Dark Roast

Hermione shot straight up in bed, breathing raggedly. Beads of perspiration were forming at her temples; a thin layer of cold sweat shrouded her chest. She glanced at her alarm clock. 3:30 AM. Oh God, she thought, putting a hand to her forehead. When is this going to stop? She was tired of waking up before dawn, of losing sleep, of disrupting her body's rest. She couldn't take seeing him every night. It wasn't enough that his presence - or lack thereof - haunted her waking moments. Now he was invading her sleep as well ...

She let out an exhausted sigh, and collapsed back on her bed, springing slightly off the mattress. She clamped her eyes shut. Please, Lord, this one night, don't let him return ...

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The moon shown brilliantly in the night sky, its silver glow illuminating the sensuous Italian property. Waves of moonlight soared over the tended gardens, which outlined the Stucco, sun-bleached villa and the marble-inlay surrounding the pool. The moon shimmered in the water's reflective depths.

It was late. Very late. He stood at the precipice between the glass door and the villa's stairs; he could not help but breathe more deeply. It was the dead of night, and he was alone in the cool, fresh air. Solitary. How he had once loved this feeling ... of being alone with his thoughts and attuned to nature. He slowly made his way down the tinged steps, one hand in his black pocket, the other holding a glass of wine. He raised the glass to his lips in weary contemplation.

A glass of fine Chianti Rufina and an excursion to his coastal villa usually did wonders for his state of mind. Sanguine he would never be, but a calm and collected state was one he had always been able to achieve.

Not now.

He stared out at the pool, his view extending further down the shallow green hillside and into the depths of the Tyrrhenian Sea, one of the Mediterranean's many subsets. The water was kin to him, he thought, it always had been. Its cool, steeled, steady demeanor was rife with tumultuous undercurrents and deep secrets. On occasion, it lashed out at the world, its contents spewing forth into the physical realm.

His long-held analogy had never felt truer. He could practically feel the torrent in his bones.

It wasn't just the war, or the casualties. Heartless he was not, but he was accustomed to death. The knowledge that sacrifice was necessary to achieve victory superceded his emotions' demands. He knew how to handle that kind of loss.

He did not know how to handle a loss of love.

Indeed, the concept of a lost love was one entirely foreign to Severus Antonius Snape. Due at first to his reclusive nature and later to his dangerous activities, he had never allowed himself to love romantically. Admittedly, he had not had much opportunity. Of course, there had been the several women throughout the past twenty-some years who had found his darker nature brutally appealing. He'd taken them to bed, and not pursued much else. Their interest in him waned as quickly as his in them, and the few who had attempted to hold him had found themselves pushed away in a manner akin to his treatment of his least favorite Hogwarts students.

Snape had enjoyed teaching, even enjoyed many of his students (loathe as he was to show it), but his true love had always been for research and development. He desired to hypothesize, experiment, and examine for himself - not teach others what his colleagues discovered. While the blossoming of a young mind gave him a sense of validation, the budding minds were too few and far between to hold him at Hogwarts once the war was over.

The protection that Albus and Hogwarts had offered him was void the moment that Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord. Thankful he was, but Severus did not desire to stay on in a position that had been little more than a cover to begin with. He had, of course, been researching and publishing new findings during his time at Hogwarts. Despite the grudging acknowledgement the general wizarding population offered him, the worldwide potions community hailed him as one of the greatest scientific minds of their time. He had been thrilled at the prospect of being able to research full time.

Of course, the equally brilliant mind he had hoped to be researching with was hundreds of kilometers away in England.

She was the cause of his sleepless nights, the root of his heart-wrenching dreams.

He had left her.

He'd thought, at the time, that it was the best course of action. He had wanted to protect her - to protect himself. He had been frightened at the powerful emotions raging towards the sprite of a human being; he'd been shaken by the power that he, in turn, held over her. He feared for her. She knew all about him, all about his past, yes - but he had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had been anticipating the moment where everything she had learned sunk in.

He wanted to protect her from himself. His double-life, his two roles - they were not separate from each other. His activities as both Death Eater and Hogwarts professor had inevitably overlapped, and his emotions and actions in each realm had slowly seeped into the other, thus affecting both of his lives. He had, admittedly, handled the situation with considerable skill, but so many years of deception, inevitably, wore on one's ability.

She had seen him, and taken him for what he was.

And he, the fool, had thrown it away, all in the name of honor and protection.

Severus stared out at the sea, walking across the marble patio towards the never-ending blue. If he had known what life would be like without her, he never would have done what he did.

And it was too late.

Hermione was safely locked away in England, the rising star of the potions community and the darling heroine of the Second War. She shied away from publicity, of course, but the Daily Prophet had seen fit, in the year since the war's end, to give her nearly more publicity then anyone involved in the efforts, save Harry. She was the sidekick, the brain, the steadfast and loyal friend - and her modest nature only made the Prophet hound her more. They had interviewed every Gryffindor about her, had gone to such lengths that senior Order members had personally visited the Prophet's Editor-in-Chief to demand that the harassment cease.

That was the main reason that, two months previously, Minerva had offered to let Hermione stay in her hidden and secluded beach house on the southern shore.

Severus knew this because Minerva visited him frequently, keeping her late lover's adopted son informed of the various activities and inner-workings of the Order members. The Order had not disbanded, of course. There would always be dark threats and dark wizards thrust into corruption by their lust for power. Thankfully, at present, they were few and far between. Severus was certain that within the next year or so the threats would begin to surface more frequently. None, of course, would be as dangerous or terrifying as Voldemort. And even if they were ... Well, the Order would know how to handle it, he thought to himself, sipping his wine.

Lupin had come to the villa several times, and Molly was also a frequent visitor, bringing him cakes and treats. "You're much too thin, dear," she would chide him sweetly. Her visits were appreciated but - thankfully - short. Molly was quite the overbearing mother, and a mother was the last thing he needed.

God knew that Minerva tried to do that often enough.

Minerva's bi-weekly updates constituted the majority of his face-to-face social interaction. He was in near constant contact with Potions Masters around the world, as well as with the journals where he published his work. He received and sent the occasional social owl. Minerva kept him informed - a little too informed, if you asked him, especially considering that Hermione was one of her favorite subjects.

The fact that she rambled on at annoying lengths about her favorite lioness assured Severus that the wise witch remained oblivious to the inner workings of his and Hermione's relationship. Hermione obviously had no intention of telling Minerva about what he had done, and Severus himself was quite willing to let the subject lie. He didn't need Minerva hexing him off the face of the planet. Or worse, trying to reconcile the split.

Minerva said that Hermione was enjoying the relative seclusion the beach home offered her. She wasn't close to many people; her singularly brilliant mind and devotion to her research effectively shut her off from mainstream society. Hermione, of course, didn't mind, Minerva would report glowingly. Order members were her social circle; Minerva, the Weasley family, Lupin & Tonks, and Harry. Particularly, of course, Harry, Ginny, and Ron. Ginny remained her best friend, Harry her closest confidant, and Ron her biggest supporter. Minerva frequently lamented the demise of Hermione and Ron's relationship. Even had he not been attached to the girl, Severus would have found it excessively annoying. Anyone with half a brain could see that Hermione and Ron could never be romantically entangled. Hermione demanded an intellectual equal, Ron a duplicate of his mother, and neither could give the other what they so desired. The mutual dissolution of the relationship had been one of the best choices they ever could have made.

He admitted a snide satisfaction that she was not in a romantic relationship. Still, he could not allow himself the thought that she still loved him; that she threw herself into her current research to escape the thought of him ...

Minerva had told him of her concern - that Hermione's dedication to her research was taking a negative toll on her body. Research did that to a person, Severus had remarked wryly. Minerva hadn't been happy with that comment, and she'd told him as much. Hermione wasn't even sleeping, she said.

Well, neither was he.

He flicked bits of feather and dust in the Neapolitan air. He let out a deep sigh.

He would give anything to go back to England right now ... anything to see her, to be with her, to be able to look on her form, to be lulled into peace by her voice, to smell her sweet scent. He closed his eyes, willing himself to remember.

It was hopeless.

Even if he could go back to England, she must have found a way to get over him by now. She had been progressing at increasingly impressive lengths with her research ... he obviously did not hinder her as she hindered him. She had not even tried to contact him.

What woman would want a man who had discarded them?

Passion flashed through his eyes as he hurled the wine glass. It shattered in tiny pieces across the patio, moonbeams catching and dancing on the shredded pieces. He lowered his hand, staring at his conquest.

He was furious with himself.

He stared at the moon, questioning everything. Especially himself.

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