And Never Looking Back

Chapter 28: And Never Looking Back

Hermione awoke to the sound of conversation, the give and take rhythm of speech from the sitting room. Snape, and another voice too high to be human.

Pitty.

She slid from the bed, still naked. Pitty had yet to bring good news, so it was little wonder her stomach wobbled upon hearing the familiar squeak. She hurried to the chest of drawers and strained to catch their words.

"Pitty brought it right away, Professor," said the elf.

"Thank you, Pitty," Snape said.

Several moments of silence followed. She donned jeans and assumed both Snape and Pitty had left the quarters, but as she searched for a top, she heard their voices again.

"I may require your assistance later," Snape said.

"Pitty would be honoured to help, sir."

"I shall call if I need you," he said. "That is all."

"But, sir, a reply was requested."

"No reply, Pitty. This demands a personal response."

"Yes, sir."

She tugged on a faded grey jumper, ignored the state of her hair completely, and sped from her room. The quarters were empty. She wondered if Lucius had disregarded Snape's warning and had sent yet another threat. As much as she dreaded the coming days, in some ways it would be a relief to hand over her altered memories. At least she would no longer jump each time someone knocked upon her door.

She shuffled into the kitchen to start the kettle but stopped short at the sight of a tray perched upon the counter. She smiled. No doubt she would be enjoying breakfast in bed right now, if not for Pitty's unexpected visit. A fresh pot of tea sat steaming beside a cup and a saucer, and beneath a silver dome she discovered eggs, sausages, and...most impressive of all...two slices of perfect, golden-brown toast.

"Show off," she whispered.

A single rose lay alongside the cutlery, its petals like the raven's wing, so dark they almost glistened. Some women...most women, perhaps...might find a black rose offensive, but she had grown rather fond of all things ebony. She smiled and plucked the blossom from the tray. Only Snape would offer such an unusual token the morning after confessing his love. Her lips brushed the flower when she brought it to her nose, and she watched, fascinated, when the colour seemed to change wherever she had touched it, swirling and flowing until all traces of darkness seemed to bleed away entirely, and she was left with a flawless, white rose.

She didn't need a mirror to know a rather daft expression had fixed itself upon her face. She didn't care. What had seemed impossible just yesterday now lifted her mood so high even the clouds of Arglist couldn't entirely block the sun.

She loved him, and he loved her.

How something so simple had proved so difficult for two smart people, she would never know. If not for the rose, she might have convinced herself it had all been a dream. But her dreams rarely ended so well. She rummaged through the cupboards for a vase, then devoured her breakfast...lunch, really, given the late hour...before beginning the tedious tasks Remy had outlined.

Several hours passed while she chronicled her memories of Arglist. She started with the final breakthrough, when they had all sipped champagne from beakers, and worked backwards through the many months of shifting hypotheses. An ugly headache had begun to claw at her eyes by the time she dropped her quill onto her notebook. Her muscles ached from sitting hunched over the journal for so long. She stretched her arms over her head and was startled by Snape's dark form filling the doorway. How long had he stood there, watching her?

"You're back," she said, the statement as obvious as her relief.

He swept into the room and set a large, leather case and several books onto the table. Before she could even read the titles, he had claimed her mouth, his lips almost desperate, and she wondered if he, too, had begun to question whether last night had been a dream. His fingers slid behind her neck. Although escape would not have occurred to her, he held her captive, demanded surrender. The instant she complied, he opened himself to her: his lips, his heart, his very soul laid bare, and she drank them all in with his kiss, greedy for more. He released her mouth just as she began to imagine a new use for the breakfast table.

"I am sorry I was gone so long," he said.

"I like the way you apologise."

He straightened, and the white rose caught his gaze.

"Thank you for breakfast," she said.

"I had planned it to be a rather more intimate affair."

"Mmm, that would have been nice," she said. "I thought I heard Pitty earlier. Did Lucius send another message?"

"No," he said, "although we cannot trust his patience to last. I spoke to Minerva, and she has consented to our imminent departure."

Despite his confidence the previous night, she was still surprised the headmistress had agreed to release both Potions professors from their duties. "How ever did you manage to convince her?"

He sat and looked positively ill. "Speech."

"Speech?" When he muttered something about the headmistress and harpies, she said, "Oh! She made you promise to speak at the anniversary event?"

"I fail to find this amusing."

She covered her smile with her hand. "You'll be brilliant," she said. "Anyone who can mesmerise a roomful of first-years cannot fail to impress."

"Somehow, I doubt anyone wants to hear a lecture on Potions."

"Well, no. But as this will mark the mysterious hero's first public appearance, I imagine everyone will be eager to listen, no matter the topic." She didn't miss the way he recoiled when she had called him a hero. "Just speak from your heart."

He gave her such an appalled look she couldn't help but laugh. She held up her hands and said, "All right, perhaps that wasn't the best suggestion. I really think you're making this more difficult than it needs to be, though."

"And I think you are enjoying my misery far too much."

She feigned offence. "Quite the opposite, I assure you. I was rather looking forward to coercing the speech from you."

"Bold girl." He pulled the leather case closer.

She plucked the topmost book from the stack and read the title aloud. "From Admonitio to Recordatio: A Compendium of Mental Charms." The mood changed at once.

He took the book from her hands and threw it across the table. "Pitty and I searched the entire library," he said, "but I have yet to find one bloody reference to the effects of large-scale memory removal."

"Oh." She had never removed more than a few memories at a time and hadn't considered the limits of such magic. "Perhaps it's never been attempted before."

"Perhaps," he said. "I consulted Albus, as well, for that very reason. He has never removed more than a dozen in one sitting."

She considered for a moment. "But you gave Harry more than that in the Shrieking Shack."

"Precisely!"

"So it must be safe," she reasoned.

He shook his head. "Only if we assume the fourteen years I spent at St Mungo's were due entirely to Nagini's attack."

"You don't think..."

"I don't know," he interrupted. "And that is not a position I care to be in."

"Right." She fidgeted with the hem of her jumper. Removing the memories presented enough dread without adding this extra worry. "Did Dumbledore have anything else to offer?"

"He seems to think volume shall not be an issue, that the true danger lies in how willingly the memories are given, not in the number removed." He didn't seem convinced.

"You don't believe him?" she asked.

"I believe he is willing to take risks that aren't always necessary."

She had to agree. Still, there didn't appear to be much choice. "I'm sure it will be fine."

He pushed the hair from his brow and nodded. "I have grown rather fond of your mind, despite the occasional bit of folly it generates."

"Flatterer."

"Therefore, I think it wise that we should pause frequently," he said. "I have devised a series of tests to ensure your faculties remain sharp."

She laughed. "No tests, Professor...I haven't studied!"

"If at any time you begin to feel uncomfortable in any way, simply tell me, and we shall cease at once."

"I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you weren't being so serious."

He reached across the table and took both of her hands in his. "Hermione, I ... I realise how upsetting this will be for you, and if I could find a way to spare you the pain, I would. If there were any other options ..." His frown fell from her face to her journal, where she had filled page after page with memories to be removed.

She squeezed his hands. "I know." She, too, had searched in vain for some alternate method of stopping Lucius.

He shook his head. "I fear our time has almost expired," he said. "I must take every possible step to ensure no harm befalls you."

"I'll be fine." She couldn't remember a time when she'd seen him so apprehensive. "I trust you."

He closed his eyes and lowered his head to their clasped hands. His lips brushed across her knuckles.

It was still difficult to imagine the situation as anyone's problem but her own. She was as grateful for his help as she was touched by his concern. Just months ago, she had been desperate to hide the secret from him...she had never expected he'd become her ally when the nightmare refused to die.

She waited until he straightened, then spoke with far more enthusiasm than she felt. "The sooner we begin, the sooner we can trade Scotland's wild shores for the beaches of Mexico."

He nodded and opened the leather case. Inside were hundreds of empty glass phials, just waiting for her memories. Acid rose to the back of her throat. She drew a deep breath and remembered what Dumbledore had said about the memories being given willingly.

This was not going to be easy.

The first hour was unpleasant but not painful. Her head began to ache during the second hour, and by the third, nausea joined the party. True to his word, Snape interrupted her periodically and presented a variety of questions...from Arithmancy equations to naming the ingredients of complex potions. Aside from the vice twisting her head and a shaky stomach, she appeared to suffer no lasting effects from the mass memory removal.

They paused for dinner, and although she had no appetite, she managed a bit of soup under Snape's watchful gaze. She tapped her quill against her notebook and frowned. Despite their progress, more than half the entries still remained. She wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to continue, but she touched her wand to her temple and forged ahead.

Midnight came and passed while she continued down the long list of memories. It soon became difficult to think past the throbbing in her head, much less convince herself she wanted to proceed. Each memory took longer to remove than the previous, a fact that did not escape Snape's notice.

"I believe you have reached your limit," he said. "We can finish this tomorrow."

"No," she protested instantly. "I'd rather just have it over and done with." There was no way she could stomach another day of feeling this way. She glanced at her list and ordered the words to stop swimming before her eyes. Nearly three-fourths of the memories had been marked through...surely it made more sense to simply complete the job now.

"You are obviously too proud or too stubborn to admit when you are in pain."

"I'm fine." She stifled a yawn with her hand. "Just a wee bit tired, that's all. Perhaps some tea ..."

She could almost feel him frowning at her back when she moved to the stove. She kept her expression neutral, despite the invisible force squeezing her skull. By the time she returned with her cup, she felt well enough to pluck her wand from the table and start on the next memory. His fingers circled her wrist before she could touch her head.

"No more," he said. "I must insist we stop now."

"And I must insist we continue."

"This is not the time for bravery."

She leaned across the table and grabbed his chin in her fingers. "Oh, you think you know me so well," she said and pressed her lips to his.

"I shall not be distracted by a kiss."

She shrugged. "And I shall not be dissuaded. Come, Severus...a tropical paradise awaits us in Mexico. I long to see the Gulf and listen to marimba." Somehow, the reality of what lay before them seemed less intimidating when she pretended they were simply leaving on holiday.

He studied her for several moments, all scowls and frowns, but her smile did not falter. At last, he said, "You will stop the instant it becomes painful, yes?"

"Probably not."

"Hermione!"

"I'm teasing you," she said. "Of course I will stop if it hurts too much. I'm no fan of pain."

His scowl deepened, but after a moment he released her wrist and said, "Very well." He tilted his head to read the next entry in her journal, then labelled an empty glass phial.

Time became an arbitrary thing, irrelevant to her progress. One by one, she made her way through the list of memories until her stomach threatened to return the soup and her head screamed in protest. She tried not to flinch at the sight of her wand, but each memory had become barbed and jagged and seemed to tear at her brain on its way out. Despite her reassurance to Snape, she had simply dealt with the pain and had not stopped until the last memory had been wrested from her mind. Under any other circumstances, the thick line she drew through her last journal entry would have left her feeling accomplished and proud. She hadn't the enthusiasm for either. Her vision blurred, so she turned from the page and focused on Snape.

He tucked the last phial into the case and snapped it closed. The noise made her wince.

"We should have stopped hours ago," he said.

"It's just a headache...I'll feel better once I sleep."

He removed a delicate green bottle from his robes and slid it across the table. "This should help."

"Headache tonic?"

He hesitated. "No, this is closer to the potion I gave you after our night at the Three Broomsticks."

"Brilliant." She took a small sip

He shook his head. "Drink it all."

She did as instructed and despite her pain, she couldn't help but try to identify the ingredients. The bitterness had to come from either asphodel or sneezewort. She thought she recognised wormwood, and indeed, her nausea seemed to fade. Perhaps valerian root, as well?

Asphodel, wormwood, valerian roots ...

She frowned. Three of the main ingredients in the Draught of Living Death.

The room spun. She tried to speak, tried to open her mouth, but her movements were sluggish. No words came, and even her thoughts seemed to fade. The air was too heavy to breathe, too thick to swim through. She sank beneath the waves where sound became muffled and distant.

She would have slid from her chair if Snape had not scooped her into his arms. He carried her into her bedroom, eased her onto the bed, and tucked the blanket around her limp body. She heard his voice from far away, as if he spoke to someone in the outer rooms. Then his face loomed above her, and she fought for lucidity.

No! The word echoed through her mind, but the fog made it impossible to voice.

He leaned forward, and his lips brushed against her ear. "You cannot despise me more than I despise myself right now," he said. "Perhaps someday you will understand why it was better this way."

He pressed a kiss to her temple, whispered softly into her ear, "Remember the mare."

Then he stood and addressed someone in the room. "I leave her to you."

Consciousness slipped away before she could hear their reply.

My thanks to Karelia and Little_Beloved (the birthday girl!) for their beta of this chapter! Much appreciation to Melenka for alpha-reader tips, as well.

I am on holiday in the wilds of Pennsylvania Amish country but shall return to civilisation (and cell phone signals and satellite internet that does not cut out every time the wind blows) soon. Only four more chapters (and the epilogue) remain. Many thanks to anyone who was kind enough to leave a review...I derive so much pleasure from reading them, and I look forward to answering them soon!