her slowly, lazily. Taking his time, murmuring loving words, her hand clasped in his. Until she was clutching him close, telling him how much she loved him, as he came, deep inside her.

----------------------

“Though I think you should know, I’m considering changing careers,” he said, as they chatted, later.

The night long gone, now, the summer day hot again, the sky blue, outside his small windows. People no doubt out and about, in the sunshine.

Though they were still naked, and curled together, in his bed.

“Really?” she mumbled, as she turned to face him fully. “What would you do, instead of teaching?”

“I’ve already got something of a side-hustle, going,” he told her, then. “I brew privately in my spare time, and have quite a collection of regular orders, now. Plus I’ve been known to dabble in research, at the cutting edge of magic. But I’m limited, with my teaching commitments, and with the resources here.”

She couldn’t help smirking at him, as his hand idly ran down her side, feeling she knew what was coming.

“I don’t suppose you know of any well-equipped lab spaces going, anywhere?” he said, smirking back.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” she said. “But, unfortunately, I don’t think I could work with you.”

He frowned, then.

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t be able to keep my hands off you,” she teased.

He laughed at that, his deep chuckle, that she loved so much.

“It’s mutual, I assure you,” he murmured, as he kissed her again. “But luckily we’re both talented enough to brew one-handed.”

And she was laughing again, as he rolled her beneath him, leaning over her to kiss her, then looking down at her. She felt so full of love she thought she might burst.

“People might talk,” she warned him.

He grinned at her, his beautiful smile, making her heart sing.

“Ah, to hell with them,” he said.

----------------------

Hermione’s office remained a cluttered mess.

Papers and articles strewn everywhere, the empty box that had contained Bellatrix’s wand, still sitting, slightly open, at the edge of her desk. Items simply left, in the quiet, currently unoccupied space. Books piled, and stuffed into crowded bookshelves, previous drafts of her plagiarism claim, screwed up and discarded, in a metal wire wastepaper basket.

And amongst the collected, precious little trinkets, on the shelves above her desk, sat a small object.

A carefully placed, tiny, simple gold frame.

Shiori sat silently, her heart heavy, as the endlessly raining, pink blossoms fell around her, gathering at her feet.

Suddenly, a noise. Petals scattering, in a slight breeze.

She glanced up, hardly believing her eyes, as she took in his grey, pleated hakama, the Murasaki crest on his long, black haori. In a moment, she was on her feet, throwing her arms around him, tears welling in her eyes. She held him close, hardly believing he was here, after so long.

“Tatsuji,” she whispered.

She felt him press a kiss against her skin, through her hair.

“Shiori,” he murmured.

And she leant back so she could look at him, with her again, finally, at last. His hand, warm against her cheek, as she gazed up into his deep brown eyes.

-The End-