My Dark Declivities

He. Dear, I must be gone

While night shuts the eyes

Of the household spies;

That song announces dawn.

She. No, night's bird and love's

Bid all true lovers rest,

While his loud song reproves

The murderous stealth of day.

He. Daylight already flies

From mountain crest to crest.

She. That light is from the moon.

He. That bird ...

She. Let him sing on,

I offer to love's play

My dark declivities.

- W. B. Yeats, Parting

***

Hermione woke some time before six on Monday morning. She knew there was little point in trying to get back to sleep when there was so much to think about. Knowing that Cordelia was to return from France the previous evening, she'd cancelled her plans to have Sunday lunch with her parents and had spent the afternoon with Severus instead, determined to cherish her last hours with him before his wife's return. She had left him before five o'clock and had spent the evening catching up on some paperwork, anxiety and guilt gnawing away at her all the while.

But she'd meant what she'd said to Severus: she did not, for one second, regret that they had come together.

During her years at university, she'd had two boyfriends, one of whom she'd been with for over a year. At the time, she had fancied herself in love, and the physical side of their relationship had been perfectly satisfactory. But this was something else entirely. This was passion, and she felt helpless against the almost magnetic pull of such all-consuming pleasure.

Hermione didn't feel much guilt so far as Theo was concerned. He deserved what he got: he'd left her without a divorce; he'd been the first to break their wedding vows. She'd felt no remorse when she had punched Draco in the face in her third year; she'd felt no remorse when Marietta Edgecombe had spent months trying to remove the word 'sneak' from her face; and she'd certainly felt no pang of sorrow when the centaurs had carried Dolores Umbridge into the depths of the Forbidden Forest. And it was no different with Theo. She had sent her husband a bottle of Murtlap essence, and, as far as she was concerned, that was more than he deserved.

She pulled the duvet cover tightly around her and closed her eyes, trying to identify what, then, was making her feel this way. Cordelia was part of the problem. Hermione believed Severus should feel no guilt on his wife's account: Cordelia had, after all, been involved with another man since before they'd wed. But the fact remained that her mother-in-law had never done her wrong. She'd even been supportive since Theo had left, and, as a result, Hermione felt disloyal.

It also bothered her that her affair with Severus was to be kept secret. It had to be that way, she knew, but it would be difficult to keep such an enormous part of her life hidden from her friends. She dreaded to think what Harry might have to say if he ever discovered the truth. His hatred of Severus had waned since the final battle, but she knew they'd never really like one another, nonetheless. And what would her parents think of her seeing a man almost their own age?

She didn't care that Severus was almost twenty years her senior. In many ways she'd always felt so much older than her friends, and his maturity suited her. Being a younger woman was not the problem, but being someone's mistress was altogether different. That was one of the things that annoyed her: she was, when all was said and done, his mistress. An adulterer. The thought of that word made her sigh again. But she would bear her guilt without complaint just as she had promised she would.

Alongside the guilt there was anxiety about the future. It was less than a week since they'd begun their affair, and she felt foolish to be contemplating the months and years ahead. She couldn't help but wonder, though, where all this would lead. They were in such an impossible situation, but would that situation last forever? Would Theo ever want a divorce? When she had passed fifty and the marriage act no longer applied to her, would Cordelia demand a divorce from Severus?

And even if she did, even if they were both free of their spouses, would Severus Snape want anything to do with his former student? The word 'love' had not once been mentioned. She would not have expected that at such a tender stage in a relationship with any man, but she couldn't help but wonder what he felt for her.

Her own feelings were complicated. Did she love him? She wasn't sure. He had certainly earned her respect, her admiration and her affection. And now that they were lovers, she wanted him every moment of every day. Wasn't that love? Or was it just desire? She knew she could love him, at the very least.

But what about Severus? She knew he wanted her just as much as she wanted him, but perhaps it was simply lust. When they were at work, he seemed to enjoy her company when she wasn't irritating him with questions or humming along to the music. And in the bedroom he was a passionate, considerate and incredibly talented lover. But the two were so separate, as if they had two completely different relationships: The one where they were friends and colleagues, and the one where they were lovers.

But if, someday, they were both free of their marriages, would he even want her? Would he flee from the idea of commitment? With a deep sigh, she threw back her bedcovers and headed for the shower. She was in no position to make plans for the future; for now, she would have to take each day as it came.

When she'd dressed and showered, she made her way to the kitchen where she found Lance hobbling about on his cane. The table had been set for breakfast, but there was no sign of Moe.

"Good morning, Lance," she said warily. "What has you up at this hour?"

He turned and gave her a smile. "Oh, this and that: I decided to give Moe the morning off," he said, hunting for the tea.

Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously. In her experience, the last thing any house-elf wanted was a morning off. "Would you like me to make the tea?" she asked.

"No, no!" he insisted, spooning some tea leaves into a pot. "It's all in hand. Sit down, girl. The toast is on the table."

Hermione did as she was told and watched as he Levitated the steaming pot of tea onto the table. Lance limped across the kitchen, his cane clattering against the tiled floor. He lowered himself stiffly onto the chair opposite her.

"So," he said, pouring himself a cup of weak tea. "Moe tells me you and Severus have been getting along swimmingly this past week."

"Have you been setting that poor elf to spy on us?" she asked, buttering some toast.

Lance chuckled. "Oh, so it's 'us' now, is it?"

She blushed tellingly. "It's been 'us' for months, Lance. You know he's my friend as well as my employer."

He chuckled again. "Yes, well, I had a drink with him up on that roof garden last night, and he told me you've gotten together."

Hermione gasped. She couldn't believe Severus had confided in the old man so quickly. "He told you?"

"Well, he as good as told me, such was his prickly defensiveness, and now you've confirmed my suspicions."

She gaped at him, shocked he had goaded her into an admission. "You sly thing, you," she said, not knowing whether she was amused or annoyed. "Bet you were in Slytherin."

"Hufflepuff, actually. The Sorting Hat was aiming for Slytherin, but I opted for Hufflepuff just to spite my mother."

"Yes, well, the Hat was right," Hermione said, shaking her head and helping herself to tea.

"So, tell me," Lance said, lowering his voice. "Is he good in the sack? I always reckoned he would be."

She choked on her toast. "Lance! You are unbelievable. I'm not telling you a single thing."

"Look," he said, becoming suddenly serious. "Girls always need someone to talk to, and I just wanted you to know that you can talk to me should the need arise. I imagine many of your friends might not approve, and you know full well I've been hoping to see you and Severus get together for months."

"Why, Lance? Why would you hope such a thing when we're both married to members of your own family?"

"Because Cordelia never deserved a man like Severus, and Theo certainly never deserved a clever girl like you. Besides," he continued, pointing a wizened finger at her. "The two of you are well suited; I can't believe nobody ever spotted it before."

"You really think we're well suited?" she asked, smiling. The idea pleased her.

He gave a nod. "I've never seen Severus look younger. You make him happy: he just hasn't realised it yet." He sipped thoughtfully at his tea and said, "Cordelia returned from France last night."

"Yes, I know."

"Cordelia's bark has always been worse than her bite, and although it would be dreadfully hypocritical of her, it's possible she could cause trouble for the pair of you if she found out. For Severus, in particular."

"You're very fond of Severus, aren't you, Lance?"

"I've gotten to know him over the past six years: he has gained my deepest respect and admiration. The man is a war hero, one who refuses to acknowledge his heroism. What's more, he's denied himself companionship and the love of a good woman. Why wouldn't I want to see him happy?"

Hermione was fascinated: there were so few people to whom she could talk about Severus. "Did you know Albus Dumbledore, Lance? Does Severus ever speak to you about him?"

Lance shook his head. "I met Dumbledore many times, over the years, but we were never more than acquaintances. Severus rarely mentions him. Nor has he ever talked about Lily Evans."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You know about Lily Evans?"

"Minerva told me what transpired during the final battle. I don't know all the details, but I know Severus loved her, once."

She sighed. "You really believe I can make him happy, Lance?"

"I know you can," he said with a smile. "And I fully intend to sit back and watch you do it."

***

Hermione crossed Kensington Square at exactly eight o'clock. She would miss Severus today: It was Monday, his day to spend time away from the laboratory meeting clients. Feeling despondent, she touched her wand to the front door and pushed it open, only to find her mother-in-law on the other side.

Cordelia was wrapped in a beautifully embroidered dressing gown, and her hair and makeup were already impeccably finished.

"Hermione!" she cried, giving her daughter-in-law one of her best hostess smiles.

"Hello," Hermione said, trying her hardest to return the smile.

Cordelia crossed the hallway and drew her into a hug, kissing her lightly on both cheeks. "You've just missed Severus! He's left for Amsterdam."

"Yes. I ... I'm just on my way down to the laboratory."

"Well," Cordelia said conspiratorially. "Why don't you take full advantage of his absence and come upstairs for coffee with me and my friends at eleven o'clock?"

"That's very kind of you, but I have so much work to get through ..."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "He's such a slave driver! Well, if you change your mind, you'd be more than welcome."

Hermione muttered her thanks and fled to the staircase, her hands shaking. When she reached the basement, she fumbled for her wand and finally pressed it to the lock on the wrought iron door. She entered quickly and slammed the door behind her, pressing her back to its cold surface and sliding all the way to the floor. Her potions journal clattered to the ground, and she put her face in her hands.

She'd spent a blissful week cocooned in a small, private universe with Severus. But now she'd returned to earth with a bang. This was the reality of the situation: having to play-act in front of the woman whose husband had become her lover. All the extenuating circumstances in the world did not make things any easier when you had to lie to someone's face.

Glad that Severus was not there to witness her behaviour, she sobbed her heart out, knowing she could not walk away from him, but for the first time fully aware of the burden she would have to bear.

***

Hermione managed to avoid Cordelia for most of the month that followed, and she soon settled into a routine with Severus. During the week, they behaved as they always had done: employer and employee.

There were times when she badly wanted to touch him as he passed her by, just lay her hand on his forearm or press a brief kiss to his cheek. But they'd agreed that they would separate their personal and professional lives, and Hermione wanted to keep her word. Their weekends more than made up the lack of physical contact, and she found that the Saturdays she had once dreaded were now the very thing she lived for.

It hadn't been too difficult to keep things from her friends. She'd avoiding any kind of intimate discussion with Padma, ensuring she was kept busy with the babies when they were together. She knew Padma was watching her, waiting for the right time to ask, but so far no interrogation had been forthcoming. Harry and Ginny were much easier: although they were curious about her friendship with Severus, they had never known anything of her feelings.

One day at the end of August, Neville requested they meet for lunch in Diagon Alley, and she agreed. She met him on a Thursday afternoon, and she returned to the laboratory after her lunch feeling decidedly glum.

"Is something the matter?" Severus asked, frowning as she returned to her bench.

She gave a troubled sigh. "I met Neville for lunch."

"Ah, yes. That would explain it. Mr Longbottom tends to have that effect on people," he muttered, smirking.

"Severus, don't be mean about Neville!" she snapped, thumping her journal onto her bench. "You just can't resist having a go at him, can you?"

The smirk slid from his face, and he quirked an eyebrow, unused to such a sensitive reaction from her.

"Oh, Severus, I'm sorry," she said, rubbing her brow. "I know you were only joking. It's just that he's really, really depressed, and it's upset me."

He returned silently to his work with a scowl.

Her eyes filled with tears. "Do you accept my apology?"

He raised his gaze from his cauldron and looked at her, wondering what had transpired between them to warrant such bad humour. "Of course I accept your apology," he said quietly. "Would you care to explain what has distressed you?"

She sat on her stool and uttered another deep sigh. "Well, he and Hannah have officially separated. She's taken a job in the Leaky Cauldron, and he, obviously, has stayed on at Hogwarts."

"That's hardly a surprise. It's been plain to everyone that they've been unhappy since they wed."

"Yes, but I thought he might be happier since they split up. It's only made him more depressed, though. She might have been miserable at the school, but it's even lonelier for him now, and he has more time to brood about where his life is going."

Severus gave a shrug. "He's hardly the only casualty of the Marriage Law. He must create his own happiness."

"But he can't," Hermione insisted. "He's trapped here, and the woman he loves is abroad. It's so unfair. He's had such a terrible life."

He watched as she chewed her bottom lip in concern for her friend.

"I mean, just imagine! He was raised by a grandmother who did nothing until he reached the age of fifteen but belittle him. He was no better off than an orphan, yet he could never truly grieve for his parents because they're still alive. They're worse than dead! He'll never really know them, and yet he has to watch them live out their lives in these empty shells that pass for bodies, and he will have to be responsible for their care until the day they die."

Severus was rather captivated by the expression of worry on her face. "But he has, as you rightly point out, lived with this all his life. I thought him quite transformed from his insipid self in his final years at Hogwarts. He'd grown from a bumbling fool into a courageous, self-assured young man. What has changed?"

"In part it was the Marriage Law: Most of us had the option of leaving the country if we didn't wish to abide by the law, but Neville couldn't. His grandmother is old and frail now, and so responsibility for his parents rests with him. His mother has been unwell over the past few years, and he doesn't think they receive adequate care in St. Mungo's. He visits them every weekend and pops in unannounced from time to time during the week, just to keep the staff on their toes." She shook her head sadly.

"Why doesn't he move them to a private home?" Severus asked with a frown. "There are many wizard-run care homes around the country."

"He's looked into that, but they're all unaffordable. He can't sell the family home to pay for their care while his grandmother lives, and his salary would never cover it. Besides, if he was to leave the country to look for Luna, he wouldn't receive a salary at all."

"I see," Severus said, stirring the contents of his cauldron. "Your concern for him is touching."

She jerked her head up to look at him, but she could discern no sarcasm. "I've always liked Neville," she explained. "When he offered for me at Belgrave House we talked about this, and at the time I thought he was just sulking. But we've been over his options time and time again, and I just don't see a way around it. I'd like nothing better than to see him find Luna Lovegood, but he loves his mum and dad, and he'll never leave them if he thinks they won't be looked after."

They remained silent for a few moments, and Hermione slipped off her stool to resume her brewing.

"Severus?" she said, smiling at last. "Did you know you were Neville's Boggart when we were in third year?"

He grunted and glared at her. "The whole school knew I was his Boggart."

Hermione chuckled. "Well, you were particularly hard on him."

"I was hard on both of you; I presume I wasn't your Boggart?" He paused for a second, peering into his cauldron. "That was one of the things that annoyed me most about you: You always seemed to find it necessary to hiss instructions into Neville Longbottom's ear rather than give the boy a chance to do it himself."

"Severus, he couldn't do it himself because he went to pieces every time you were in the room!"

He waved his hand dismissively. "I don't know how I put up with the pair of you for so long. You were positively the worst student I ever had the misfortune to teach."

Her jaw fell open. "The worst student? You said I was your best student at Pomona Sprout's retirement party. When did I ever brew a potion that was anything less than perfect? When did I ever submit an essay that was less than satisfactory?"

He smirked. "Your work was perfectly adequate. It was the constant questions that were the problem, not to mention the fact that you drove the entire class crazy with your know-it-all hand waving."

To her great amusement, he waved his hand in the air in an impressive imitation of her former self. Trying not to laugh, she picked up a bound bunch of roots and hurled them at him.

He caught them deftly in his left hand and tossed them back on her bench, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You're so cruel," she said, smiling.

He returned his attention to his work once more but, after a few minutes, said, "It's rather crueller that I've ended up so heavily in the debt of my two least favourite students."

Hermione frowned. "Severus, you know you're no longer in my debt: you've more than repaid anything I did with your kindness this past year. And why would you say you're in Neville's debt?"

He gazed at her, surprised it hadn't occurred to her before. "Don't you know why I feel indebted to him?"

She returned his stare, and then gasped. "He killed the snake!"

He gave a curt nod and lowered his gaze.

Hermione continued to watch him, finally understanding why he had been so kind to Neville at Belgrave House. "You're not his Boggart anymore," she said, unsure why it suddenly seemed important.

His smirk returned. "I'm glad to hear it."

"He told me his Boggart would be himself now: old, alone and unloved." She sighed. "Sad, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, uncomfortable. He was afraid his Boggart might assume a similar form. "Sad, indeed."

***

On the Saturday that followed, Hermione met her mother for lunch and some shopping, and when she had unpacked her groceries, she crossed Kensington Square. Standing on the steps, she cast a spell to check that Cordelia had left for Scotland, and then she entered and climbed the stairs to the study. After a brief knock, she pushed open the door.

"Hi," she said, smiling. Severus sat behind his desk, a huge pile of parchment before him.

"Good afternoon," he replied, putting his quill down and leaning back in his chair. "How did you fare in Belfast yesterday?"

"Fine...nothing to report. I've just found out that Lance has gone to visit friends in Venice for a few days, and he's taken Moe along with him. So I thought ..." She felt suddenly shy. "Would you like to have dinner at my house?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You're going to cook?"

"Yes," she said, pouting. "I mightn't be as good as Moe, but I'm a perfectly competent cook, you know."

"Well, we'll soon see," he drawled. "Yes, I'd be delighted to have dinner at your house. Lance's wine cellar is far superior to Cordelia's. If your food is inedible, we can drown our sorrows."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "In that case, I'll see you in one hour."

Hermione closed the door behind her and made for the stairs, delighted he'd agreed, despite his teasing. Thus far, they'd spent weekends in his house, and given that they'd normally retired to his bedroom before dinner, she'd never had an excuse to stay the night, and no invitation had been forthcoming. He might consider it too intimate, she thought, to sleep next to her, or perhaps there was some other reason she had not yet considered.

She would cook them both a hearty meal, and, hoping that a full stomach and a bottle of wine might do the trick, she hoped to entice him to remain the night in her bed. She longed to know what it would be like to wake up next to him, to sleep in his arms, and she was determined to find out.

When Severus arrived an hour later, Hermione had set the table, lit some candles, and was almost finished preparing dinner. Knowing he had a fondness for red meat and red wine, she'd cooked fillet steak. She heard him on the stairs and flashed him a smile as he entered the room.

"That smells promising," he said, peering over her shoulder.

"You doubt my culinary skills?"

"Not any more. Would you like me to choose a bottle of wine?"

"Yes, please."

Hermione watched him cross to Lance's wine cellar, and by the time he'd emerged with a bottle of whatever vintage he'd judged appropriate, she had served their meal.

When they'd finished dessert it was almost dark outside, and Severus opened a second bottle of wine. As always, she found him much more talkative when he'd been drinking, and she enjoyed listening as he regaled her with tales of the staff while he had been a student at Hogwarts.

Shortly before ten o'clock, she rose from her chair and boldly straddled his lap, sighing as he ran his hands up her sides. "I've become incredibly fond of Saturdays," she muttered into his ear.

"As have I," he replied, pulling her to him for a kiss.

She led him to her room, and after they'd made love, she snuggled against his chest while he slowly stroked her arm as had become his custom.

She smiled to herself, pleased that the meal and the wine had had the desired effect as they lay entwined in a drowsy silence, lulled by the sound of rain against the tiny basement window.

Severus watched her face in the soft glow of the candlelight, admiring, as he so often had these past few weeks, the way in which her hair fanned out across her pillow. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she was not yet asleep. He allowed his gaze to travel down her delicate throat to her lightly freckled chest and the swell of her breast, pressed against his side.

He had always found it easy to divide his life into different roles. When he'd been at school he had played four different parts: diligent student; sworn enemy of Potter and Black; friend of Lily Evans; neglected son. Before the final defeat of the Dark Lord, he had played Hogwarts teacher by day and Death Eater by night, and even now his every waking hour was compartmentalised: husband of Cordelia Mill; successful businessman; lover to the woman who currently had one arm and one leg wrapped around him.

The final two, in particular, were slowly becoming less distinct. Increasingly often, he found himself longing to reach out and touch Hermione as he passed her bench on his way to the storeroom, or wanting to press his lips to her forehead before she left the laboratory in the evenings. But during the week, it was necessary to behave as both husband and conscientious professional, and he refused to give in to such moments of weakness.

He watched Hermione's face in the dim light of the room, wondering why he felt it infinitely more acceptable to shag her at the weekends than it did to indulge himself in these little longed-for intimacies. In a rare moment of honesty, he realised that he would really like nothing better than to remain here in the warmth of her bed, her naked body curled against his through the night. What would it be like to wake next to her?

Berating himself for such sentimentality, he shook his head and disentangled himself from her limbs. It was after midnight: time to return to his own home. But before he could retrieve his clothes, her fingers closed over his forearm.

"Severus," she whispered. "Stay."

Slowly, he turned to face her. "It would be unwise, Hermione."

She propped herself up on one elbow. "Why? Why would it be unwise?"

"It would make it easier for us to be discovered," he said, turning from her.

"Severus, that's nonsense. Cordelia's away, and she never returns before Sunday night. Lance won't be back for days, and he knows about us anyway."

He knew she spoke the truth: There was no such reason for him to vacate her bed. How could he explain to her that he feared giving in to such cravings? That he worried they would make him vulnerable; that he was appalled at the thought that he might wake screaming from one of his nightmares?

She knelt behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, gently kissing his shoulder, making him close his eyes.

"Please, Severus. We have so little time together. Stay with me."

The sensation of her naked body against his back was more than he could resist. Knowing this meant he would have to forego sleep that night, he turned in her arms. After pressing a brief kiss to her temple, he lowered them both to the bed, not knowing quite how he felt when she uttered a deep sigh of satisfaction. After reaching for his wand and extinguishing the candles, he tucked her head beneath his chin and wrapped her in his arms.

"Thank you," she whispered, snaking her arm around his waist.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he murmured.

He stared into the darkness as her breathing became deep and regular, thankful that the tickle of her curls against his nose would help keep him awake. He could not allow himself to fall asleep.

***

It always began the same way. Almost every night since he had woken in St. Mungo's, whenever he fell asleep, Albus Dumbledore would visit him in his dreams.

He was sitting behind the headmaster's desk in Hogwarts, quill in hand, when Albus entered quietly through the heavy wooden door.

"Albus?" he said, perturbed. "I thought ... I thought you were dead?"

The former headmaster uttered the chuckle that had infuriated him for seventeen years. "Indeed I am, Severus. You killed me, if memory serves correctly." Albus took the seat in front of the desk and laced his fingers.

"I only took your life because you ordered me to do it," he replied with a frown.

"So it gave you absolutely no pleasure to do it, Severus?" Albus asked, gazing at him above his glasses with those penetrating blue eyes. "Did you not, when the time came, derive some enjoyment from the act?"

"No!" Severus insisted, pushing his chair away from the desk and rising from his seat. "It didn't give me pleasure. I felt ... Anger. I was angry at you, at the Dark Lord, at myself for the position into which I had been forced. I felt hatred, perhaps, for all three of us. But no. Not pleasure."

"I told you once that only you would know whether it would harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation, Severus. And only you know the truth of it. Are you sure there was not some moment of pleasure mixed in there with your anger and your self-revulsion?"

He stared at the old man. "No. There was no pleasure ... I am ... I ..."

But even as he stopped, considering the truth, he cried out in pain as he felt it: his soul, being torn in two. "No!" he cried, clutching the desk and sinking to his knees.

Dumbledore looked at him, his blue eyes twinkling without sympathy. He chuckled maddeningly while Severus struggled for breath. "I thought as much."

While he fell to the floor, one hand clutching the desk, the other clawing at the burning pain in his chest, the scene changed.

Suddenly, the agony was gone, and he was kneeling on the grass at the foot of the Astronomy tower, Dumbledore's broken and lifeless body spread before him. They were alone, save for Fawkes the Phoenix, who circled the air above them with plaintive cries.

He looked upon the lifeless body of the man who had been his headmaster, his colleague, his confessor, and sometimes, his friend. Yes, Dumbledore had used him. Yes, he had manipulated him. But he had trusted him without once wavering in that trust, and surely that was worth something?

The agony that had recently gripped him was replaced by a dull ache, and he knew it was a pang of loss; sorrow that such a great, if fundamentally flawed man, had been killed by his wand.

Allowing grief to wash over him, he wrapped the body of Albus Dumbledore in his own cloak and lifted him from the ground. In his dream the burden was light, and, not knowing why, he made his way through the Hogsmead gates and towards the Shrieking Shack.

He was sure of his destination, determined to reach the tumble-down old house despite the feeling of foreboding niggling at the back of his mind, telling him that he should not go there, that something lay in wait for him.

When they reached the shack, he kicked the door open and stumbled forward, laying the swathed body on the dusty floor and kneeling beside Dumbledore's lifeless form once more.

He reached inside his coat for his wand, but his fingers closed around something cold and metallic instead, and he found the old man's broken glasses in his hand. Wondering how they'd ended up in his coat, he reached down to pull the cloak back from Albus's face, intending to place the glasses on his crooked nose.

But even before his fingers found purchase on the thick material, he knew that something was terribly wrong. The body enveloped in the cloak had somehow changed shape, and even as he pulled the cloak from where the face should have been, whatever lay within started to twist and writhe.

He froze in shock as the cloak fell from his hands, revealing the smooth head of Voldemort's snake. As Nagini turned her burning eyes towards him, the scream began in his chest, leaving his lips as the creature lunged for his neck, her dripping fangs bared.

***

Struggling for breath, Severus clutched at his neck, almost crying out again in relief to find that there was no enormous snake attached to his throat.

As his panic subsided, he groped for his wand in the darkness, disorientated and soaked in sweat. Before he could light the room, he heard someone calling his name, fear in their voice.

"Severus?" Hermione whispered urgently. "Are you okay?" She reached out and wrapped her arms around him.

In complete mortification, he realised he was in her bedroom and that he had succumbed to fatigue. He took her arms roughly from around his chest and leapt from the bed.

"You had a nightmare," she said, obviously shaken. "You were calling out in your sleep!"

He lit the tip of his wand and found his trousers lying in a tangled heap on the floor. He pulled them on, refusing to meet her gaze through the cold, blue light. He shrugged his shirt over his shoulders, fastening the buttons with a flick of his wand.

"Where are you going?" she said, kneeling up in the bed, clutching the sheets to her bare chest.

"I should not have stayed," he said, Summoning his shoes from across the room and sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on.

She reached forward and placed her hand on his back. "Tell me what's wrong?" she pleaded.

"No," he spat, pulling away from her again. He snatched his coat from the carpet and rose from the bed.

"Severus!" she said, scrambling for her wand and Summoning her dressing gown. "Talk to me."

He strode to the door. "Good grief, girl. I've told you before that you're not my therapist."

"Oh, so I'm good enough for a quick fuck, but you won't tell me what's wrong?"

"Your words, not mine," he snarled, pulling open the bedroom door.

"Wait!" she cried, scrambling to her feet.

"No," he said, flicking his wand at her. "I do not need your pity."

Hermione was flung back against the bed as he disappeared, slamming the door behind him. He had hexed her. He had actually hexed her. Wiping a startled tear from her cheek, she heard him close the front door with a bang and took a deep breath to steady herself. If he thought he could use her when he felt like it and refuse to talk to her, he had another thing coming. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled jeans and a jumper from a hanger. She was damned if she was going to let him leave like that.

Severus stood on the steps of Hermione's house, his chest heaving. He looked up at the dark, night sky, trying to control his breathing. It was raining heavily, and he was already soaked. He crossed Kensington Square on foot, letting the rain run down his face as if it could wash away his humiliation.

Only a few minutes later, Hermione followed him across the square to Cordelia's house. Pressing the tip of her wand to the lock, she let herself in and closed the door, listening for him. He was unlikely to have gone to the roof garden in such inclement weather, so she headed for his study, pausing outside to take a deep breath.

She opened the door to find he had lit a fire in the grate and was seated in his leather armchair with a large glass of Firewhisky. He was staring at the flames, his hair wet, and she took his lack of rebuke as a good sign. Without saying a word, she crossed the room and knelt at his side, waiting for him to turn to look at her, and when he did, his eyes blazed with anger. She bravely held her ground.

Severus had turned to her with the intention of telling her to leave him alone, to return to her house and never mention it again. But as he looked into her warm brown eyes, he felt his anger dissipate. She was not looking at him with the expression of pity he had expected, but with the same look of compassion he had seen upon her features when she'd talked of Neville Longbottom.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"Come," he said finally, patting his leg and putting his Firewhisky on his desk.

Determined to hold her tongue, Hermione slipped onto his lap, laying her head against his chest. She'd known for some time that he did not sleep well, and now she knew it wasn't just because of the wounds to his neck. She had no wish to compel him to tell her of his nightmares, so she entwined her fingers through his, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart through his shirt as she waited for him to speak.

"I've been haunted by the same nightmare almost every night since I first regained consciousness in St. Mungo's," he whispered after many silent minutes.

"Doesn't Dreamless Sleep potion help?" she asked.

"Yes, but it's not without side effects, and I've no wish to become dependent on it. I've taken it occasionally, when I've deemed it necessary. I should have taken it tonight."

She desperately wanted to know of what he dreamt, but she held her silence and waited.

After another minute, he said, "Albus Dumbledore seems to find the need to visit me in my dreams. And always our conversation revolves around the same topic: my soul."

"Your soul?" she asked, sitting up so she could look at him.

He nodded. "On the night he requested I take his life, I asked him why he didn't allow Draco to do it as the Dark Lord had commanded. He answered that he did not want the boy's soul to become damaged. When I suggested my soul meant nothing to him, he said that only I would know whether or not my soul would be harmed by helping an old man to avoid pain and humiliation."

"Like euthanasia," she said.

"Perhaps. But in my nightmares he taunts me: he suggests that I derived pleasure from the act of killing him, and in my dream I can feel my soul rip apart." He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow.

Hermione watched him, knowing she should choose her words with extreme care. "Dumbledore played an irresponsible game with many people's lives, Severus. I know he had the good of wizarding kind at heart, but that didn't give him the right to put you, and Harry for that matter, in such incredible danger. To ask such an act of you wasn't fair. It could have maimed your soul forever."

He shot her a glance. "How do you know it didn't?"

She gazed into his black eyes, the flames reflected in their depths. "I don't know. Only you can know that."

He looked away from her and into the fire. "I'm sure you're well aware that in order to successfully cast an Unforgiveable curse, you need to mean it."

"But surely needing to mean it and drawing pleasure from the act are two different things?"

He gave a deep sigh. "I had rather a complex relationship with Albus Dumbledore. He trusted me; he respected my abilities. But I don't think he particularly liked me. I am a hard man to like. Mind you, he liked me enough to bequeath me Nicolas Flamel's Telenium cauldron."

Hermione gave him a small smile. "Did you like him?"

He shook his head. "Not particularly. I could see what a talented manipulator he was, and I did not like the fact that his manipulation extended to me. But I certainly respected him: He was truly the most powerful wizard I've ever met, and I was, I suppose, touched that he placed so much faith in me. He often sought my opinion on matters of importance; I was flattered.

"He had angered me greatly that last year, especially so when he told me that Potter must die. I was furious with him. It was easier than I had envisaged, in the end, to cast the curse that ended his life. I put all my anger into it: Anger at Albus; anger at the Dark Lord; anger at myself. I felt like a trapped animal that night. I was trapped. Had I not completed Draco's assignment in his stead I would have died, and I had tasks yet to fulfil." He paused again, lost in the dancing flames.

"And how did it make you feel when you actually did it?" she asked in a whisper.

"Despicable," he said. "Resentful, bitter, ashamed, enraged. Once I'd delivered Draco to his mother and had sought an audience with the Dark Lord, I Apparated to Spinner's End and spent the remainder of the night retching over a toilet bowl. I was glad it was all over at last, but I've searched my soul over the intervening years, examined my memories, and I cannot find any trace of pleasure in the killing of Albus Dumbledore."

"Then your soul is unharmed?"

Severus gave her an ironic smile. "I wouldn't go as far as to say it is unharmed. My soul has certainly been tainted the things I've done, and by some of the things I failed to do. There are things I've done for which I feel no remorse, so I'm sure I've sustained damage, but as far as I can tell, my soul has not been torn in two."

She lay against his chest once more. "Your soul remains whole, Severus. I know it."

He didn't reply, but pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

"The strangest thing is," he said eventually, "the nightmares always begin and end the same way. Sometimes the details or the settings are different, but it always begins and ends the same way: At first, Albus asks me about my soul, but as the dream progresses, I find myself on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, his lifeless body before me, wrapped in a cloak."

He swallowed rapidly, and she knew it was the next part of the nightmare that had made him cry out in his sleep.

"When I lift the cloak from his face it's no longer Albus: he becomes the damned snake. It lunges for my neck, and I wake screaming, as you have recently discovered."

She didn't know what to say, so she simply squeezed his hand.

"I don't expect I will ever stop being haunted by the memory of that cursed serpent," he said. "We were all harmed, in one way or another, during the war, and some of the emotional scars will never, perhaps, truly leave us. But I wish I knew why Albus always becomes the snake."

"He becomes the snake because Nagini is not the only one who hurt you. You've been damaged by them both, Severus."

He gave her a deeply questioning look. "Perhaps." He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

When he pulled away, she lay against his chest once more, her mind reeling with the things he had just said. She thought back to his state of panic when he had woken from the nightmare, and she wondered if he even remembered having hexed her. A few minutes passed, and he glanced at his watch.

"It's after four in the morning," he whispered in her ear.

She took that as her cue to leave and reluctantly rose from his lap. "I should go." He looked up at her, a strange expression on his face. "Goodnight, Severus," she said, close to tears and not really knowing why.

She turned to walk away, but he stood up and gripped her by the arm. "Stay," he said, mirroring her own actions from earlier that evening.

Surprised, she met his gaze, and instantly understood that this was his apology. She smiled as he pulled her into his arms.

"Gladly," she replied.

***

When she woke the next morning, Severus was still asleep. She propped herself up on one elbow, watching him. He lay on his back, his head turned towards the window, the duvet pulled down to his waist.

Hermione allowed her gaze to travel along his body, taking in the scattering of dark hair on his chest, the sinewy muscles on his arms and the veins on his hands. She looked at his long, slender fingers and his neat nails, and as she moved her gaze back to his still-slumbering face, devoid of its customary scowl, she thought, I love him.

She pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if the admission would somehow escape if she did not hold it in. It was the first time since they'd embarked on their affair that she knew without question that she had begun to fall in love with this difficult, stubborn, unpleasant man. Rather than make her happy, the realisation made her sad, for what was the point of loving him when they were trapped by the Marriage Law?

He stirred and turned towards her, his eyes still closed, and she silently vowed that she would not tell him. Despite the fact that he had, only just the night before, bared his soul to her, she still had absolutely no idea how he really felt about her. She knew he sometimes enjoyed her company at work, and she knew he desired her, but beyond that she was lost.

No. She would not tell him she loved him. If there was ever to be such an admission, she would have to be certain that her feelings were reciprocated, and for now, she simply didn't know.

But as he opened his eyes and greeted her with a drowsy half-smile, she thought that maybe there was hope. And when he took her by the hand and led her to the shower, she knew that they had made more progress in the past twenty-four hours than they had for weeks.

Yes, they were trapped by their marriages, but there was still hope. There was always hope.