Yearning After Thine

A/N: JKR created these characters and this world and graciously allows us to play here as long as we do so without profit. Emily Brontë wrote the poetry that inspired this tale. And sshg316 is the Beta To End All Betas for her watchful eye and gentle encouragement. Shug, I couldn't do it without you!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Yearning After Thine"

Three murders, especially three gruesome and bloody deaths, were at least three more than usual anywhere along the coast serviced by The Grace that whole year. The authorities who came to investigate the scene tried to affect a casual air, as though this were the sort of event with which they dealt on a regular basis, but their attempt at professional detachment was marred when the youngest member of the party, disembarking from the police boat and catching a glimpse of the first victim, promptly lost his lunch.

The lead investigator, a taciturn little man named Peacock, was a cooler customer, disbelieving Snape's account of the events of the day on principle. Snape had managed to drag Dolohov's unlovely corpse down to the dock and suggested that everything had happened right there. Peacock was skeptical.

Interviews among the residents of Black's Harbor turned up several witnesses to Snape's history there and his friendship with Riley Macmillan. Two others had noticed the pale-faced man chartering Winsome, and neither of them had taken a liking to the stranger. Winsome's owner, the dead and headless fisherman, had even confided his misgivings to one of his friends before his final departure.

Peacock consulted his notes when he returned to continue his interrogation of Snape.

"See here, Mr. Chessminster," he began, "both of the crew of The Grace tell me they brought a young lady here last week on the regular delivery. She said she'd be coming back with them this week. Where was she through all this?"

Snape nodded. "My sister," he lied smoothly, though his stomach clenched. She had intended to leave, of course, as soon as she could. He should not find that surprising. "She's visiting me from Sheffield. She twisted her ankle day before yesterday, unfortunately," he added suavely, "so she'll be staying on the island until she's well enough to walk to the dock. She knows nothing about what happened down here."

Peacock eyed him speculatively. "If she doesn't turn up soon, I'll be back," he cautioned. "Can't have any more... unpleasantness."

Snape acknowledged the veiled warning. "I understand," he answered solemnly. "She'll be on the boat in a week or so, I expect." She'd want to be gone from here as soon as possible.

In the end, Peacock didn't have enough evidence to press charges of any kind. He took away the bodies and the abandoned boat and left the chess master to his solitude and his self-doubts.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was unbearably bright. And it was flickering. Hermione turned her head toward the light and worked very hard to open her eyes. Ah, it was a stove, not the sun, with a crackling fire roaring behind the grate. She lay for a very long time simply looking at it.

Eventually, she flexed one hand speculatively. It appeared to function. She was puzzled. There ought to be more pain. She could not quite remember why, but she had a vague feeling that every joint should be screaming in agony. Yet all she felt was a mild headache, a stiff heaviness in one foot, and a raging thirst. She turned her head slowly, trying to identify her surroundings. Perhaps she was dead. This did not feel quite like death as she expected it, but then who could tell?

Just out of reach to her left was a small stack of books. She was glad that she would have books to read. Death could not be so awful if there were books.

She seemed to be floating, but with considerable effort, she remembered the air mattress she had bought in a camping supply store in London. This must be that mattress. Which probably meant that she was not dead.

She continued to look around the small, unfamiliar room. The door was shut. Above it, two bent nails, one slightly rusty, protruded from the wall. She frowned. That meant something. Something used to hang there, and now it was gone.

Snape. The name suddenly surfaced in her conscious mind. Severus. His wand had been there. His wand was missing. She felt an uneasy stirring in the pit of her stomach. He could not live without his wand. He would not be safe. He was a wizard, and he required his wand, even if it was only hanging on the wall for decoration.

And with that, everything else came rushing back--watching him dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, researching his sad and secretive life, deciding he must still be alive, figuring out how to find him, seeing him for the first time on the moor, rediscovering the man, sensing the constriction of her heart as she looked in his eyes...

Dolohov.

The long, pale, leering face blasted everything else from her mind. She had brought him here. She had put Severus in danger. It was all her fault. He would never forgive her. He must hate her for destroying his solitude, revealing his secrets, and leading his enemies to him. She needed to get out of here, to leave Severus in peace. He had asked her to go. She would honor his wishes.

With a groan, she rolled to her side and started to sit up. Her head swam with the effort. She struggled to rise anyway but found that her left foot throbbed and felt tender. She was not certain it would bear her weight. She sat on the edge of the mattress, panting with the effort.

"It is entirely up to you, of course, but I do not recommend trying to walk just yet," said a dry voice behind her.

She whirled to face him and immediately regretted it as her stomach lurched with the movement. Snape stood framed in the doorway, his face an expressionless mask.

"I... uh," she stammered.

He arched an eyebrow. "So eloquently put," he replied sarcastically. "Now if you have concluded your feeble attempt at further injuring yourself, I suggest you lie down again. I have no more Skele-Gro, nor the ingredients to replenish my stock, and it does require some time to take full effect." His voice a silky purr, he added, "If you recall anything you learnt in class."

She stared hard at him, registering the cold distance in his voice. Yes, he did indeed blame her and would wish her gone as soon as possible. She bit back the impulse to sob and simply lay back on the mattress without comment, trying not to let him see how deeply his words hurt her.

He paused in the doorway a moment longer, then strode toward her. He thrust the mug he was carrying at her. She took it without meeting his eyes.

"Drink this," he growled roughly. "You're dehydrated."

She nodded and emptied the cup. With a wave of his wand, he refilled it. Her eyes flickered toward his wand as she drank again. He cleared his throat, almost daring her to speak, but she said nothing. She handed the mug back to him and rolled away from him, huddled under her blanket. Snape stood over her for a moment, then turned on his heel and left the cottage, the door banging shut behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gradually, she began to regain her strength. Snape issued a few blunt instructions about food and drink and almost reluctantly helped her to and from the outhouse, but he refused to engage in conversation. As she began to recover, she found herself glad of his silence. Within a few days, she had started to put weight on the damaged foot and taken several halting steps, leaning heavily on the straight-backed chair for support. She was able to make it to the window seat unassisted now and could begin each day staring silently out at the morning sunlight.

When he returned from his final interview with Peacock, he told her gruffly that the boat would be back in four days. "If you're sufficiently recovered to leave by then," he said, sounding indifferent. "Otherwise, it will be another ten days."

Hermione nodded. "I believe I could be ready," she replied, working to keep her voice even. "I'll try walking a bit this afternoon."

Snape shrugged.

"I don't think I'm--" She took a deep breath and began again, "I don't think I could Apparate yet."

"No," he agreed, his voice cold. "And certainly not from here."

She glared at him. "Surely you don't mean because magic would sully the sanctity of this godforsaken hole," she snapped. "That can't be a problem anymore."

He arched one eyebrow. "And who are you to decide that?" His words dripped with derision.

"I'd say it's already been decided," she replied sharply.

"Certainly not by me," he retorted.

Hermione looked at him, the color rising in her cheeks. "You really are a bastard, you know that?" she asked.

"I have never pretended otherwise," he responded silkily. "I have never romanticized my choices or my life. I at least have accepted full responsibility for everything I have done."

"How do you know?" she asked tartly. "You haven't looked at the memories you gave to Harry, have you? You don't know what they might show you--you can't remember them unless you take them back!"

Snape sneered at her. "I gave him nothing I was not glad to be rid of. If Potter chose to see that as anything more than the discharge of an extremely unpleasant long-term obligation, that is his misfortune. And it is, as I said before, a private matter. You cannot begin to know what I retained, little girl, and so you cannot begin to know me at all."

"How dare you!" she shot back, her voice suddenly, alarmingly quiet. "I have not been a 'little girl' for far longer than I had a right to be. This war we both fought in wouldn't let me. And I may not have been a celebrated spy or a Death Eater turned hero, but I think I proved myself rather effectively. And I..." she struggled with the words, "I killed a man the other day. I am a murderer now." The last words came out almost in a whisper, and Snape stared across the room into the sudden silence.

Hermione was not looking at him but was instead gazing down at the place where Dolohov had fallen, replaying the whole scene again in her mind. She drew in a shuddering breath, but she refused to look away. She was responsible for a man's death. She would face the consequences, even if it took the rest of her life.

Snape continued to stare at her, watching the recriminations and doubts and repudiations wash over her. He was moved by her stubborn courage. She would not pretend that nothing had happened. She would face what she had done, even if it destroyed her in the end.

He was struck by a desperate longing to take her in his arms and reassure her, tell her it was not her fault, that she had been magnificent, that she had defended herself wonderfully, that he was impressed and proud and humbled and moved. He wanted to tell her that he loved her.

And he said nothing. He simply watched her. And then he turned and walked out of the cottage, leaving her staring at the wall alone.