II

They walked side-by-side back through the monastery, and she then followed him down the winding steps of the cliff.

She took the opportunity to reacquaint herself with his features, reveling in the cover that the busy market provided. His features were angular, too sharp to be handsome, but his Roman nose was strong, which Hermione found appealing in a visceral way. His black hair had slight silver streaks running through it, which gave him an air of distinction, and his eyes – well, his eyes could rip the soul out of a person, or a confession, and Hermione didn't quite know which she thought to be worse. Severus would have made quite the priest in another life, save the requisite celibacy and disavowal of skepticism. Could priests be skeptical about the church? An interesting question.

In short order, they reached the market, rife with activity, bustling and hot, full of color and rich odors competing for dominance. She walked behind him as they wove through the streets and avoided the more pushy vendors, their hands touching as they retained contact, and she took in the back side of him. He was still lean and muscled, or so it appeared, but Severus Snape was a take-me-or-leave-me sort of person, so Hermione thought it fair in assuming that his body was still strong.

Not that she should be noticing such things.

He was a colleague... more or less. He still worked in Potions, after all; that was what he had been presenting on ten years ago at that blasted conference in Berlin. Moreover, he was a brilliant man, highly respected on the Continent, and yes, there had been that incident right after the divorce where she could have sworn he was going to kiss her. Yes, there was that.

He had been right to not tell her he was here; she would have gone mad with the suspense.

The years had been decent to her, decent being the equilibrium between generous and cruel. Nature often punished the bodies of those who bore life, after all. She was plump around the edges and had laughter lines on her face, but her hair hadn't yet gone grey and probably wouldn't for another ten or fifteen years, if her mother's genetics were an indication. She had a modicum of youth left in her, and she had to remember, she was young next to Severus. Young enough to have been his student, old enough to have joined the ranks of those who had taught at Hogwarts. There were equalities between them but far more inequalities existed, with her coming out the lesser, in her opinion. To Hermione's mind, his sacrifice during the war rendered him sacrosanct.

She was startled from her thoughts when Severus pulled his hand from the tentative grasp they had held. She watched as he approached a nearby vendor selling fruit. He examined the selection with quick scrutiny before turning back to his companion. "Do you like peaches, Hermione?"

"Yes," she said noncommittally, gazing out over the market. Not a moment later, she felt a ball of weight transfer from his fingers to hers.

She looked down. In her hand, Hermione held the most delectable looking peach she'd ever encountered. She bit into it, the ripeness of it washing her senses in fresca.

"This is delicious," she said, juice trickling out of the sides of her mouth.

Severus chuckled and wiped the juice away with his thumb. He sucked it off and bit into his own peach without looking at her. Hermione was grateful for the occupation of chewing; she would otherwise be slackjawed, a most unattractive state. Did he realise...? He had to.

Then again, he'd been with monks for three months and every summer before that. He lived a quiet life. That would render him either oblivious or hyper-sensate.

Hermione couldn't decide which she would prefer more.

They ate their peaches in silence, standing still amidst the bustle of noon-time activity, and when they were finished, Severus started walking forward.

"What are we doing?" Hermione asked, hurrying to catch up to him.

"We are going to have lunch," he said, pausing as she reached his side.

"Can't we eat lunch here in the market?"

He shook his head. "You will have a proper lunch," he told her as they came upon an avenue replete with sun-washed buildings, wide pavements and outdoor tables where diners sat comfortably, sipping wine or beer.

He led her to a door. "La Café Rosa," he said as he held the door open for her. "My favourite."

They walked in, and Hermione was at once awash in the terracotta walls and sticky, smoky atmosphere enhanced by noisy chatter. Severus led her to a small table wedged in the back corner, and he took the seat that surveyed the room. Hermione pretended to not notice.

They settled in their seats quickly. Hermione took a menu; he didn't.

"Severus!" a throaty female voice sounded behind Hermione. She looked up to glance and saw a petite, dark haired, big bosomed woman leaning in towards Severus.

"Isabel," he said with more warmth than Hermione would have expected, although it occurred to her that cleavage probably assisted customer friendliness.

"Qué quieres hoy?" the woman asked Severus.

Hermione turned her attention back to her menu.

He started to speak in rapid Spanish, and Hermione looked up. "Are we ordering?" she asked.

"I've come here enough to know what's good," he said. "Do you like fish?"

"Yes–" she said.

"Salad, dark chocolate?"

"Yes," she said, and he turned to Isabel and spoke in rapid, unintelligible phrases that nevertheless sounded like a warm rain in the summer.

At that moment, Isabel cocked her head coyly towards Severus, who smirked, and she then turned on her heel and walked away. Severus turned back to Hermione, his expression daring her to challenge him.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow.

"Isabel is the owner's niece," he said.

"And does she flirt so scandalously with all her customers?" she asked wryly.

"Only with harmless old men," he said.

"You're not old," Hermione exclaimed, indignant as Isabel returned with two water glasses. She quickly strode away.

"To you, no. To our peers, no," he said casually, quietly. "To them, I am sixty-five – a scarce ten or fifteen years away from death."

Hermione inhaled sharply and looked down at the table.

"What is it?" he asked immediately.

She gestured helplessly with her hands. "My father is almost eighty. He's been very ill recently." She paused. "I apologise; it's not very good table conversation."

"I am sorry to hear it," he said.

"So," she said, leaning forward, desirous of a change in conversation, "what do you do during the other three seasons?"

He chuckled and leaned back in his seat. "Potions, research, consulting – the same as when we last met." He paused. "Did you think I abstained from work during the summer?"

"You do potions work in a monastery?" she asked, shocked.

He shrugged. "Some. I don't do as much work at the monastery; my summers are my time away."

"You're still on a professor's schedule," she remarked dryly, sipping her water.

He smirked. "You could say that."

Isabel approached the table and set their salad plates down.

"Gracias," Severus said.

"Thank you," Hermione said. Isabel smiled at her and walked away.

Hermione's eyes widened at the size of the salad. "So we have salad, a meal, and dessert?"

"It's too hot for soup," Severus said.

"You eat soup with all this?" she asked, incredulous.

"Yes, and be grateful that they know me too well to attempt to offer a second course."

"Isn't this a café?" she asked.

"It's a café in a small town in southern Spain," Severus emphasised. "Lunch is the most important meal of the day here. As a consequence, it's also the largest."

"Do the monks eat like this?" Hermione asked, and Severus shot her a glance that told her they did not.

"So what are you researching right now?" Hermione asked, probing for conversation.

"A personal project. I'm attempting to develop potions that can be used to preserve books as an alternative to the standard charm work," he said. "It is far easier to quantify preservation in terms of chemical formulas as opposed to the ability and power of the wizard or witch casting the spell."

Hermione's face lit up, and so he expounded.

**

They ate and talked of Severus' research, and Isabel brought their main course, and they ate and talked of Rose and Hugo.

"Rose is thrilled with her apprenticeship. She eats, sleeps, and breathes Arithmancy day in and day out," Hermione said. "I can't believe that I used to have that kind of passion for something. That sort of focus is exhausting."

"Or exhilarating," Severus said.

She chuckled. "I suppose you have that sort of passion for your potions."

He raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"What do you want to do with the rest of your life?" Hermione asked, her tone a bit cheeky.

Severus snorted. "That's a question you ask a seventh-year."

She narrowed her eyes at him, though she smiled. "Do you want to stay here?"

"Ideally, I would, but in reality, that is impossible. But do I want to continue to live quietly, in solace? Yes."

"I think it a nice life, if a lonely one."

"I make my bed every day, Hermione. I do, no one else, therefore I am more than content to sleep in it."

Her breath caught at that, and just then Isabel brought large hunks of dark chocolate on dessert plates with small cups of steaming hot coffee. They thanked her and turned to their desserts, the prior conversation temporarily laid to rest.

"Won't you eat some?" Severus asked, raising a piece of chocolate to his lips.

"The fish was divine, and this looks – oh, I am so full!" she exclaimed with a slight laugh. She sipped her coffee. "The coffee's good."

"So is the chocolate. You must try it," Severus said. He reached across the table and broke off a small piece of lush dark chocolate and waved it under her nose.

Hermione inhaled its layered bittersweet scent – an aphrodisiac in itself – and when she opened her mouth to protest, he popped it into her mouth, her lips closing around one finger before he withdrew it. She closed her eyes at the taste that had burst in her mouth and that crested over her taste buds in a wave.

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his eyes intense, breath withheld as if awaiting her reaction.

She swallowed hard.

"Good?" he asked, his voice husky.

"Very," she answered, her tone far too breathy for her liking. She sipped some coffee in an attempt to restore her senses.

"Hermione–" Severus started, and just at that moment, Isabel returned to the table.

"La cuenta," Isabel said, handing the piece of paper to Severus. "Espero que tengas un buen día!"

"Y tú también, gracias," Severus said, pulling out his wallet and throwing a few bills on the table.

"Let me–" Hermione started, and he held up a hand. "Thank you," she said, dipping her head in gratitude.

"You're welcome." They rose from their chairs and started to wade their way to the door of La Café Rosa.

They walked onto the brilliantly lit street and remained silent the rest of the way, his fingers light on her lower back as he guided her through the town and up the cliff once more.

**

As they approached the monastery, Hermione heard a low rumble, something she soon realized was song, or rather chanting – the sound of dozens of voices coming from the church.

"What is that?" she asked Severus.

"Choir practice," Severus said. "They're in the sanctuary. Would you like to see?"

"Very much," Hermione responded.

Severus led her through the intricately woven corridors in the church that finally led to the sanctuary, and the richness of the visual image – of stained glass windows and vaulted ceilings and medieval masonry – nearly overwhelmed the intonation of the monks.

Nearly.

The sound swelled and wafted high in the sanctuary, the deep voices reverent in their haunting timbre, but there was something more; the chants stirred something in the air, a near tangible feeling that gave Hermione chills. It was the sound that invited rapturous attention and which commanded solemnity, demanding acknowledgment of something divine, even if it was the divine within.

Hermione put a hand over her heart and stood still. She felt Severus' nose brush against her cheek as he leaned in and murmured "Mesmerising, yes?"

She shivered against him and could only nod in agreement. She then felt the warmth of his fingers as he slid his arm under hers and walked out of the chapel.

**

They were soon resituated in the library, seated across from each other, poring over their chosen texts.

"Did you attend church as a child?" Severus asked after a long while.

"No. Does it show?" she replied wryly, lifting an eyebrow.

He snorted.

"My parents don't believe in religion," she offered, returning to her text.

"In religion or in God?"

She looked up at him, exasperated. "Are you trying to be difficult? Because if you are, you're succeeding nicely."

He chuckled. "Just trying to ascertain your background is all."

She met his stare head on. "Why are you curious?"

"I like to play with a full deck," he responded.

"And how you deal with me depends on my religious upbringing or lack thereof?" she asked.

"It's only a question, Hermione," he said gently.

"A rather imprudent one to ask, don't you think?"

He sighed. "It's only a question. You've been staring at that page for a good five minutes without moving. I wondered where your mind was, that's all."

She softened. "It's nothing."

They sat silently for a few more moments.

"What was your upbringing, if you don't mind my asking?" she asked.

He looked up and stared at her. "Very well." He paused. "My father was a religious man, though his actions hardly spoke of goodness or godliness," he said wryly. "Religion did my family no use; it simply spared my mother a beating on Sundays."

"It pushed you away?" she asked quietly, pushing the shock away.

"The hypocrisy did, yes, as did the seeming incompatibility of the spiritual and the magical."

"And do you still maintain so strict a delineation?"

A smile twitched at his lips. "Clearly not. I come here and remember what I loved about church as a boy."

"Which was?" she prompted, fascinated.

"The solitude, the inherent peace. The choirs, the reverence. The Benedictine monks who volunteered were always kind to me, and they helped instill in me a love for learning."

"The Dark Arts..." she started.

"I've always sought a complete understanding of how the world works."

"And?"

"And I learned to fight fire with fire. My father was an abusive man, a harsh man, and we stopped attending the church in town before I was ten. Also, it made my mother uncomfortable, and she was already a skittish woman, and my father did not like how her 'poor' behavior reflected on him. He attended Mass completely hung over most of the time."

"Why on earth would he attend at all?"

"Surely you've heard of Catholic guilt, Hermione."

She snorted.

He went on, "My father's mother was Italian, and she was the truly religious one in the family. My father reportedly inherited his father's temper."

"What happened to your parents?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"My father died of liver failure when I was sixteen, and my mother followed soon after."

"Heartache?"

"Suicide."

"Christ." The words escaped her breath, and a nearby monk glanced over his shoulder.

Severus laughed heartily.

"And yet you have found peace."

"I would not go so far as to say that. Everyone carries their past with them... but here..." He looked around. "It's a place where I can let the past go and simply be in the present. I think it is the most restful place on the planet."

"You would stay here your whole life, wouldn't you?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," he said, a sad note coloring his tone.

"What is it?" she asked, reaching a hand across towards him.

He shrugged. "I cherish my time here. I know the day will come when I will not be able to walk these halls every summer. Already, it has been jested that I look no older than when I first arrived."

"I – I hadn't thought of that," she said.

"I hadn't, either," he said wryly. "Then again, I never expected to stay so long."

"Would that I could find a place like that," she said, tracing a page with her fingertip.

"Britain is not that for you?" he asked.

"Libraries," she said, smiling up at him. "Libraries. There are few other places where I feel at one with my surroundings. My home feels that way when Rose and Hugo are there."

"So you need books and loved ones to make a place for yourself?" he asked.

She chuckled, a sound which dinned throughout the still library. She covered her mouth so as to avoid laughing. "Yes, I suppose so," she said, recovering. "Why do I feel like such a schoolgirl in here?"

"Does it remind you of Hogwarts' library?" Severus asked.

"No, why?"

He didn't respond.

**

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, companionably silent, devouring their chosen texts, and when Hermione came upon the original Latin, Severus leaned into her and ran his finger along the page, translating, his voice a heady sound in her ear, the warmth of his body both a comfort and a temptation.

**

Around six o'clock, eyes ready to cross, Severus and Hermione rose from their seats, placed the books back in their proper place, closed the archives, and left the library.

"Are you hungry?" Severus asked.

"I find that I have very little appetite these days. Lunch filled me up," she responded.

"Would you care for a drink, then?" he asked with a slight smirk.

She gaped at him. "Alcohol? In a monastery?"

He shrugged. "I don't see why not," he said as they strode down a corridor in what Hermione presumed was the direction of his suite.

After several moments, they stood in front of a heavy door. Severus murmured what Hermione realized was a password, and just as he was about to open the door, she put her hand on his forearm.

"What is this engraving?" she asked, tracing her finger along the light wooden etch on the door. It looked like a person...

"That is St. Serenus the Gardener," Severus said, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets.

"And what is he the patron saint of?" she asked.

"Bachelors and the falsely accused," he said with no trace of sarcasm.

She looked at him, gobsmacked. "You're serious?"

"Father Tomas had a wicked sense of humour," Severus said, clearly fighting the urge to laugh.

Hermione laughed loudly enough for them both, and Severus opened the door and invited her in.

His suite was small but sufficiently sized. She initially walked into the sitting room, and Severus quickly gestured in the direction of the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchenette that the first Abbot had been gracious enough to install for him. The sitting room was by far the largest room, but it had Spartan furnishings – two small tables, two chairs that faced each other on opposite sides of the room, several full bookshelves (naturally), and – surprisingly – a small bar.

"I like it," Hermione said pleasantly, a broad smile on her face.

"You're kind. It's small and chilled." Severus gestured for her to take a seat.

"It's a nice reprieve from the heat outside," she said. "And it seems sufficient enough to meet your needs."

"Indeed," he said. "Can I interest you in a gin and tonic?" he asked, moving to the bar.

"Make it a vodka and tonic and we have a deal," Hermione said with a smile, glancing around the Spartan room, dark as a dungeon even in mid-afternoon.

He grinned and mixed their drinks at his small bar.

"I'm still surprised they let you have alcohol here," Hermione said, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

"Hermione, this day should have taught you that I can do anything here."

"Even entertain female guests privately?" she quipped, accepting the drink he offered her. Their fingers brushed as the glass passed from his hand to hers.

"I have taken no orders," he said simply, seating himself in the chair across from her.

"You just enjoy the lifestyle when you please?"

"After the life I've lived, I revel in that freedom."

"Of course," she said, contrite and feeling a bit shamed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said. "How is your vodka and tonic?"

"Excellent, thank you." Her gaze flickered to the sliver-like window, but there was something beside it, something mounted on the wall...

"The poem Invictus," Severus offered, following the direction of her gaze.

The letters were white, and the stone they were etched on... "Is that ebony wood?" Hermione asked.

"Yes. Do you know the poem?" Severus asked.

"I'm not familiar with it, no."

"Invictus, by William Ernest Henley," Severus said, the timbre of his voice a bit deeper than usual, more professor-like in tone, and Hermione realized that he was going to recite the poem to her.

"Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul."

He said nothing more, and Hermione was speechless.

"That poem is..." She searched for the words.

"Fitting?" he asked, a sarcastic tilt to his tone.

"Stunning. Beautiful. And yes, fitting." She looked at him warmly. "Where did you find it?"

He sighed. "It was a Christmas gift."

"From who?" A smile twitched at her lips.

"Minerva," he said softly.

"You're still in contact with her?" Hermione asked.

"Mm," he said, and Hermione understood that the subject was closed. She looked again at the poem and the window that ran parallel to it. The sun was beginning to set.

"Shall we take a walk in the garden?" Severus asked.

"Won't we disturb...?"

"The monks are at Vespers, and they will be in the refectory after. It's at the other end of the monastery," he said, taking his gin and tonic in hand as they both rose from their chairs. He held the door open and then placed his fingers ever so gently at the small of her back, guiding her down the corridors and outdoor pathways before reaching the other end of the Abbey – the gardens.

She inhaled sharply at the sight. Weeping willows flagged the entrances to the different pathways, and Severus led her to a specific path. He lifted a hand, and the long leaves of the willow parted in a perfect arch.

She smiled up at him. "You still use magic here."

"Only in the little things."

"Haven't you ever heard that God is in the details?"

"You said you didn't believe in a higher power," he said, amused.

She chuckled and took the arm he offered.

**

They walked along a gently worn path; it was narrow, and Hermione noticed that it intersected with other paths as they walked further into the garden. And what a garden it was. Many of the flowers were nearing their last month of season, but they were still bursting with color and fragrance, crowding the path as they leapt from their confines. The flowerbeds were lush and well tended; there was a seeming order to the wild arrangements. Hermione had never been in so dense a garden. She and Severus walked side-by-side, his hand on the small of her back. He pointed out flowers she did not know with his other hand – Gibraltar Candytuft and Spanish Bayonet, Andalucia Thyme and Sawfly Orchids. There were tall, ornamental grasses and violet larkspur and various irises and violets interspersed in the arrangements. And the smell was as lush as the sight of the flowers.

They came at last to the garden's center. Hermione was surprised to see that the center was bereft of flowers or landscaping; there was merely a small grove of cedar trees.

"Come," Severus said, and he walked ahead of her and sat under one of the trees before lying on his back and looking up at the sky.

"We're going to stargaze?" she asked, surprised.

"When the sky darkens, yes," he said, folding his hands over his chest.

"Do you do this often?" she asked, walking towards him. She kneeled to the ground and lay down beside him, hoping that nothing would creak.

"Not nearly enough," he said.

She chuckled. "I haven't done this since I was a child. Or perhaps since my children were young."

He was silent, so she sighed and folded her hands over her chest and stared up at the sky.

**

It was nice, this silent companionship, she thought. The still peace between them was soothing.

She snorted. As if Severus Snape had ever been a soothing man.

"Is something funny?" he asked mildly.

She shook her head. "I'm just thinking about this... how soothing it is."

He snorted. "I'm soothing?"

"My thoughts exactly," she said, chuckling.

Darkness was slowly falling now. The moon was visible in the sky, though they could still see the colorful streaks of sunset.

"A dark night of the soul," Hermione heard herself murmur. "Spiritual darkness." She cleared her throat.

Severus sat up and looked down at her. "And do you think that you can have a different sort of 'dark night of the soul?'"

She sat up, as well. "How would it not be spiritual?" she asked, confused.

"A separation from one's self."

She inhaled sharply. "Being separated..."

"Feeling a disconnection between your actions and your very being," he said lowly. "Sacrificing your integrity for the sake of duty or some other nonsense."

"The monks are rubbing off on you," she said kindly.

"Contemplation and meditation nourish the spirit, and considering that there were decades where I didn't think I had a soul, that is saying something."

She scooted a bit closer to him. "You are an amazing man, Severus."

"I am more broken than most men."

She took his chin between her thumb and forefinger and tilted his face to look in her eyes.

"I am a woman, then, and believe me when I say that this day has been one of the best days of my life."

He looked up and met her eyes.

She brought her hand to his and turned it so that it lay palm up on the soft, dense ground, and she stroked his hand once before he withdrew it.

"I'm sorry..." she started, turning away.

"I am not made of stone," he said huskily, and he cupped her face with his hands.

He kissed her then, a question of the flesh, and her flesh responded with a resounding yes. She felt it deep as she ran a hand down his back, as he ran a hand through her hair, and as darkness engulfed the sky, he laid her down on her back against the soft earth and kissed her again.

She looked up at the sky and beheld the stars.

**

Within my pounding heart

which kept itself entirely for him

He fell into his sleep

beneath the cedars all my love I gave...

I lost myself to him

and laid my face upon my lover's breast

And care and grief grew dim

as in the morning's mist became the light

St. John of the Cross

"Dark Night of the Soul"