Closure

Part 3: Closure

Set two years after the war.

It was a grey April day. Hermione leaned onto the wall that separated the paved promenade from the riverbed of the Thames, watching the brown water lap against the mud and driftwood left exposed at low tide. Instead of going to the library this morning, she had decided to take a walk, a luxury she rarely allowed herself during term time, but then she had been working on an essay until late last night and was slightly ahead in her course work. In any case, she needed some time to think, even though her thoughts always circled along the same obsessive path in a spiral of grief, regret, and guilt, rarely yielding any new insights. Getting away from those thoughts had been precisely the reason why she had decided to distance herself a little from the magical world and study at a Muggle university, but they always caught up with her before long.

She couldn't stop thinking about Professor Snape. She missed him more than words could say, but he was gone and forever lost to her. And what was worse – she could have saved him but for some inexplicable reason had not even tried. Why – in the name of Merlin – had she not done anything that fateful night in the Shrieking Shack? Why had they stood by and watched, watched him fighting for his life, watched him bleed to death, taken the memories offered in a last heroic effort to help them succeed without any concern for the man himself? The memory of his scream as the snake struck, the image of him lying on the floor, desperately trying to staunch the blood gushing from his wounds, his body twitching and trembling uncontrollably – they haunted her more than any of the other horrors she had seen during the war. The pain he must have felt – yet his only concern was to help Harry. She had already admired him while he was still her harsh Potions professor. But now that she knew so much more about whom he had truly been – the tragedy of his life, his suffering, his courage, all he had done for them, for her – she deeply cared about him.

Ron and Harry couldn't understand why this affected her so much. 'Hermione,' they would say, 'he was dying. There was nothing we could have done... We had to find the Horcruxes... We didn't know, we thought he was the enemy, remember?' Yes, they had always hated him. But in the end they had been proven wrong, and even Harry had changed his opinion of Snape after he'd seen his memories. (And she had never said 'I told you so'.) Hermione, however, had known that he was on their side. Why had she not tried to save him, like he had saved her?

Over the last two years, she had spent hours doing research on snake venoms and their antidotes. It had become another obsession, and by now she had a list of at least half a dozen potions that could have cured him. At least some of these would have been readily available in the infirmary, or at St. Mungo's. If only she could have gone back in time to that moment, like when they had saved Sirius and Buckbeak in their third year, then she would have acted differently. Somewhere in her heart, even though she knew it was unfair, she blamed Harry and Ron for her inaction that night, and those feelings had caused a rift in their friendship. Even if she'd tried to help him, she told herself, they would have stopped her. But if it hadn't been for them, surely she would not have let him die?

Her friends didn't understand why she obsessed so much about Snape's death. In the end she had stopped bringing up the topic as it earned her nothing more than a rolling of eyes. There was no-one with whom she could have talked about it. Granted, Ron had lost a brother; they had lost friends, many people much closer to them than Snape. Of course, to them, that sort of grief weighed far heavier than the death of an unpleasant teacher and Death Eater, even if exonerated in the end.

The losses they shared and the testing time of what would have been their last school year should have strengthened the bonds of their friendship, should have forged them closer together, but the sad truth was that they had grown apart somewhat over the past two years. After the war, Hermione had decided to go back to Hogwarts to finish her NEWTs, while Harry had started Auror training straight away, and Ron had no ambitions to ever pick up a book again, joining his brother's business instead. They had only seen each other during the holidays, at the Burrow over Christmas, and somehow things hadn't been the same.

That last year back at Hogwarts had been more painful than Hermione had imagined. So many things there reminded her of Snape: the Potions classroom, his place at High Table in the Great Hall, now occupied by a new teacher, even the library, and the smell of parchment brought back memories of the dark professor, who nevermore would sweep along the castle's corridors, black robes billowing, dispensing his scathing sarcasm or taking house points from unsuspecting Gryffindors. To Hermione, Hogwarts would never be the same again.

Before the start of the school year, once enough of the damage to the castle had been repaired for Hogwarts to open its gates to students once more, there had been a memorial ceremony for all those fallen during the war. A stone had been dedicated to each person who had lost their life and fashioned into the masonry of the castle walls during the restoration, so that their names would be remembered for centuries to come. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had received an Order of Merlin, along with all surviving Order members and a number of others who had played an important role in Voldemort's demise.

A special tribute had been paid that day to the deceased Headmaster, now a war hero due to Harry's testimony. For some unfathomable reason, no portrait of Snape had appeared in the Headmaster's office following his death, and all attempts to create a magical painting had failed. To compensate for that fact and to honour his services to the school, it had been decided to place a statue of him next to Dumbledore's white marble tomb down by the lake. The artist, a former student, had done an amazing job, creating a life-sized sculpture, hewn from black obsidian, that really managed to capture the essence of the man. There he stood now, upon a plinth with the simple inscription 'Severus Snape – Semper Fidelis', silently guarding Dumbledore's grave, a rock against the forces of evil, formidable, upright, proud, and lonely.

During her last year at Hogwarts, Hermione had regularly come to sit close to him by the lake. She often brought little gifts with her, herbs she had gathered in the woods, or potions ingredients he no longer had any need for, which she laid down at his feet. It was a silly, helpless attempt to express her respect and sympathy and to find an outlet for her grief. He was never far from her thoughts, to the point where she entertained imaginary conversations with him in her head, telling him about a book she'd read or a potion she was brewing.

She had been convinced that she would feel better after she graduated, that once the three of them were all in London, with Harry working at the Ministry and Ron at the shop in Diagon Alley, they would be able to spend much more time together. But with increasing frequency, Hermione had been making excuses, claiming that she had to study or hand in an essay the next day, when the real reason was that she just didn't feel like seeing them. She needed time on her own, time to think, like now.

The last time she had seen her friends was already more than two weeks ago. Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione had gone for dinner at a Noodle Bar in Greenwich. It was a firm favourite with students – cheap, but the food was good and authentic. It had been a nice evening. They had laughed and joked, and Ron had demonstrated one of the new Weasley products. For the remainder of the evening, the topic had mostly been Quidditch, so nobody noticed that Hermione was a little quiet. After dinner, they had walked through the streets of the village for a while, holding hands. Ron had insisted to accompany her home.

"Ron," she had said, "I could just Apparate... really."

But he had wanted to take 'one of those crazy Muggle buses' with her. When they'd reached her flat, Ron had wanted to come up, but she'd said that she needed to go straight to bed because she was tired and had to get up early for lectures. Ron had complained that she never had time for him, that all she did was study.

"There's more to life than work and study, 'Mione, you have to be happy, spend time with your family and friends. What are you even going to do with that Muggle degree in the end?"

"I'm sorry, Ron, I really need to sleep. Next time. I love you."

She had kissed him goodnight and disappeared inside.

She did love Ron, she really did. But while he was firmly living in the present and believed in finding happiness in every situation (a trait all Weasleys shared), Hermione was stuck in the past and didn't feel she had a right to be happy. How could she be with him when she was living at a completely different time?

She turned around to lean against the wall, watching those people who did not have to be at work on a Tuesday morning: mothers pushing prams along the promenade, two old ladies shuffling past with their dogs, a group of Japanese tourists taking pictures of Tower Bridge and everything else, a jogger trying to get past without running through their photos, a group of men in suits on the terrace of a fancy restaurant, studying the menu while sipping wine. The wind tore at the strands of her bushy mop, tickling her face. Looking up at the line of former warehouses, now converted into expensive flats with river views, she wondered if she should break her student budget to splurge out on a cup of tea in the cafeteria of the design museum, where it would be warm and cosy, and the views along the Thames would be stunning. Maybe that would help chase those gloomy thoughts away.

Just as she was about to make a move to give in to her desire for a little extravagancy, she caught sight of a man sitting on a bench facing the river. Her heartbeat accelerated as she was unable to take her eyes off the stranger, who resembled strongly, unmistakably almost, the very Hogwarts professor she couldn't stop thinking about. But it was impossible! He was dead! Was she hallucinating? Was her mind playing a trick on her, transforming a dark-haired stranger into the object of her obsession?

Hermione kept staring at the man sitting there, engrossed in a book on his lap, a book that somehow didn't look like it belonged in the Muggle world. He was wearing blue jeans and a streamlined black leather coat, under which a black turtleneck jumper was just visible. His skin was pale and stretched tightly across his sharp cheek bones, while her position afforded her the full-profile view of his large aquiline nose. Jet-black strands of shoulder-length hair, which should have been neatly parted in the middle but were somewhat dishevelled by the wind, fell forward like heavy curtains, partially obscuring his face and eyes, affording him a degree of privacy. She couldn't be sure, but that nose... and his hands, now turning over a page in his book – pale, slim, and long-fingered... She remembered those hands very well. If only she could see his eyes.

She moved along the bank a few steps, trying to get a better view of the man's face. At that moment, he became aware that he was being observed. As he looked up, she was suddenly hit by the full force of his gaze, an intense blast from deep black tunnels that left her without a doubt. The realisation seemed to make her heart stop for several seconds, and she almost forgot to breathe. He is alive! Oh, my... he is alive!

A shadow of recognition rushed across his face. Then, in one fluid motion, he slammed the book shut, slipped it under his coat, rose from the bench, and turned, hurrying away with ground-covering strides.

It took Hermione a moment to wake up from her stupor, staring at the back of the man marching away from her along the river promenade. But when she finally did, she ran, ran after him as fast as she could. When she caught up with him, she grabbed hold of his arm.

"Professor! Wait! Please, sir!" she called, trying to stop him.

He abruptly spun around, pulling his arm free from her grip, his black eyes flashing at her with annoyance.

"What do you want from me, Miss Granger?" he hissed defensively.

But what exactly did she want from him? There she was, overwhelmed with joy and relief, lost for words, reduced to an insecure school girl again under his intense scrutiny, and all she could think was that she did not want him to walk away. How could she possibly explain?

"I... I just... I just want to talk to you." It sounded feeble even to her own ears.

"Talk? About what?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. The familiar sound of his deep voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She became aware of the curious stares of passers-by, watching the unusual scene, getting the wrong impression. There was so much she wanted to ask him, so much she wanted to explain. But it was not a conversation that could be had in public. She very much needed to be alone with him.

"Please... I live just around the corner from here. Maybe you could come up for a coffee..." she whispered, unable to meet his inquiring eyes. "Please..." That was the only argument she had. "Please, don't go." Nothing but a plea; all she could do was beg. If only he didn't walk away.

When she risked looking up into his face again, the hard expression in his eyes had been replaced by a look of curiosity, perhaps even wonder. She never understood what had brought about that change or what made him agree to her unreasonable request. All she knew was that suddenly his posture was more relaxed and a hint of a smile, or possibly just a smirk, tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Lead the way then," said the velvety dark voice that so many times had haunted her dreams.

Her heart started racing as a surge of adrenaline rushed through her body, bringing her stomach to life with something that had nothing to do with its normal function. Had he really just said that, or had desperate hope clouded her perception? He looked at her expectantly, and swallowing hard, she concluded that she must have heard right.

"This way." Her voice was still no more than a hoarse whisper as she pointed towards a small passage.

She led him through narrow streets between high brick-built buildings, where the sun never reached the cobbled street, and posh art galleries and restaurants bore testimony to the popularity the area had acquired with the City's affluent young professionals. 'Just around the corner' had been somewhat of an understatement. She just hoped that he was not going to lose his patience with her, but he followed without saying a word. Beyond the old railway arches, the trendy warehouse conversions and coffee shops gave way to a less glamorous area of London, where council flats mingled with dingy corner shops and greasy fish-and-chip outlets.

"Nearly there," Hermione tried to reassure him, to which he just gave a quiet nod.

When they had finally reached her block of flats, she stopped outside a wooden door, painted a nauseous shade of green, beside a row of tarnished door bells, which had stopped working long ago. She fumbled around nervously inside her pocket, trying to extract her keys. Once she had succeeded, she let them into a dreary hallway, where the paint was peeling off the walls, while the sixties style staircase made no secret of the fact that regeneration had passed this building by. He silently followed her up two flights of stairs. A couple could be heard shouting obscenities at each other behind one of the doors they passed, throwing a little favourable light on the type of people who were her neighbours. It was with a sense of relief that Hermione unlocked the door to her small studio apartment and hurriedly closed it again behind them.

She realised with embarrassment that she had not left the place in a tidy state that morning. Her dirty breakfast dishes were still piled up beside the sink of her tiny kitchenette, the bed had been made rather sloppily, and the small table that doubled as her desk was littered with books and papers from last night's study session. But the overriding feeling was a sense of awe at being there with him. Not in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that she would return with him when she left this morning. It made her completely forget that she had promised him coffee.

He didn't seem to mind, however, standing there – tall, alive, and real – looking at her with an aura of calm expectation, seemingly at ease in his surroundings. Hermione wasn't sure how to address him. Calling him "Professor" or "Sir" here, now, seemed awkward and somehow inappropriate, but at the same time she did not dare use a more familiar form of address. She caught herself staring at his neck, wondering whether underneath the collar of his jumper he bore any signs of what had happened that fateful night.

Her preoccupation did not escape him.

"Yes, Miss Granger, I'm not a ghost. See for yourself," he said, pulling down the black fabric and turning his head slightly to show her the red scars disfiguring the perfect pale skin of his neck.

"Oh gods!" she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, "I... we... We thought you were dead. How... How did you manage to survive those wounds?"

"Well, no credit to you there," he remarked wryly but without any trace of accusation.

"I'm so sorry! I never forgave myself for not helping you!"

Tears were threatening to well up in her eyes, but he just made a dismissive movement with his hand, as if to say that it did not matter, that he didn't blame her.

"But how?" She really had to know; it was much more to her than a matter of curiosity.

"Fawkes," he stated simply.

Of course, it made perfect sense. Back in their second year, after his fight with Riddle down in the Chamber of Secrets, Harry had told her and Ron how Fawkes had been called to him by his display of loyalty towards Dumbledore. Nobody had been more loyal to Dumbledore than Snape, who even with his last breath had still been carrying out the old Headmaster's orders. And if phoenix tears could heal the deadly bite of a Basilisk, they were surely effective against the venom of a much lesser snake.

"I'm so glad you're alive!" For all the explanations she had wanted to offer, all the questions she had wanted to ask, this was all she was able to say now.

The confusing mix of relief, joy, and some other unidentifiable emotion inside her erupted in a violent sob, making her eyes fill with tears. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body underneath his open jacket, burying her face against his shoulder. He did not respond to her sudden assault on his personal space, neither by taking her into his arms, nor by pushing her away. She felt the measured pace of his heartbeat, the lean circumference of his waist, the buckle of his belt pressing against her belly and breathed in his masculine scent. How she longed for his touch, for even the smallest gesture of tenderness from him. At that moment, she realised that she still felt a physical attraction towards him, that she wanted more than to just apologise to him. She prayed that he felt it, too, for she wanted it so badly now, had wanted it for so long, but at the same time did not know how she could ever ask it of him. He was her former professor, after all, although she was unsure whether right there and then, it still mattered. So many things had changed.

Her heart sank when he disentangled himself from her embrace and took a step away. She was too embarrassed to look at him, standing on the same spot with her eyes glued to the floor. Meanwhile, he had walked over to the table where her course materials were lying sprawled out, taking up a book and leafing through it in bewilderment.

"What is this?" he asked with a disapproving frown.

"My university course books," she replied meekly.

"You are studying Muggle law?" He spat out the word with a look of disgust on his face, as if it were some sort of obscenity.

"Yes." She squirmed inwardly under his judgmental look of incredulity, approaching the desk with her books as if she had to protect them.

"Miss Granger," he said softly in that tone every Hogwarts student had come to fear, "you were one of the most talented students I had the misfortune to teach. How can you be wasting your potential in such a way?"

She blushed at the praise inherent in those words. Even though he had managed to make it sound like an insult, it was a small recognition, something he had denied her throughout her student years. She felt his probing eyes rest on her. It took all her Gryffindor bravery to look up into their black depths, and her skin erupted into gooseflesh when she met them.

"What are you running away from, Miss Granger?" he asked quietly, mustering her as if he could see the answer on her face. Then his eyes narrowed, as if he suddenly had a sneaking suspicion. "This is nothing to do with me, is it?" His forehead pulled into a disapproving frown. "Is this to do with your childish schoolgirl crush on me?"

She felt hurt that he dismissed her feelings for him like that, almost as hurt as when he had called her an 'insufferable know-it-all'.

"I'm not a child anymore! I am a grown woman of twenty years!" she protested, indirectly conceding the principal point.

"And I am twenty years older than you. Believe me, things look different from my perspective," he said with a stern look. "You need to find someone your own age."

"But I want you... And I know you're attracted to me, too," she whispered against the lump forming in her throat. "I know that you wanted me, back there at Malfoy Manor. And I'm not your student anymore, so why can't you admit it?"

He let out a derisive snort. "Virtually every single man out there in the street desires you, Miss Granger. Surely you have noticed that? It comes with being a young, attractive female, but it doesn't mean anything."

"Then why deny yourself? What are you running away from? Is this still about Lily Potter?" Ignoring the warning of his angry look shot at her from narrowed eyes, daring her to touch on this delicate subject, she decided to challenge him further. "Is it a sign of maturity to keep worshipping a ghost, when you could have a real woman? Do you think..."

"Enough!" he cut across her, eyes flashing furiously. "How dare you! You know nothing, absolutely nothing about this!"

His strong, overly-defensive reaction to her words told her that she had been right. It seemed like that particular wound was still open and hurting.

"Maybe I don't," she said defiantly. "But I know everything about not being able to move on."

It was as if those words had managed to deflate his anger. Closing his eyes with an inaudible sigh, he leaned back against the table, his legs set slightly apart, one hand braced on the edge, while the other pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at her pensively with a worried expression etched across his face.

"Then there is something we both have to learn," he said with quiet resolution.

"But I don't want to move on," she insisted. "Not now that I know you are alive, and you're here."

She wanted to show him that there was happiness for him if only he allowed himself to love again and be loved. She wanted him to know how desirable he was, how much she cared about him, wanted him. Gathering all her courage, she stepped closer, between his legs. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she looked up into his eyes, firmly and unwavering this time.

"Kiss me," she said softly, feeling her stomach flutter as she held his gaze.