Chapter One

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its surrounding characters are not mine, but are instead the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling. I am making no profit from the writing of this story. No matter how badly I wish I were.

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Her chest was aching and yet it felt hollow at the same time. How can a hollow chest ache? she wondered, idly spinning the glass on the bar napkin in front of her.

The whisky she was drinking would probably only add to the ache, and to the heavy twisted feeling in her stomach. She snorted. As if a hollow chest and twisty stomach were anything to worry about now.

The booth she sat in was dark and smelled of old leather that had been stained by spilt alcohol, or worse, over the years. She sat in practically full shadow, tucked into a corner of the bench, relieved to be out of sight. The feeling was odd to her; she wasn't the kind of person to hide in the dark.

As she dragged her tired gaze across the bar, she surveyed the motley mix of patrons, the words from her Healer echoing, again, inside her head. The words seemed so loud to her that she could hardly believe that the pair of old men in the corner couldn't hear them. Or the suspicious looking woman at the end of the bar. Every time the woman looked up, hopefully Hermione imagined she'd heard the words screaming inside her head.

"I'm so, so sorry, Hermione." The wizard in medical robes sat in front of her, hands holding hers in sympathy. He looked as if he was waiting for her to break down at any moment. "I'm going to try my hardest to help you. It isn't that it can't be cured, it's just... there isn't a cure yet."

"I'm dying," she stated flatly. The strength of her voice as it filled the room surprised her. Do people usually say those words so loudly?

She blinked again. She was still in the bar, not at the Specialty Unit in St Mungo's. The sound of raucous laughter assailed her from somewhere near the right side of the smoky room from yet another shadowed alcove. Hermione longed to be part of that laughter, it didn't matter whose. Her fingers were cold.

She lifted the glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful of stinging, amber liquid. She'd never really been a fan of whisky, but it made a twisted sort of sense to her that it should be the kind of drink a person chooses when they find out they are dying. Why can't a strawberry daiquiri be the drink of choice for sombre news? she thought wryly.

She swilled the amber liquid around in the glass again. If it were a bit darker it might be the colour of her eyes. She'd never noticed that. She had whisky-coloured eyes. The drink really was appropriate. Sighing, she brought the glass back to her lips. The sound of metal clinking against glass caught her off guard. She bent her wrist and turned her hand up to expose the gleaming silver band on her ring finger. Hermione stared at it. Frozen.

She would have to tell Evan.

She would have to tell her fiancé that she might not live to their wedding date.

She dropped the glass with a heavy thud. Poor Evan, she thought. Will this devastate him? she worried as she fingered her engagement ring. Surely it would. He wasn't an overly romantic type, but they were engaged. That meant love. What would this do to him? To his chances for running the political gambit next season?

She snorted. "It'll probably help him win the election." She winced when she realised that she wasn't kidding, actually. Now a tear fell. Then another. She bit her lip. She'd survived the war for this?

The tinkly brass bell that hung above the door to Salamandar's Spirits chimed merrily behind her, indicating more patrons had arrived. She'd barely heard it, but the happy, tinkly sound was agitating, nonetheless.

A couple passed beside her, oblivious to her presence. Hermione eyed them, only half seeing. The woman, very curvy, of a daringly clad sort, clutched flirtatiously at a tall, lean man dressed in black as they made their way to the bar. The man began to pull her towards a darkened booth on his right but the woman, clasping the front of his dark robes, pulled him instead to the bar at the front. He shrugged, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. He positively exuded sensuality. Hermione couldn't help but leap at the distraction these two afforded.

When they sat, she noticed the woman, a fiery redhead, twining her shapely legs through her companion's. His right foot rubbed slowly up and down the length of her calf, while a pale, elegant hand rubbed lazy circles up and down her bare arm. She seemed completely enthralled by his attentions. He ordered two drinks and downed the first in one go, while the woman slowly sipped at hers. Hermione watched, transfixed at these sexual beings and felt her throat tighten with envy.

The man with dark, shoulder length locks leaned forward and whispered something in her ear that prompted his date to squeal in delight and return the favour. As she whispered something back, his lips found her neck and nipped along her jaw.

Hermione absently raised a hand and rubbed at the tingles she felt along her own neck. She blinked and looked away. Evan had certainly never acted that way with her before... Because he is a very busy wizard, she told herself. He was always so tired when he'd come home after a long day at the office. It wasn't his fault; he had more important thoughts on his mind other than trying to seduce his betrothed nightly. He was a good provider; that should be enough.

When the second drink arrived at the bar, the man swallowed it just as quickly as the first and went back to petting the wiggling creature beside him. Hermione wished she could see their faces. She could see the woman's only a little in the weak light, but the man was facing away from her, giving her only the occasional view of his chin and a nose as he leaned forward to kiss and... lick!... the woman's neck. Hermione suddenly felt warmer. She twisted in her seat. Surely decent people wouldn't act this way in public. Would they?

She wondered what Evan would say were he here. He would probably scoff and abuse their upbringing or parentage, and Hermione would rebuke him and tell him not to be so judgemental. But honestly, the way the woman arched her back, exposing her neck to the eager attentions of her companion as his mouth went lower and lower until he was practically nuzzling her breasts, made Hermione positively blush.

The woman grabbed the man's face and quickly whispered something in his ear. This was apparently exciting because he yelled something triumphantly...that voice... she knew that voice...slammed some Galleons down onto the bar top and hauled the squirming witch up off her stool. She practically leapt into his arms and began pulling him back towards the entrance.

Hermione's eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

She was delusional, that's all. She was delusional and in shock and seeing things as a result of the stress of receiving her death sentence earlier that day.

This man, this very sensual, smouldering apparent god of pleasure she'd been watching... could not be her former Potions master, Severus Snape. She blinked again and sagged into the back of her leather booth. The world has gone mad, she mused.

His black clad arms wrapped around the goddess glued to his side while he purposefully strode to the door. Hermione swallowed, embarrassed to be seen in her current state. It also wouldn't do for him to know that she'd just been voyeuristically watching him and the witch.

She hunched further into the shadows. He wouldn't see her, she thought. Besides, he's too busy fondling his companion to notice anyone else. Even still, her breath caught in her throat when she saw the thinly veiled look of pure lust glazing his eyes as they swept closer. He wouldn't see her staring at that.

But she was wrong, for he did see her. And when he did, he stopped mid-step and nearly gawked. He blinked and Hermione imagined his lust-addled brain slowly working to recognise the person whose eyes he'd inadvertently met. She could tell when her name hit his passion-enflamed mind by his frown. His gaze swept up and down the parts of Hermione that were visible behind the large wooden table she was hidden behind, and he cocked his head slightly to the side. The redhead's serpentine arms slid over his chest, drawing him near as if impatient to continue on their way.

Hermione nodded shakily at him in recognition, hoping he would move on and stop looking at her as if she were a ghost. He blinked again, glanced at the nearly finished glass of whisky in front of her, and met her gaze before nodding once, slowly, and continuing on his way out the door with the giggling woman at his side.

Hermione exhaled the breath she'd been holding. What a strange moment. His piercing gaze had nearly knocked her off her seat, making her feel prone and exposed.

She shivered as she thought about where the unlikely couple were headed and shook her head. How could that be her old Potions master? It was almost unreal, absurd even. The world had certainly been better to Severus Snape post-Voldemort. At least someone was enjoying his hard earned freedom.

Knocking back the rest of her liquor, Hermione wiped her lips on her sleeve and stood up. She was feeling the need for her own distraction after having watched the raunchy debacle at the bar and decided it was time she left to go home to her fiancé. She couldn't keep putting it off. No doubt he was worried at her absence. How unfair of her to keep him wondering where she was all this time. He didn't yet know the reason for her recent illness and had made her promise to see a Healer this week. How would she tell him? Outright? Be more subtle? Tell him her odds immediately or hint that there might still be a chance?

She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and fastened the clasp at her throat. She slowly made her way to the entrance, really hoping her old professor and his... well, the word 'concubine' came to mind, were not out there snogging as if it were the last day of their liv...she shook her head sharply.

When the cool night air rushed against her flushed, tear-stained cheeks, she stopped to inhale a cleansing, smoke-free breath and looked up at the shimmering stars dotted in the night sky. She kept her gaze fixed on them, taking in their otherworldly beauty. Here again was something she'd miss. Taking one last breath of cool night air, she whirled on the spot and Apparated back to the house she and her fiancé shared in West London.

Hanging her cloak on the stand near the doorway, she slipped out of her shoes, mindful of the fact that all the lights were off and it was quiet in the house. He must have fallen asleep waiting for her. Her chest tightened again.

When she entered the living room, she looked immediately to his favourite chair, expecting to find him sleeping in his clothes. When she did not, she glanced around the room. Everything seemed to be in perfect order. She entered the bathroom up the stairs and took in her haggard appearance reflected in the mirror and moaned quietly.

No wonder Professor Snape stared...look at me! I look exactly like a person who's just found out they are going to die. She splashed cold water against her face and ran her fingers through her unkempt brown hair. She was trembling. She wanted to be at Evan's side, feeling him kiss her neck like Snape had done to that woman tonight. She wanted to feel his warm hands on her, comforting her, telling her everything would be all right.

She wanted him to look at her, make love to her, one more time without that knowing look he would surely have after she told him. Just one more time.

When she crept into their darkened bedroom, she found him sleeping, covers pulled tight, and lightly snoring in their bed. She told herself...forced herself to think that she was thankful he was able to find enough peace to sleep soundly rather than be up pacing, worrying over her disappearance.

She slid under the covers, clad only in her knickers, and slowly ran her cold fingers up her fiancé's side and across his stomach. Rolling onto her side, she scooted next to him, kissing his shoulder through his nightshirt up to his warm neck.

"Evan," she whispered hoping it sounded seductive. "Evan, wake up," she crooned. He grunted in his sleep. She slid her hands further up his chest until they found his face and she lightly stroked his cheeks. "Wake up," she whispered again, trembling against the sudden tears that threatened to spill out of her lashes. "Make love to me," she pleaded against his ear.

He grumpily swatted her hands from his face and rolled over onto his side. "For god's sake, Hermione, it's," he glanced at the clock on the nightstand, "one a.m. I don't know where the devil you've been, but go to sleep! I've got an early meeting in the morning, and I don't need you keeping me up at all hours of the night," he chided, his voice hoarse with sleep.

Hermione held her position on her side staring at him quietly in the dark. When she finally lay back on her pillow, tears were flowing freely down her cheeks and streaming into her hair. She trembled even more and wrapped her arms around her bare chest as if she could force the pain and hurt and fear inside as it was threatening to burst forth at any moment, surely ripping her chest wide open. She rolled onto her other side, facing away from him, and pulled her pillow to her face, hoping the tears she cried and the shuddering breaths she drew weren't so loud that they disturbed the sleep of the man sharing her bed. She told herself that he didn't know, or else he'd have accepted her advances this time. He simply didn't know that the woman he loved only had a limited amount of time in which to offer herself to him. He was just tired. Again.

When darkness finally took her, she blinked away the last tear, wondering why on earth she'd been allowed to survive the war for this.

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A/N: So, how is this for a first chapter? Critiques/reviews appreciated.

Special thanks to:

-The wonderful machshefa for her excellent beta skills and general awesomeness.

-Keladry Lupin and MiaMadwyn for their kind words of praise and encouragement.

-The infinitely classy and enthusiastically welcoming people in the ss/hg community at Live Journal.