Revealing Moments

Chapter Four: Resolved

Oddly enough, it was the scent that roused him; the slightly astringent smell of rosemary from the solution that Poppy Pomfrey used to clean her domain. From it, he quite accurately deduced two things. He was at Hogwarts, and he was alive.

Alive.

Severus Snape had not expected to awaken. His last memories were of the duel between Bellatrix Lestrange and Neville Longbottom; and of his revelation as a traitor by taking on Bellatrix after she’d eliminated Frank Longbottom’s son. Snape had seen the vengeful young man bolting across the slope in pursuit of his family’s tormenter, and he’d recognized that Longbottom was far too emotional to succeed. Snape had made the fateful decision at that moment, and followed with undue haste, hoping to save the reckless youth from certain death. Bellatrix’s vicious snarl when he’d joined with Longbottom hadn’t been a surprise, and the fury she’d turned on Snape was that of a trapped, feral animal. Longbottom fell rapidly, and Snape vaguely remembered countering a curse and then unendurable pain. There’d been no time for final regrets, or thoughts of anyone left behind. In his case, there was only one person he’d be leaving behind. Maybe. If she’d survived. If she’d meant what she’d said. If it was something other than the heat of the moment, spurred on by the adrenalin and fear of the final days.

Final days.

If he was alive, then the Dark Lord was dead. Snape was unfettered at long last. His overtaxed mind and body seemed to grasp this concept, and, once again, he succumbed to the lure of darkness. Only, this time, he had a final thought for someone else. Hermione. With images of her dancing in his mind – naked, sated, dressed-to-kill -- Snape’s breathing evened out, and his chest reflected the rhythmic pattern of deep slumber, a small smile tugging at his thin lips.

When next he woke, the first scent to assail his nostrils held the underlying and distinctively musky overtones of Remus Lupin. Grimacing in spite of himself, Snape opened his eyes and winced at the brightness of the room. Pain lanced through his head as the light assailed his sensitive eyes, and he could not contain the accompanying hiss that escaped his mouth. Quickly, Lupin waved his wand and the windows darkened appreciably, cutting the glare of sunshine streaming through the large panes. The dimmed light allowed Snape to cast his glance around the room, or what he could see of it. White screens surrounded his institutional, steel-framed bed, and impeded this sight into the rest of the hospital ward. His limited view, however, gave him enough information to confirm his earlier deduction. He was in the infirmary at Hogwarts and in his usual corner bed.

“Is that better, Severus?” Lupin’s voice was soft and a bit raspy, as if overused and under tight control.

“Mmmm. Yes,” Snape croaked. His rusty voice bore little resemblance to the velvety whip-like tones the werewolf was used to hearing from the austere Potions Master. Shifting uncomfortably under the starched linen, Snape’s eyes glanced briefly at Lupin. Gone was the rather shabbily-clothed, undernourished wizard; Sirius Black’s bequest had seen to that. Instead, the graying, sandy-haired werewolf appeared care-worn and exhausted.

“Tell me, Lupin. How long has it been? What happened?”

“Five days.” At Snape’s sharply inhaled breath, he continued, “I’ll fill you in, but first I need to know what you remember?” Lupin’s gentle voice was filled with more friendship than Snape ever remembered being offered by one of the Marauders.

Gathering his wits, Snape concisely recounted his version of the final battle: Apparating shortly after the Dark Lord, the decision to openly support Neville Longbottom, dueling Bellatrix, and then his collapse. He was aware that Remus watched him closely during his recitation.

“Ah, then you aren’t aware that the Death Eaters were severely incapacitated, to the point of death, at the moment of Voldemort’s unlamented end?”

“No. All of them?” The hope in his heart was like a fierce spark trying to ignite, to use the ingrained pessimism lurking in his soul as fuel.

“Yes. The fatalities were limited to those in close physical proximity to the Dark Lord’s last stand. You were well within the perimeter of that circle.”

Lupin wondered if Snape would answer the unvoiced question; the one that’d been on everyone’s mind for the past five days while Snape and Hermione had remained unconscious. He especially wanted to know what was going on between the two. He’d been the one to find their slumped bodies on the field. It’d been a surprise, to say the least, to see Hermione’s body covering Snape’s, her fingers entwined with his. Neither Harry nor Ron would comment, their own grief and worry more than enough to keep him from pressing for an answer.

Lupin watched the raven-haired wizard closely as Snape processed the information. The former professor hated being in the infirmary, the smell assaulted his werewolf-enhanced senses.

“Who made it? Where are they?” All Snape’s mind could do at the moment was a threat assessment. He felt dull-witted, which he supposed was an aftereffect of the backlash.

“There are only fourteen surviving Death Eaters, seven of them cronies of the younger Malfoy, who is also alive. Of the inner circle, only Rookwood lives, and he’s in Azkaban with the rest. We got everyone, Severus.” Lupin watched the play of emotions cross Severus Snape’s face. Never, in all their years, even as children had he seen the man’s face so naked. So vulnerable.

“Gods! It really is over,” whispered Snape, trying to absorb the enormity of what had occurred. That the life he’d lived for the past twenty years was a thing of the past. He’d never looked past the Dark Lord’s fall; he hadn’t anticipated having a future.

“How is it that you are the only Death Eater in such close proximity to Voldemort to survive?” Lupin could no longer resist asking the burning question.

“What?” Snape tried to drag his befuddled brain to the point.

“Severus, you are the only member of Voldemort’s inner circle to survive the battlefield.”

“What!?” Snape turned his head to stare at Lupin fully. The slender wizard looked ancient, and sorrow lined his haggard face.

“It’s true. The only other surviving Death Eaters from the battlefield were those from the original skirmish between Hermione and Draco Malfoy.”

At the sound of her name, Snape’s heart clenched in his chest. Gods, he didn’t know if she was alive. Could fate really be that cruel? That, at the moment he might have a chance at some happiness, it would be snatched from him before he’d even had the opportunity to taste it?

“Is… Is she… Did she make it?” Half afraid of the answer, he couldn’t look the werewolf in the eyes.

“I found her unconscious, lying across your body. We’ve wondered how that happened,” was Lupin’s deflective answer. He didn’t know what the relationship was between the two, and was hesitant to let Snape know just how precarious Hermione’s recovery was.

“What does she say?” Snape guardedly responded. Until he talked to Hermione, he didn’t want to assume anything about their relationship. Intensely private, he loathed the idea of other peoples’ speculation. He’d lived in the shadows for too long a time to be comfortable with baring his intimate moments. It was only after a minute or two of silence that he realized Lupin hadn’t answered him.

“Well? What does she say?” For the first time since he’d awakened, the bite was back in Snape’s voice. He gave Lupin a glare that froze the moment he got a clear look at Lupin’s distress.

“She hasn’t said anything, Severus.”

There was more, Snape knew. He’d had enough experience over the years to recognize subtext to a statement when it was there, and he felt a hint of panic at the possibility that she might be dead.

“Why? Gods, Lupin, is she alive?”

“Barely.” Fear was evident in Lupin’s response.

“What happened? Bellatrix. Did she…?” Snape’s voice was sharp with his anxiety.

“I thought maybe you could tell me, Severus. We don’t really know. She’s suffering from an almost complete and ineradicable magical depletion. She was wounded, and maintained her position at Harry’s side, shielding him and dueling with both her weapon – uh, crossbow -- and her wand until the very end. Then, she apparently spent a considerable amount of time searching for you. She hasn’t regained consciousness since I found the two of you.”

Snape’s mind finally seemed to focus, dredging up the memory of his last conversation with Hermione before he’d left Grimmauld Place. He put the puzzle together until the picture was a grim surety.

“She shielded me,” he ground out. “It’s the only conclusion that fits. Damn her. I told her not to.” Worry made his voice sharp.

A rueful chuckle accompanied Lupin’s reply. “Severus, when have any of those three followed directions when they thought they were in the right?”

Snape didn’t respond. Indeed, there was none to give. They both knew the answer to Lupin’s question. Never. The Golden Trio never backed away from the path they believed in.

Stiffly getting to his feet, Remus Lupin looked down at his sometime adversary, sometime colleague, and sighed.

“I hope she makes it, Severus, for all our sakes. Her loss would be unbearable on top of everything else.” He turned to leave and paused, his next words choked out as if forced through some great emotional strain, “If she does make it, don’t let the opportunity pass you by. Life really is too short.”

And, with that, Lupin disappeared behind the privacy screens surrounding Snape’s institutional bed. Snape barely registered his departure, or the retreating sound of Lupin’s halting footsteps on the flagstone. So much was running through his mind. So much to come to terms with. She’s alive. Maybe. He’d survived. He was a free man. Voldemort was dead. The Death Eaters were vanquished. Damn the girl. She’d disobeyed him. She’d saved his life. Again. His thoughts were chaotic and scattered, definitely not reflective of his usual concise and effective assessment of a situation. He was shocked, and angered and a little overwhelmed by the information Lupin divulged. Snape thought that, just possibly, she might love him.

His thoughts returned to the most pressing one, continuing to caress the sharp edges of a broken tooth, welcoming the discomfort as it confirms the evidence of its existence. ‘You’ve made love to her. It wasn’t just a frantic eve-of-doom coupling.’ He recalled her lying naked on his bed, resplendent in the afterglow of their heated love making. It was love, at least on his part. ‘I told her she was mine. Mine. I want her to be mine, damn it. I deserve to have something I want. She’s too young. I’m too old.’

Amid the swirling morass of his confusion, indecision, and frustration, the answer to his dilemma was agonizing in its simplicity. Ask Hermione. If she wakes up… when she wakes up, just ask the question. He firmly resolved to do just that, with as much conviction as he could muster after living for two decades accompanied by his faithful companions, despair and faint hope. Throwing back the covers, Snape pulled on the dressing gown draped across the guest chair. It was time to reconstruct his life, and to begin the worrisome wait for Hermione to regain consciousness.

It was a very long four days.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Nothingness. Dark, silent, nothingness. Then, exquisitely slowly, awareness began to return. First, sibilant background noises filtered through the cotton wool that had become her mind. A vague differentiation of light and dark made its presence known on her eyelids. Between one deep breath and the next, the agony held at bay by blessed unconsciousness asserted itself. A low, primal sound escaped her parched lips, and her hands reflexively wanted to clench and unclench in the urgent need to touch her own wounds, not knowing how many, or quite where to find them on her body. But she had no control over her movement as yet, and her hands continued to be unresponsive at her sides.

A deeper recognition of an emergent need to wake took hold of her. Something unknown. Something left undone. A half-formed thought fluttered in the back of her mind. Attempting to center her will, Hermione Granger concentrated instead on her breathing. Air in, diaphragm expanded. Air out, diaphragm contracted. She could do this was her first coherent thought.

Floating in the nebulous realm of semi-consciousness, Hermione searched for something external as a focal point. With as much attention as her overextended and exhausted mind could bring to bear, she attempted to recognize the distant sounds. Voices. Masculine voices. Muted sounds of others moving, other bodies breathing in the background, filtered into her arousing state.

If the pain wasn’t intruding, she’d be quite content to hazily float in ignorance. In the recesses of her mind was the thought that to be awake and aware wasn’t going to be comforting. There was too much sorrow awaiting her. Again, the tiny flutter skittered across her mind. She paid it no attention, hoping to cling to ignorance for just a few moments longer.

Wishes are often futile.

The voices came closer, and became distinguishable. Two men. One seemingly gentle, the other in rigidly controlled anguish. Professor Dumbledore and Harry Potter.

The quiet voice of the aged wizard carried across to Hermione’s bed, the underlying tone of someone offering comfort to an invalid. Briefly, she wondered whether Harry had been hurt. However, her stirrings of alarm were negated by Dumbledore’s next words.

“There is some good to be found in all of this, young Harry. You’ve come through this ordeal remarkably unscathed…”

Harry’s response was blistering. Recognizing his tone, Hermione was amazed that Harry wasn’t shouting; that he was holding onto his temper. ‘Temper. We’ve all been tempered,’ was the completely irrelevant non sequitor that came to the forefront of her mind. She felt her lips curve slightly in a small self-deprecating smile at the inconsequential thought, only to have that supplanted by a wave of affection for her very dear friend. She concentrated with all her might on what Harry was saying.

“Unscathed? Unscathed! You’ve manipulated my life since the day my parents were killed. You left me, without a backward glance, with an abusive family to wallow in neglected misery for ten years! It was the only existence I knew.” The ringing sounds of his boot heels striking the stone floor accompanied his outburst.

“The only thing I ever wanted was to be loved. To have a family that loved me. Instead, I was miserable and half-starved until I found out that I was a wizard. The famous Harry Potter. What was I famous for? I was completely ignorant. A state you’ve been very happy to foster for the past ten years. Giving me small dribbles of information along the way. Never enough. Never the entire truth.” Harry was almost shouting.

“Harry,” Dumbledore began, placatingly. He was roughly cut off.

“No. It’s time for you to listen. To really listen. I’ve lost almost everything that has ever meant anything to me. And you have the sheer, unmitigated gall to say I escaped unscathed. You really don’t know me at all, do you, Professor? Nor do you respect me. You’ve never given me the choice to make. You’ve simply manipulated circumstances until I was the perfect, lethal weapon in a war not of my making. It’s not self-pity. I would’ve made the choice. But you never gave me one.”

His ragged breath made it clear by just what a fraying thread he was holding on. Hermione didn’t need to open her eyes to know what she’d see: the tall, slender form of her friend running his hand through his disheveled hair in frustration. Harry wasn’t finished.

“What you’ve never understood is that I would’ve given my life to save Sirius. I would’ve died to save any of them. These few are my family. The ones I love. If Hermione dies….” His voice threatened to fail altogether. He drew in an audibly ragged breath. “Go away, Professor. Your interference may have cost me more than I can bear to lose. And, at the moment, I cannot stand to be near you.” The swish of robes was distinctly nearer her bed, Hermione could hear the cloth sweep along the floor as he paced.

“All right, Harry. I’ll go. But I will be back. There is more to be said. There is more you need to know.” The kindly, benevolent voice continued, smug in its certainty that it would always contain the irresistible bait.

“No, Professor Dumbledore. I don’t think so. I don’t think I want more of what little you tell me. I’ve dirtied my hands quite enough as your weapon, and I’ve fulfilled my function. Voldemort’s dead. I killed him, and now I have to live with that. You don’t. Your hands are quite clean.” Harry’s reproach was bitter and scathing. He continued, resolutely, “I operate quite well on my own, with those that I know I can trust. You’ve betrayed that trust one too many times for us to return to what we once were. And that was never anything but unequal. Please go.”

Hermione could tell that Harry had dismissed Dumbledore, because suddenly her nostrils flared with the nearby scent of her friend; the subtle, distinctively masculine smell that was his alone. She could hear the rustle of his clothing, the scrape of a chair across a stone floor, and, then, the touch of his large, rough hands as they cradled one of hers. His tension communicated itself through their contact.

Distantly, she heard the swish of robes diminishing, then soft indistinct tones of Dumbledore and another person, a woman by the timbre of voice. Hermione’s attention was brought back by the feel of Harry’s head against their intertwined hands, and she felt the moisture of his tears, evidence of his very great distress. His immediate need, more than anything else she was keeping at bay, roused her fully to consciousness.

And with that awareness, agony flared intensely through every fibre of her being, its immediacy erasing any other thought. She gasped and moaned, curling in on herself in an unconscious effort to find a more comfortable position. Pulling her uncooperative arm from underneath Harry, she held her head against the sharp, excruciating wave of pain and nausea that threatened to send her back to the unwelcome arms of darkness.

“Hermione!”

She took in short, panting breaths to ease the pain, and forced her eyes open. She blinked a few times, trying to bring her sight into focus against the blur and crustiness of disuse. She sought and found the troubled, emerald eyes of her first friend at Hogwarts. His eyes were filled with tears. For her.

“Hurts,” she moaned in a small, pain-soaked voice.

“Hold on a moment. Stay with me!” The fear in his voice focused her, and she exerted her will, corralling the pain.

“I’m here, Harry. I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

Urgently, the nebulous thought she’d been ignoring since her first twinges of awakening, pinged upon her awareness and overrode the spiking pain.

“Severus,” she asked, fearfully. “Where’s Severus?”

“He’s sleeping. It was my turn to sit with you.”

With one hand Harry tenderly smoothed the curls off her face, unbelievably relieved that she was coherent. He raised his wand in the other hand, sending a small burst of sparks, calling for assistance – the wizarding equivalent of a hospital call button.

At his acknowledgment of Snape’s survival, Hermione could no longer shut out the memories. Her mind flooded with the remembrance of the last battle, of her struggle to find Snape on the field. Of Neville’s pale and so very dead face. She didn’t try to hold back the emotion; in this case the emotional pain was far greater than the physical. Tears welled up in her eyes, and overflowed, streaming down her cheeks, across the hand holding her head, and dripped onto the linen covering her pillow.

“Shhh. Shhh.” Harry’s tone was surprisingly comforting for a twenty-year-old man. Snaking out one hand, Hermione weakly tugged him to her. He obliged. No longer the gangling, awkward youth, Harry gathered Hermione in his arms and hugged her.

“Gods, ‘Mione. We didn’t know if you’d wake up.” His voice broke at the admission, and crawling onto her bed, he cradled her against his torso while she cried herself out, drawing as much comfort from the contact as Hermione. Harry silently cursed the mediwitch, wanting to know what the hell was taking so long. Hermione needed something for the pain he knew she was in. What he didn’t realize was that he was the something she needed.

Finally, and with a gulping hiccup, Hermione raised her head to look at him, and whispered the dreaded question, “Who?”

She saw Harry’s eyes become guarded, and knew the news was not good. That what he’d tell her would hurt terribly. She didn’t want to know, but she wouldn’t let him carry the burden alone. It’d been shared for too long. It was a part of their dynamic. Fixing him with a determined look, she knew he’d acquiesce. He always had.

“Neville,” he watched her to see if this was too much for her. Hermione’d been in a comatose state for nine days, and had been the most serious of those injured in the battle. The hex and curse wounds had healed fairly quickly, their only reminder the residual phantom pain which would rapidly disappear with her return to normal activity. What had almost killed her had been the draw on her power, shielding so many while continuing to fight. She’d almost burnt herself out.

Hermione’s eyes closed in remembered sorrow, and a freshet of tears squeezed out from under her swollen eyelids to travel down the runnels made by her earlier outpouring of grief. “I remember,” she whispered. “Go on, Harry. Who else?” Quickly she looked up, her face even paler in sudden fright. “Not Ron, Harry. Where’s Ron?”

“No, no. Not Ron. He’s all right. He’s remarkably lucky to have only gotten hit with a ‘Diffindo’. He’ll limp for a while, but he’s fine. Luna, too.” He adjusted their position against the cold metal frame of her bed, knowing there’d be more tears to come.

“Ok.” Relief warred with anxiety in Hermione’s voice, and she swallowed, hard. “Who else, then?”

“That’s why Ron isn’t here. He’s at the Burrow. Hermione… Fred and Bill were killed. And they found Percy – he was a Death Eater.” With the retelling, his voice was ragged and carried the residual shock at the revelation of officious, ambitious Percy Weasley as one of Voldemort’s own.

Harry held Hermione’s body tightly as it jerked in a reflexive denial, and she buried her face in his robes, soaking the soft material covering his chest. He’d had nine days to immure himself to the shocks and losses. To her, these were fresh wounds.

“Let me finish the list, okay? It’s too hard to do it individually.”

Sniffling Hermione nodded her head. Inside she felt like a charnel house, burnt, a small crisped piece of seared humanity. The losses were too dear for this. So high a price. ‘Poor Harry,” she thought, ‘he has to tell me. How hard is this for him?’ Resolutely, she stiffened her spine against the dual pain of her injuries and the sorrow in her heart.

“Mad-Eye’s gone, and Tonks, and Kingsley.”

Hermione held herself rigidly as Harry ran down the list of those killed in the battle. Many she’d only met during meetings of the Order, but others were friends, and schoolmates. The list continued.

“Sturgis Podmore, Susan Bones…”

Her body reacted as if she were being stabbed each time Harry would mention the name of a friend.

“Mundungus…”

Her heart bled as he continued naming those lost. So many. Their names etched into her soul like acid on metal. Indelible.

“And last, Ernie Macmillan.” Harry’s voice dwindled to a close. It was a staggering and depressing number of people who’d made the ultimate sacrifice of their lives in order to save their world.

Hermione couldn’t stop her mind from calculating as Harry had given her the list. Over sixty percent of the Order was dead, another thirty percent wounded. Very few had survived without injury. None had survived without the horror associated with the day.

The two friends sat there for awhile, giving and drawing comfort from each other. Hermione’s headache was intense, but the release of her tears had been cathartic.

As if knowing her state, Poppy Pomfrey came around the corner, bearing a small tray with a small, blue glass bottle. Her starched, efficient figure and ‘tut-tutting’ at Harry’s position brought a timeless quality to the moment. She’d healed their wounds since they were children, and somehow, her being here now underlined the impression that life really did go on. She said nothing, merely handing a small vial to Hermione, and, while the younger witch downed the potion, Poppy held her wand over Hermione’s body -- assessing damage.

The potion had an immediate buffering effect. Hermione felt almost disassociated from herself. Her eyes flew wide with dismay and she started to ask the question, only to hear the answer before she could form the words.

“It’s designed that way, Miss Granger. You’ll feel as if time has slowed down. You’ve been in Depletion Shock for several days, and will need time to recover. This potion’s designed to allow your body that rest. Mr. Potter, she’s my patient and under my care. You are not to tire her out. When her eyes droop, you need to let her sleep. And, you, Miss Granger, need more sleep.”

The two friends nodded their heads in unison, reminiscent of the small children they’d been when she’d first known them. With a small chuckle and a motherly pat, the mediwitch departed behind the standing screen, separating Hermione from the rest of the ward.

Taking a ragged breath and feeling as if she could bear the rest of the news, she looked at her friend. “And?”

Harry’s voice hardened, the deep rumble in his chest reassuring under her ear. “To a man, the Death Eaters collapsed when Voldemort fell. Those physically closest to him died, a few were catatonic, and the rest merely unconscious. It seems as if the severity of the reaction was triggered by both physical proximity and rank within the organization. You cast Ancile on Snape, didn’t you?” His question was more rhetorical than inquiring; after all, he knew her well. The nod of her head was sufficient answer.

“That’s why he lived, and you have one helluva headache. To continue, though, of the ranking Death Eaters, the only survivor was Rookwood. Of the younger group, Blaise Zabini, and Millicent Bulstrode are dead. Draco Malfoy and the rest are in Azkaban awaiting their trials. Thirty more Death Eaters were found elsewhere, by their colleagues or Aurors. Hermione, we got them all. It’s over. It’s really over.” And Harry’s own tears began to fall.

Hermione hugged him as tightly as her depleted energies would allow. In the comforting embrace of each other, they fell asleep.

It was that sight that greeted Severus Snape when he came to take his turn at Hermione’s bedside. He hadn’t known she’d been conscious. No one had thought to tell him. She obviously hadn’t asked for him. He felt flayed to the quick. Hermione was in someone else’s arms: Harry Potter’s. Jealousy raged in his heart. She was his. Potters, father and son, had taken too many things from him. Severus Snape didn’t share. Especially someone he’d let into his heart. There hadn’t been anyone, any woman, in his heart in a very long time. He’d told Hermione that she was his. She’d said she loved him. He was furious… with her, and with himself. He had too much baggage for this. He was not prepared to do this. It was too bloody painful.

Some subtle difference in the air, the motion, his scent… whatever it was, she’d never know. But it was enough to tickle Hermione’s awareness into wakefulness. Nestled in Harry’s strong and comforting arms, she raised her head and turned her tear-ravaged face to see the tall, lean figure of Severus Snape standing at the foot of her hospital bed, his black-clad form frozen in sharp relief against the starched, white screen at his back. Her heart leaped at the sight. The look on his face was naked and shocking. For a man so controlled to reveal so many emotions at once, it was almost as if he were another person. The anger she was familiar with. The longing, she’d seen only three times before, but the hurt and sorrow were new. She’d never seen him express those openly. And, although she recognized the anger, she didn’t understand it.

“Severus?”

Her voice was husky from disuse and tears, and it tore through him, ripping and rending his heart to shreds. Hermione started to extricate herself from Harry’s arms, but in his sleep, her friend pulled her more tightly to him. Seeing that protective movement, so natural between the two friends, was the last crushing blow to Snape’s fragile control. Fear won.

And, so, making the second most disastrous decision of his life, Severus Snape, his face as pale as death, resorted to long-standing form and sneered at the woman he loved.

“Have a nice life, Miss Granger.”

Without waiting to see the effect of his words; indeed, unable to bear the effect of his words, he turned abruptly, and pushed his way out of the infirmary, his footsteps a retreating staccato on the stone floor, leaving a devastated woman in his wake.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione sat on a weathered, redwood bench along the crest of a bluff overlooking a small rocky bay, filled with tide pools and cavorting half-grown seal pups. The waning summer’s hazy, afternoon sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, and the breeze blew tendrils of her long hair around her face, and carried the pungent aromas of decaying kelp blended with the tang of ocean air. The fog had begun to creep inland from the distant horizon, clouding the beauty of twilight, a match for the allegorical fog clouding the young witch’s thoughts. She dully watched the antics of the barking seals, trying to come to terms with her grief and the ache in her heart. The warming autumnal sun had had no effect. The chill was too deeply embedded for its rays to reach. It’d been a week since he walked out of the hospital and she’d taken flight -- a very long and emotionally painful week. Seven days since she’d felt able to breathe properly.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours ago, as soon as she’d been able to stand, she’d left Hogwarts against Poppy Pomfrey’s strenuous and loudly-vocal protests. She’d vanished before Albus Dumbledore could get to the infirmary from his office -- that was a complication she hadn’t want to deal with in her fragile state. Severus Snape had spurned her. Had denied the truth and power of their connection, and betrayed any promise they might’ve had for the future. She’d felt as if her heart had been ripped from her chest and trampled into the cold stone floor of the infirmary. Instead of watching her heart’s blood pumping into barren nothingness, Hermione had fled the confines of the castle, seeking sanctuary. She’d departed while Snape was immured in his dungeons, and, unbeknownst to her, destroying every breakable object he could reach with hand or wand.

Harry had helped her, taking one look at her stricken face, and hadn’t asked a single question. He’d backed her in this just as she’d backed him on the battlefield. Tucking her tightly against his body, he’d helped her off the Hogwarts grounds and Apparated them to Diagon Alley. Hermione hadn’t the strength to do so on her own -- both her magical and physical energies were severely depleted. They’d gone directly to her vault at Gringotts. It was only her desperate need to escape that had kept her functioning. Once in her vault, she’d retrieved her muggle identification, and exchanged half her funds from galleons to Muggle money. Then, Harry had taken her to Heathrow where he’d put her on a plane bound for San Francisco. The emerald-eyed wizard had hugged her tightly and kissed her cheek, knowing what it cost her to go, and him to let her leave.

California was where Hermione’s parents had gone into hiding, opening a small dental practice in a quaint village situated along the middle coast of the golden state. They weren’t the first family of strategic Muggleborns to hide in the US. Mundungus Fletcher had had interesting contacts. It was there that she’d hoped to find some solace, for the numbness that had sheathed her like a second skin the moment Severus Snape had departed the infirmary. And it was there that she sat by the ocean, and looked at the sky.

By the time Snape had come to his senses -- he’d regretted his words almost the moment they’d issued from his mouth -- and attempted to see her later the afternoon of his explosively vicious comment, she’d been gone. Snape had been pole-axed by her exodus, his world effectively crumbled. In the face of his suddenly unlimited horizons, he’d been afraid of the commitment he so desperately longed for. And, in his trepidation, he’d lashed out at the very person who could’ve eradicated the self-doubt, and with whom he’d barely allowed himself to dream of a future.

In all his years of living in ceaseless apprehension, he’d never been so frantic. Where had she gone? How could she be out of bed? It was too soon. How could Poppy let her go? Poppy hadn’t known where Hermione was going. And, unlike any other event in the past two decades, Albus regretted that he had no information. There was more to Albus’ ignorance than met the eye, but Severus had no inclination for curiosity, regardless of how saddened the ancient wizard looked when he’d told Snape that Hermione had left with Harry. Harry-bloody-Potter. The bane and savior of Snape’s existence.

Vacillating between fury and frenzy, Snape had gone to Grimmauld Place, to confront Potter, and been stonewalled by an exceedingly angry Boy-Who-Won. Snape had left the Order’s headquarters with harsh words having been said on both sides. Any détente the two had cobbled together had been dashed by their competing need for the witch they both loved – one platonically, and one amorously. If possible, Snape had felt more wretched when he left London than when he’d arrived.

His next stop had been the Burrow, where he’d offered his sincere condolences to Molly and Arthur, and then had asked if they’d seen Hermione. They hadn’t even known she’d regained consciousness. Ron hadn’t been there.

Knowing that he’d been a coward and desperate to explain to her – to apologize, to beg her forgiveness -- Snape had haunted Albus Dumbledore and Remus Lupin, dogging their steps for two days, picking their brains for where she could’ve gone; where her family had gone into hiding. They hadn’t known. Albus was being ostracized by Harry. Despite the fact that Snape empathized with Potter’s reasons, and had his own for being angry with the ancient wizard, the Potions Master bitterly understood Albus’ frustration at being kept in the dark.

The only source of the information Snape sought -- other than Harry-fucking-Potter -- had died in the final battle. Mundungus Fletcher had been the secret keeper of the exiled families. The relocations had happened as a result of his contacts, and he was understandably reluctant to reveal them. It’d been a precaution the Order felt justified in agreeing to. However, those secrets had died with him.

Faced with that dead end, and feeling utterly bereft, Snape had returned to his dungeons, where he’d wallowed in self-loathing and polished off a fifth of Old Ogden’s. Even the pain of his gut-heaving hangover hadn’t compared with the misery in his heart. After that, the Potions Master had proceeded to exhaust his barely recovered strength, Apparating around Britain and the Continent, searching for Hermione in every place he’d ever heard that she’d holidayed, hoping to find her on a beach, in a library, in a museum. He hadn’t.

To no avail.

In desperation, he’d returned to Grimmauld Place, to beg if necessary. He’d found the saint of the wizarding world having a drink in the kitchen with a very sobered and grieving Ron Weasley. The redhead had appraised Snape’s condition carefully, as if viewing an interestingly carved piece of a chess set. To Snape’s bitter reflections, he was certain Ron had compared him unfavorably to a pawn. Uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze, the former spy had taken a seat at the table, and asked, in a voice devoid of feeling, if they would please tell him where Hermione was.

“No. I’m not letting you trample her further, you insufferable sod. You hurt her.” Harry’s accusation had been laden with righteous anger and protectiveness.

Ron, who’d obviously come to a different conclusion, interrupted the beginning of his friend’s vituperative flow. He’d looked at Harry and said, “Life’s too short, Harry. She has to know he’s looking for her. It’s her decision.”

Harry had growled, his emerald eyes appearing black in his fury. “She made it. She left. The bastard walked out on her.”

“I was an ass, Potter.” It was as close to an apology as Snape had ever come to making.

Ron had thoughtfully looked between the two men at loggerheads, noted the gaunt cheeks of the older wizard, the haunted expression in his eyes, and made a decision. He’d said only one word.

“Cambria.”

Harry had been irate. Snape had merely risen, and, with a nod of deep gratitude and an offered hand, he’d Floo’d back to Hogwarts, packed a bag with muggle and wizarding apparel, and rousted Madam Pince from her chambers to find out where the devil Cambria was. He hadn’t cared that it was two in the morning. He had a chance. Slim, but an opportunity nonetheless.

It’d been six days since he’d seen Hermione; six days too many.

Once he’d known where to find her, he was decisive, fluid action in motion. He’d contrived a Portkey, used it, gotten a room in an inn on the beach-fronted road, found the Grangers’ office, introduced himself to Hermione’s parents, and asked where he could find her. Dr. Granger, the father, had icily responded to the man who’d so casually cast his daughter aside. His wife, however, being the wiser of the two, could see a broken-hearted man standing in front of her, and knew that the decision wasn’t theirs to make. She’d told Snape that Hermione could be found at Moonstone Beach.

With overwhelming relief, Snape had thanked her; and Apparated to the boardwalk running along the cliff of the locally celebrated beach. His anticipation and anxiety thrummed in his veins; a slight barely visible tremor in his cold hands. He couldn’t, wouldn’t think beyond their encounter. So much of his life rested on what would be said between them. As soon as he’d seen the beachhead, he’d known where to find her, and, with rapid strides matching the rhythm of his pounding heart, he’d made his way to the isolated bench she currently occupied.

He paused, several feet distant, allowing the turmoil of the past week to catch up with the present moment, and resolutely walked in her direction, a little concerned that she wasn’t responding to him. She was wearing Muggle blue jeans and a burgundy, cap-sleeved jersey. She looked so alone, so very forlorn. The evidence of his handiwork in one small, determined, brilliant woman was more painful to bear than Cruciatus.

Hermione knew that he was there, she could feel his presence. She refused to look at him. She couldn’t allow herself to read anything into his appearance. Her heart was so raw, drawing breath was literally painful. When she spoke, her voice was brittle, as if she’d shatter at any moment.

“Go away.”

The tone of her voice, clawed at Snape’s soul. “No. I told you that night that if we made love there was no going back. That you were mine. You agreed.”

“Yes, but you broke the agreement. You walked out.” Her voice was so soft he could hardly hear it, snatched away as it was by the evening breeze. He knew that if he ever wanted a chance with this woman, a chance for any happiness, it was time to grovel.

“I’m a fool.”

“Yes. You are.” Her voice still contained that brittle, remote tone, as if Hermione wasn’t present.

Snape had never heard her sound like this, in all the years he’d known her. She was all fire and passion and endearingly earnest. She favored direct, frontal confrontation. Not this remote, lifeless husk. It terrified him.

“Gods, Hermione, look at me.”

“Why? You broke my heart.” A shard of something akin to hope was attempting to break through the tight control she was exerting on her emotions, and she was afraid to let him see her vulnerability. He could destroy her with four words.

His need and the longing in his soul could no longer remain contained, they leaked into his voice, and its exposed quiver pummeled her bruised heart. “No more than mine. Hermione, you took my heart when you left. Can you… will you forgive me?”

“I don’t know, Severus. Why would I?” the question came in a whisper, her underlying need for him and her fear of rejection coloring her words.

He heard the need and fear and rejoiced. It wasn’t too late, and gathering his courage he spoke the words he’d never said to a woman before in his painfully lonely life. “Because I love you.”

The truth rang like a bell, its clear note splintering the ice wall surrounding her heart, but she still didn’t look at him. “I hoped that you did. But, that day in the hospital…”

“I was jealous and confused and afraid.” Baring his pettiness somehow wasn’t as hard as he’d expected. Especially when weighed against what he wished to gain -- a possibility for happiness. He wanted that chance with her more than he’d wanted anything else in his duplicitous life.

“Are you being honest with me?” The longing in her voice blazed against the cool twilight of the day. All else retreated, and the world shrank to just the two of them.

“Yes.”

And, for the first time since he’d walked out the door of the infirmary, Hermione drew an unfettered breath, and allowed herself to believe that things between them might just work out.

“Where do we go from here?” she asked, sounding like herself for the first time.

Relief flooded through him; his muscles actually felt weak. She was coming back from the brink. He never wanted to hear that lifeless tone again. “I don’t think it’s something we need decide immediately. The only thing I’m confident of at the moment is that wherever we go from here, it will be together. Will that suffice?”

“As long as you remember that word?”

“Which word?” his puzzlement was clear.

“Together.”

“Hmmmm. Come here.” It was velvety soft, a command, and it wrapped around her spine, melding with her sharp, urgent need. Not normally a man to care for public displays of affection, they were isolated enough not to be seen on their promontory, the ex-spy allowed his rising desire for the young witch to override his propriety.

Hermione turned to look at Snape fully for the first time, and he was stricken afresh by the evidence of what he’d wrought. Her cinnamon eyes were huge in her pale face which was framed by the drape of her chestnut hair. She seemed tiny and fragile. In two, long strides he was at the redwood bench, having trampled the low-lying scrub, sending the astringent odor of crushed foliage to mingle with the other scents wafting on the ocean breeze. The Potions Master reached for the young witch seated before him, and, pulling her roughly to her feet, he crushed her mouth to his in a binding kiss, reveling in the feel of her body’s softening against his, intent on eradicating any doubt from her mind.

He’d deliberately traumatized witches and wizards in the past, it came with the skill-set belonging to the title Death Eater, and it was a skill he’d mastered. However, never before had he been confronted by its aftermath on such a personal level. He’d done this to her, and it tormented him.

When he released her, he nuzzled her neck, breathing in the fragrance of her skin and her hair, and whispered in a dangerously possessive tone, “I will not relinquish you, Hermione. Ever.”

Hermione leaned back in his arms, searching his face for any signs of a lie, knowing that he was the most accomplished liar she’d ever met. Her hands rested on the charcoal grey placket of the shirt he wore, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest in conjunction with his slightly quickened breathing. She wanted nothing more than to believe him, and every fibre of her being was urging her to do so. Yet the agony associated with the past week wasn’t so easily cast aside.

“You’re aware that I don’t have any defenses when it comes to you.”

He tightened his hold on her, bitterly chastising himself for causing her doubt, “You won’t need them. I assure you that I am quite sincere.” He continued, “I will not let you go. Let me show you.”

“How?”

Taking a deep breath, he took the plunge. The risk was great, but the potential reward was limitless. “Legilimency. I will allow you unrestricted access to my mind.”

Her breath caught in her throat. He’d told her before that she wouldn’t like what was beneath the surface, and, knowing how private the Potions Master was, with what his past entailed, his offer was astonishing. “Honestly?”

“I do not want you to doubt me.” His hand caressed her back, fingers entwining themselves in the thick mane of hair that cascaded to her hips.

“It means that much to you?” Overwhelmed by his intent, Hermione’s small hand moved across his torso, and came to rest over his heart, unconsciously enjoying the feel of lean muscle under the linen fabric.

“You know that it does. Listen to your heart, and mine.”

And she did. Literally. She was quiet for a long time, leaning her head against his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. Her feelings had undergone a tremendous arc in the past few minutes. The numbness which had coated her like ice was gone, and the joy she’d expected to feel after the final battle – despite the heavy losses -- began to surface. Her cheeks delicately flushed with the upwelling of her emotions, as she breathed in his distinctive scent, which was now mingled with those of the shore and the bruised foliage at their feet. Snape held her, giving her the time she needed. Waiting for damnation or salvation with metaphorically-bated breath.

“You can’t ever do that to me again, Severus. I wouldn’t survive.”

“Neither would I, love.”

She finally tilted her head, knowing this was the right course of action for her, and raised her lips to his, tendering her heart to him for safekeeping. Relief was sharp and exultant in his breast as he welcomed her offer gratefully, fervently thanking any and all deities in existence or fantasy for this most precious of gifts. He lowered his head to meet her lips, both in acceptance of her pledge and with a vow of his own.

Several minutes later, the shrill squee of feasting seagulls interrupted their interlude, and they broke apart. Ruefully chuckling, Snape brushed the windblown strands of chestnut hair from her face. “You will stay with me?” It was half question, half statement.

“I have to tell my parents…”

“Who know that I am here.” He looked at her intently, conveying the depth of his commitment. “I meant what I said about ‘together’, Hermione.”

“I did too. Where are you staying?”

Without answering directly, Snape tucked her head under his chin; long strands of silky, black hair draped against her brow as he bent to kiss her head. He wrapped his arms around her once again, and Apparated them directly into his hotel room.

Once inside the large room, Hermione took in her surroundings, the high-beamed ceiling with a fireplace in the corner, and French doors leading to the small balcony overlooking the bay. Despite the seriousness of their conversation, she couldn’t restrain the smile that came to her lips. Leave it to the ex-spy to find a Tudor-style beach-front inn on the coast of California. The flowered, chintz-covered couch and chairs matched the spread on the canopied, king-sized bed. They could’ve been in the English countryside – except for the height of the ceiling.

Turning in toward the tall wizard’s chest, Hermione’s hands caressed their way up Snape’s arms, across his linen-encased shoulders, and to the nape of his neck, where her fingers toyed with his baby-fine hair. She lifted her head to look deeply into his eyes, noting that there was a distinction between the black of his rapidly dilating pupils and the bitter chocolate of his irises. The intensity of his longing was mesmerizing as was the desire she recognized smoldering in their depths. The connection between them sent an electrical charge through their embraced bodies, magic at its most elemental.

“I love you, Severus.”

“Hermione…” His words were interrupted by her lips, lightly brushing his. Then, she lowered her head to nestle in the nape of his neck. Her joy simmered just beneath the surface.

They held one another for a long time. His large hand gently stroked the length of her chestnut tresses as he marveled at the unaccustomed bounty of emotions suffusing his consciousness.

The sunset cast a rainbow of glorious color across the windows and walls of their room: salmon, amber, violet, fading into dusk and the deep indigo of night. Both were content, neither caring to break the embrace. After the anguish of recent days, the moments of peace and enjoined contentment were a balm to the roiling emotions so recently present. Never having known a moment of tranquility in their relationship, they relished the unexpected pleasure.

When the room was in full darkness, and the only lights were the ambient shine from the pathway in front of the Inn, Hermione’s stomach growled, which was, in turn, answered by a complementing grumble from Snape’s empty stomach. They both laughed; his warm, rich timbre in perfect harmony with the light soprano of her voice.

“That settles it. We are compatible.” Hermione smiled at him, delighted by their ease in each other’s company.

“Shall we find dinner then?” Severus asked amiably.

“I’d prefer to stay in with you. Do you want to go out?”

“No. I’m quite content to remain in your company alone.”

“Good. Although, we’re limited in terms of choice. Would pizza be acceptable?” Suddenly, Hermione realized that there is a tremendous amount that she didn’t know about the wizard holding her. She thought it rather exciting.

“I will eat anything reasonable. Note the term reasonable, Miss Granger.” The seductive playfulness of his tone sent a frisson of titillation shuddering up her spine and into her scalp, eliciting a quick intake of breath, and a tightening in her breasts.

He noticed, of course, and a smug smile began to tug at the corner of his lips.

Hermione merely raised an eyebrow at him in response and said, “You have to let go of me so I can use the phone.”

He bent his head and nipped at her neck, “I’m not all that hungry for food, Hermione.” With his tongue, Snape began to trace a line of molten heat from her collarbone up her neck to the underside of her jaw.

“My stomach can wait.” He began to suckle her earlobe, gently, sending ripples of excitement to somewhere behind her navel. “I can’t.”

“Oh,” she breathed her answer, something between a moan and a whisper, want building in her core. She relaxed her head, arching to give him greater access to her throat.

His arms tightened their hold in response to her moan, and his trousers tightened considerably around his hardening length. Unexpectedly, he cupped her face in his strong hands, and with a low, velvet growl he demanded that she look at him. Her eyes were enormous in the ambient light, shimmering like warmed Kahlua, and naked with love and desire.

“Do not mistake me, Hermione. I love you,” he declared huskily.

Her smile rivaled the sun in his radiance. “As do I, you.”

Threading one hand between his, Hermione outlined his thin lips with her fingers, and then traced the rigid contours of his face. She leaned into him, pressing her breasts against his chest. “I’m claiming you tonight. I don’t care about any other rituals, Severus. This is between us, and you’re mine from this day forth.”

“Such bravado. Exactly something I’d expect from one of the Triumphant Trio.” He silenced her retort with a blistering kiss, tongues dancing in the oldest of explorations, stoking the heat between them. His long fingered, sensitive hands were intent upon pursuit, seeking, searching, finding, skin.

Hermione’s hands, on a quest of their own, unbuttoned his linen shirt, teasing each inch of alabaster skin as it became visible. Her heart beat with a pace to match Snape’s growing excitement.

What started as a slow confirmation of their intent, quickly built into a raging urgency, an eagerness to override the pain of their misunderstanding. Her hands yanked his shirt from his black trousers, while his quickly ripped off her burgundy jersey. Kissing, suckling, and licking each other’s skin as it became exposed. They unfastened their own pants, quickly ridding themselves of their unwanted garments and wands. Snape reached out one, long arm and pressed the switch for the fireplace, the gas flames flared to life.

Deftly, Snape scooped Hermione up into his arms and strode to the bed, while she, not content to be mere baggage, nipped at his neck and didn’t relinquish her hold when they reached the bed. They tumbled together onto the mattress.

Hermione’s hair tumbled in glorious abundance over them, and Snape could’t remember a more beautiful sight in his life, and his heart clenched at the thought that this woman was his. That she’d chosen him. The ex-Death Eater felt something expand in his chest. He reached for her flushed face, her pouty mouth, kissing her with a fervor that seemed uniquely to belong to them.

Together they began the rhythm their bodies had found once before, and one that they would never again forget. With shuddering breaths, and, in simultaneous triumph, their words melding with the force of a permanent magical binding, they spoke together, “You’re mine.”

A sudden tingle of ancient magical energy throbbed between them. Smiling at one another in acknowledgment, Snape drew Hermione down for a tender kiss, thus sealing their claim. The bonds locked into place. Satisfied, Severus placed the palm of his left hand flat to her chest, feeling the beat of her heart and the echo of his own. Hermione mirrored his action, placing her small hand over his heart, and felt their two hearts beating as one.

The cumulative effects of exhaustion, injuries, and emotional crises, regardless of the satisfying outcome, could no longer be forestalled. Hermione curled up next to Snape on the bed. He quickly muttered a cleansing and contraceptive charm as Hermione’s eyes began to droop.

Her last words of the night were slightly mischievous in payback of his earlier snarky comment. “In the morning, I want to shampoo your hair.”

Chuckling at her teasing, he gathered Hermione to him, wrapping his arms around her naked torso; he waved his hand and magically covered their bodies with the comforter. Severus Snape realized that, for the first time in his life, he was perfectly contented. He had no idea what was going to happen next – other than a shampoo and a shower – but he wasn’t worried. With a smile, he drifted off to sleep, his head nesting in the mahogany curls of the woman who, with one impulsive act, had launched a chain of events in which she willingly offered her life to save his and gave him the promise of a future.