Seventeen

October, 1998

He found her, finally, under his tree, furious and tearing up fistfuls of winter-brown grass.

"Do you wish to discuss it?" he asked.

"What's to discuss?" she asked bitterly, not looking up.

He grimaced, kneeling first on the grass and then easing down to sit beside her.

"The Gryffindor has nothing to say?" he taunted gently. "You certainly gave Potter an earful just now. If I were being honest, I'd say that it impressed me – you accomplished more in five minutes with that dunderhead than I did in seven years."

Hermione smiled faintly. "Stop trying to cheer me up," she grumbled. "I can't imagine Minerva sent you to do that."

"No, she wanted to come herself. Potter stopped her."

"Harry?" Her head jerked up, and he could see the dried tracks of tears on her cheeks.

"Why do you think you managed to impress me?" Not that you don't manage impress me on a regular basis.

"I'm ... I'm glad you think I impress you," Hermione replied, managing a watery smile. "I haven't done much to warrant that lately, despite seven years of trying."

"You've always made the best choice you can, under the circumstances," he told her, shifting to be closer to her beneath the tree.

"Until now," she interjected bitterly.

"Ah, Hermione, do you think you really had a good choice?"

She paused and drew a shuddering breath. "Were there ever Death Eaters coming for my parents?" she asked.

He could not lie to her. Not now. Not after all that had been said and done.

"No," he replied. "Lucius was barely aware of your existence until you turned up at the Manor. The Dar - Voldemort never made the connection between you, a member of the Order, and any of the other countless Muggles, Muggle-borns, and half-bloods he loathed." He made himself watch her face as he told her.

"But I... I was there," she protested. "At every battle, Quirrell knew who I was, the Snatchers knew who I was when they found me with Harry, Draco knew my parents were - are - Muggles."

"And none of it ultimately mattered," he replied finally. "All that mattered was Potter. You ... you were just in the way."

"The sidekick," she said faintly.

"It was... ultimately fortunate for all of us," he confessed, "that they underestimated your talents and abilities."

"But I still chose this path," she said.

"And if you hadn't... who knows?" Snape replied quietly. "You are not a Seer. How could you, any of us have known? You made a choice."

"And how would you know?" she demanded, rounding on him.

He felt a flash of resentment.

"Surely you don't think you're the first person to have no good choices available to them?" he asked. "Do you think that, eighteen years ago, I had any good decisions available to me? Do you think that there was any choice I could have made that would have resulted in Lily living? In not being enslaved to the Dark Lord? To Dumbledore?" He spat the name and subsided.

Hermione did not reply, but scowled at her knees, her wealth of bushy hair cascading down the side of her face. He brushed it aside, tucking it neatly over her shoulder. She relaxed into his touch.

"We have both made choices, Hermione," he said quietly as his impotent fury built - fury at Dumbledore, who'd manipulated so much, the Dark Lord, who had demanded too much, and Lily - Lily, whom he'd thought he'd loved beyond reason. "And not all of them can be good ones."

"So, how do you do it?" Hermione asked finally, looking up from her denim clad knees. "How do you live with the choices you're forced to make?"

He smiled – he supposed the girl was hoping for a lecture. She would be disappointed.

"You breathe," he said. "Your heart beats, and you continue to exist."

"And what do I do?" she asked.

"You have another choice to make," he said. "And nobody else can make it for you."

"Severus?" her voice was small. "Do you think I can make the right one?" She slid across the grass, pressed against his side.

"I know you can," he said, arm winding around her as she tucked her curly head under his chin.

The moment stretched as the cool breeze blew, and grey clouds scudded across the sky. They sat together in silence, peace.

After a few moments, Hermione shifted. Curious, he looked down. She smiled and reached out to brush his lank and greasy hair from his face. Her touch was warm, and he leaned into it, letting his eyes close. He heard her move, felt her turn to him.

"Hermione," he whispered. "I think..."

"So do I," she replied as she pressed her lips, warm and soft, against his.

The reasons why not raced through his brain – she was too young, too damaged, too innocent - despite what she'd done - too Gryffindor... and she still had to choose. She could not choose while her ugly old former teacher molested her beneath an ancient oak tree on school property.

But that choice, the hope that she would choose him, was the reason why he responded, feeling her beneath him, rejoicing in her arms winding around his neck as he gathered her to him.

"I fear, Martin," Dr Gupta was saying, "that we may be losing her."

Hermione blinked, orienting herself in her childhood bedroom – her father sitting on her bed, holding her hand. Familiarity and nostalgia overwhelmed her.

"Dad," she said.

"Hermione!" Martin cried.

"Dad, I'm so sorry."

"Darling, you never, ever need to be sorry," Martin said.

"But Dad," she tried again. "You don't understand what I've done."

"You have to understand, Hermione," Bill said gravely, "if we, if you try this, there could be far-reaching consequences."

"I understand, Bill," Hermione replied impatiently, smoothing her skirt and fingering her wand. "I've read your report. I know the possible consequences. But this is something I have to do. I can't continue the way I am."

She looked around – at Bill, seated opposite her at the shining table in Minerva's office, looking as if he'd not slept in weeks; at Minerva, standing behind her chair grasping the back so hard her knuckles were white; at Harry and Ginny, holding hands on the low settee in the corner, watching her every move; and at Severus, at his usual post at the window, arms folded, expression closed except for a glint in his eye – a glint that up until the day before, she would never have seen.

The portraits had been moved to the Great Hall for an airing. Flitwick had organized the session – the students were being treated to the best History of Magic class known to Hogwarts. Only the scorch marks remained where Dumbledore's portrait had been, a mute testimony to Snape's fury.

"You know we will always be there for you," Harry said as Ginny nodded.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," she said. "I'm sorry I called you all those names this summer."

"It's okay, Gin," Hermione replied, smiling at her friend.

"Hermione, if you have any doubts at all ..." Minerva began.

"I can't, Minerva," Hermione said. "This is something that ... that needs to happen."

"Do you know how to begin?" asked Bill.

Hermione nodded. "Yes. But first, I need a moment alone with Severus."

"With Severus?" Minerva's eyebrows shot up.

"I need an anchor if I'm going to do this," Hermione said, frowning. "And I choose Severus."

"Why can't we be..." Ginny began and subsided as Harry squeezed her hand. "Oh."

Snape pushed himself off of the windowsill and moved across the room, as Hermione stood, and the others filed out.

"Are you ready?" he asked, as the door clicked shut behind the others.

"As long as you promise me something," she said.

Immediately, he frowned. "Hermione, I gave up making promises that I can't ..." he started to remonstrate.

"Hush," she said, laying a finger across his lips, wishing instead to press her own lips against his. "All I want you to do is promise to be holding my hand." She had to smile at his shocked expression.

"Yes," he whispered. "I promise."

"That's settled then," she said, grasping her wand.

"Shouldn't we wait until they return?" he asked.

Hermione sighed. "I suppose so," she said. "Just remember, you promised."

The look on Minerva and Harry's faces when they trooped in and saw them sitting, facing each other, Snape's hand clasped in hers, was almost worth every disapproving glare she'd received as a Muggle-born.

"Are you ready?" Snape asked.

Hermione nodded. "I am." She lifted her chin, quelling the frisson of fear that crept into her soul. The pressure of Snape's hand increased almost infinitesimally, and the fear faded.

"Cast the spell," his voice commanded.

"Reparo Legilimentis," she cried, and blackness swept over her.

January, 1999

She awoke in an unfamiliar room. Beside her sat a man, dressed all in black. He was holding her hand. Weak sunlight filtered through a mullioned window. On the bedside table were a bouquet of flowers and a photograph of her and two boys – a redhead and a black-haired boy with glasses. The people in the photo waved at her.

"Hermione," said the man as she moved.

"Good morning," she said. Something in her brain awoke. "Good morning, Severus."

The relief on the man's face was pronounced. "You remember?" he asked.

"Not everything," she replied, frowning at the picture on the bedside table. "I know that's me," she said, pointing to the waving girl, "and I know that those two boys were, are my friends. But..."

"It is all right, Hermione," Snape said, smoothing back the hair from her forehead in a gesture that felt achingly familiar to her. "It will return."

June, 1999

"I'm sorry, Martin, Jocasta. There's nothing more we can do for her but make her comfortable. She will be cared for here – as she has been."

"We came so close," Martin said, shaking his head as Jocasta began to cry quietly.

"She's beyond our reach," Dr Gupta said. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry."

Around them swirled the day-to-day sounds of Midvale Psychiatric Home.

July, 1999

"Mum, Dad!" Fiona sat up in bed, sheets and blankets twisted around her.

Wendell Wilkins hurried into her room. "What is it, peanut?"

"I had ... I had a bad dream," Fiona whimpered, throwing her arms around her father. "There was a witch, and she cast a spell on me, and I couldn't remember who I was!"

"Hush, darling," Wendell soothed his only daughter. "It was just a dream."

July, 2000

The cottage was perfect – nestled in the dale by a stream, surrounded by the orchard. Hermione's look of delight warmed his heart.

"It's perfect," she whispered, clasping his hand. The diamond on her left hand sparkled in the sunlight. Her hair, still crowned with roses, glowed. Verily, he beheld his angel.

"As often as we can," he promised, "we'll return here."

She kissed him.

It was evening. The setting sun illumined the white-draped bedroom with a rosy light. The couple in the bed, however, was not in a position to appreciate the sunset.

"Hermione, are you..." The words stuck in his throat.

Hermione glared from beneath him. "What did you think?" she demanded, shifting so that she was beside him, tucked beneath his chin. "When was I going to have the opportunity?" she muttered into his shoulder.

He bent slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her curly head, tightening his embrace.

"True," he agreed. "And I cannot see you extending yourself during your years at Hogwarts."

"You know, it's not as if there was a nightly orgy in the Astronomy Tower."

"Also true," he agreed. "Although if Filch were to be believed..."

Hermione giggled. "Exactly. I remember Lavender Brown, Weasley now, was the Gryffindor House broom, so to speak, and I'm not sure she really ever actually shagged anybody but Ron."

"Well, I caught her once or twice," Snape mused. "But you're right; nothing to measure up to her reputation. And, as it is, you were much too involved in keeping Potter, and Weasley alive to worry about..."

Hermione kissed him. "Well, it's not as if I haven't had some experience, you know," she pointed out, breaking the kiss.

"Indeed?"

"Oh, yes. Allow me to demonstrate, Professor."

"Hermione!" Snape gasped as she kissed her way down his chest and stomach.

"Mmm, you like?"

"Merlin, yes."

"Good." Her reply was muffled as she took him into her mouth.

"Gods," he groaned as he grasped the bedcovers, striving not to come.

"Excellent," Hermione murmured a few moments later, releasing him with a soft sound. He was still hard, and clinging to his self-control.

"So," he panted, "you've demonstrated quite some skill in that area, then."

Hermione laughed – not the giggle of the schoolgirl, but the bubbling, sexy laugh of a mature woman – and sat on her haunches.

"You enjoyed that?" she asked, brushing her long hair behind a shoulder.

"Oh, yes."

"Good."

"Now let me return the favor," he replied, thankful for the respite. "Teasing witch."

"Gladly. Just don't ..."

"It won't hurt much," he promised.

She laughed again.

"No, Severus, just don't hurry." She stretched beside him as he rolled over her.

"Don't fret," he reassured her, "we do have the rest of our lives."

August, 2022

The children played in the hazy, late August Devonshire sunshine.

At the edge of the meadow beside the stream, the two couples lounged in the shade of a spreading oak, thankful to escape the August heat.

"Be careful, Atalanta!" called the brown-haired woman, her head pillowed in her husband's lap.

"Watch out for your sister, Albus!" cried the redheaded mother as the children zoomed a few feet off of the ground on their toy brooms.

"Who would have thought my daughter would love to fly," mused Hermione.

"She'll be a star Seeker," Albus' father said. "She can give James Sirius a run for his money."

Hermione threw a grape at him that bounced squashily off of his forehead.

"I suppose we'll find out in a few weeks. Quidditch tryouts are still held the first week, aren't they, Severus?" asked Harry.

Severus nodded and then chuckled. "You used to fly, you know," he said to his wife. "When you were a child."

"Hmmm, really? I don't remember." Hermione closed her eyes against the bright sunshine.

"Indeed. In fact, the first time I saw you, you were flying from the swing set and talking to the birds. The meadowlark on the edge of the playground was very impressed."

Hermione laughed and then paused, as twenty years of stillness settled over her.

"That's the wrong side of the timeline for me," she said.

Severus brushed her hair from her forehead.

"I know, love," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her yet unlined forehead. "But the meadowlark still sings for you. Listen."

Above them, in the branches of the oak tree, the meadowlark sang her song, the gleeful noise not drowned out by the joyous shrieking and laughter of the children romping in the meadow.

AN: I owe a great deal to a great many people:

to Bluestocking and Subversa for their invaluable help beta reading and cheerleading,

to SavineSnape for Britpicking and cheerleading,

to Joss Whedon for the original idea,

to Helen Cresswell, creator of the Bagthorpe Saga and author of the passage quoted in Chapter Thirteen,

and to those of you who have read and commented. Thank you especially for joining me on this journey.

And, as always, I have made no money or profit from the writing of this work of fanfiction.