Chapter 30

A/N: Thanks to JKR for allowing me to borrow her characters, and to beaweasley2, Clairvoyant and nagandsev for everything else.

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Chapter 30

Gentle fingers brushed the limp blades of hair away from his eyes and tucked them carefully behind his ears. He looked down in numb disbelief at the smiling face of the woman in his arms. "Hello, Severus," Hermione whispered, and she smiled.

"It looks like I'm back," she said. Her fingers gently caressed his scalp, and her fingers slid through his hair.

He blinked at her, tired beyond words, but before Severus could say anything to the beautiful, extraordinary woman in his arms, or hold her more closely, or bury his face between her soft breasts once more...

"HERMIONE!" A bellow of shock – then, "What the fuck are you...?"

"Poppy! Hermione!!"

There was a flurry of footsteps and another wordless exclamation as something fleshy barrelled into him. He landed painfully on his back across his hospital bed, Weasley's knee digging painfully into his side. Severus felt something shift uncomfortably along his spine and grimaced in pain.

"Severus! Mister Weasley! Get up – you are hurting him!"

Severus smiled inwardly at the outrage in Poppy Pomfrey's voice, grateful for the Healer's protective instincts.

The knee lifted off Severus, and he sucked in a painful breath, fighting the blackness that was threatening to engulf him.

"Hermione! Can you hear me?" Potter's voice sounded earnest and hopeful.

"I'm fine, Harry." Despite her polite words, Severus could hear the irritation in Hermione's voice. He could picture the expression on her face and tried to raise his head to see what exactly was going on, but he found that his muscles were refusing to respond.

"Hermione!" Weasley's deeper tone, strained and emotional.

"Ouff! Ron! Get off!" Severus heard a scrabbling of limbs, then felt a sting of magic before he heard a loud exhalation of, "Ow!" followed by the slap of a body hitting stone.

It sounded very much like Weasley had been thrown onto the floor by the force of her spell.

Severus drew in more breaths, fighting the increasing pressure in his chest. I thought she said that she couldn't do wandless magic? It was too painful to actually laugh. Serves you right for trying to manhandle her, you stupid idiot, he thought, air wheezing into his lungs.

"Harry, can you restrain your friend please?" Poppy asked with some asperity.

He heard the boy reply, "Just sit down, Ron! Sorry, Poppy. H-how are you, Hermione?"

"I'm fine, honestly, Harry! How is Severus? Let me up...!"

Severus was still concentrating on his next breath. It seemed to be becoming harder and harder to drag oxygen into his chest. Bright sparks were flashing in his peripheral vision, clouding across it. He felt another hand rest on his sternum and tensed automatically. His chest spasmed painfully in response, and a whimper escaped his lips. He could hear a whistling sound every time he tried to breathe.

"Try to relax, Severus," Poppy instructed him.

He wanted to, but it felt like his lungs were being slowly wrung out like a wet dishcloth. Poppy has a nice voice, he thought dimly, losing control, fighting to clear his vision, gasping for shallow breaths now.

"Severus!" Hermione sounded desperate.

No need, foolish woman, he thought. You're safe now.... He heard a low, muttered incantation, and he recognised the healing spell that Poppy was intoning as he slid into unconsciousness.

***

Severus awoke with a sour taste in his mouth and a headache.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the isolation room. Unlike the main infirmary, these rooms were undecorated. Gone was the gothic splendour of the vaulted ceilings, the stained glass windows, and the decorated walls. He was lying in a comfortable bed in an anonymous room, which had a smooth, plain ceiling with a single light globe, clean walls, and a leather wing-back chair to the side of his bed. A small clock hung on the wall at the foot of his bed, its face decorated with a simple twelve-hour notation. Beside his bedside was a small table that held a glass of water and a small golden bell. Inscribed on the shining metal were the words "Ring for Assistance".

Slowly, he wriggled himself backwards higher on to the pillows behind him. He pushed the bedcovers down and looked at himself. He was wearing a pale blue hospital gown of soft cotton, which was cut in a deep 'V' at his neck, so as he looked down over his chest, he could still see the ridges of his sternum and ribcage jutting out clearly as his chest rose up and down. His skin was still deathly pale and mottled. He frowned a little in regret. Gone was the honey-rich flesh tone of his time in Italia.

No. He brought himself up short. Not in Italia. I was never in Italia. A sick feeling twisted in his gut.

He must have been in a magically assisted coma. The potions and elixirs he had taken after Nagini had ripped his throat open and pumped her venom into him were designed to protect his body and neutralise the poison. His Horcrux had anchored him, kept him attached to life, while this healing process took place. Nagini had been a powerful snake, an enhanced variant of the Muggle Vipera aspis. Voldemort had found her, tamed her and made her his own when he had been in exile in Albania. Because of Voldemort's attentions and the Dark magic he'd used, she had grown to monstrous size.

When Arthur Weasley had been attacked by Nagini, Dumbledore had suggested that Severus should offer his aid to the Healers at St Mungo's who were trying to save his life, pointing out that such an opportunity to get closer to one of Voldemort's most potent weapons was not to be missed. Severus had not missed the chance to study the complexities of Nagini's venom as he and the Healers had fought to stem Weasley's blood loss and counter the effect of the hematoxic venom. He had developed the series of potions which had enabled the elder Weasley to survive by countering in turn each of the elements of Nagini's venom. In doing so, he had also bought himself the opportunity to protect himself from such an obvious threat.

But it had been a near thing. The speed with which the venom had acted, coupled with the need to give Potter those bloody memories before he could treat himself, had left him badly injured and unable to administer the antidotes in the correct order. The girl had simply poured all of them into his mouth randomly until he gagged, and he had barely had enough time to create the Horcrux to buy his body more time for the poorly administered potions to begin to work.

Clearly he had even managed to fuck that up.... But how...?

He remembered grasping the little bottle, his hands slippery with blood – both his from his neck and hers from the grazes and cuts on her hands. He had summoned up his guilt and horror at his murder of the old man and willed his soul to split and form the new Horcrux within his mother's perfume phial... But then his recollection became hazy. She had kept distracting him, pouring dittany into his wound – God that stuff had stung! She had been weeping over him and trying to force more healing liquids down his throat as he had tried to sing the Anima Digeris incantation to effect the transfer.

And so the Horcrux had been created. But not in the perfume bottle, he realised in a moment of horrible clarity, in her... just like Voldemort and the boy.

So.

Just... so.

He drew his hands slowly up to his face as he groaned with the implication of his actions. That was why she had joined him in Pompeii. Or had he joined her...? He had known nothing in particular about Roman Pompeii beyond general knowledge. How could he have imagined all those details? He thought of the beautiful decorations in his house, the shops and precincts of the city, the tavernas and temples, the people.

His head swam. It was so confusing! His life there had seemed so real. He scowled angrily, forcing his thoughts into order.

In his Pompeian dream, she had told him that she was a Muggle archaeologist and that she had been studying the buried city. Perhaps his subconscious had simply been drawn into her imagination through the Horcrux as she had worked in modern day Pompeii, slowly revealing the city, imagining how it would have looked before it had been ruined by the volcanic eruption in 79AD.

He had been pulling on her magic for years like a parasite. Near to the end, as the venom had finally been metabolised and his body had begun to consume itself for the want of sustenance, he had drawn even more on her resources, causing her to fall into the same linked coma with him, the Horcrux acting much like a conduit through which his body was nourished at her expense.

That was why his remorse had brought her back, even though the perfume bottle had been nowhere to be found. He had broken the Horcrux within her.

His mind filled with images from his delirium like a series of cinematic images playing across a screen before his eyes. Conviva and Restitutus, flame haired and joking, began to change in his mind's eye into the image of Arthur Weasley's boys, Fred and George – two of the most brilliant and frustrating students he had ever taught. Beautiful Marcella, with her green eyes, her hair auburn and shining in the sun, became Lily – but a Lily that had forgiven him and who had remained his friend and become his ally rather than casting him off like her real-life echo had done all those years ago.

Marcus Fiducius' image now swam before him: sneering, arrogant, and resolute. It was obvious now. So simple. He was Lucius. Desperate for power, convinced that he could manipulate and control everything, but lacking in the end, reduced to petty theft and threats to murder in the desperate thrall of that power.

Even Sabazios.... He moaned into his hands. Obvious. Pathetic, really.

So he had played out a fantasy in his delirium and dragged her into it, risking her life and magic as he did so.

And nothing had been real between them.

His heart wrenched hard in his chest, a shadow of the savage remorse he had felt when he had destroyed the Horcrux within her and brought her out of her coma.

But he had destroyed the link between them, he remembered, so she was free.

That thought should have made him feel better, but instead, it filled him with an angry sort of sadness.

There was a knock on the door, and he gasped at the sharp noise, his heart thumping irregularly in his chest as the door swung open. He had no wand.

***

Poppy Pomfrey bustled into the room, followed behind by a levitated trolley containing a series of jars and phials.

She smiled at him in a businesslike manner and settled the trolley gently beside his bed. "Good morning, Severus," she said, and if he had not been such an observant man, he might have missed the tension in her voice.

He opened his mouth to reply, but she held her wand hand up sharply. "No talking please, young man. Your throat is still too damaged to risk speaking for the moment."

He snorted disparagingly; he was hardly young. His body felt stiff and slow.

She bent towards him and muttered a diagnostic charm. Severus watched the blue numerals and figures dance in the air above his chest, furrowing his brow as he tried to read them from the wrong angle.

Poppy grunted in apparent satisfaction. "I would be very interested in the potions formulae for those elixirs you used, young man."

Again, that reference to youth. He rolled his eyes and scowled uncomfortably; she really needed to work on her bedside manner.

Undeterred, the Healer picked up a glass beaker and carefully decanted a pale green substance into it. Severus recognised the draught; he had brewed enough of the stuff for her over the years. Broad-range restorative. He took it from her and tossed it down, noting the flavour. Peppermint. He had never bothered to flavour the healing potions he had brewed for her.

Next came an antivenin. "Just to be on the safe side," she said with warm good humour.

Next he swallowed a vitamin booster, followed by a health draught, an anti-inflammatory potion, and two types of glucose infusion. The sweetness of the latter one set his teeth on edge.

She offered him the glass of water from his bedside, and he sipped it gratefully, washing the sickly potion out of his mouth. She replaced the glass on the table, and he noticed, as expected, that it was as full as it had been before he had drunk from it. "Your muscles have wasted and will need some therapy. These potions will help you to recover muscle mass and tone, but there is no substitute for physical activity. I will leave you a series of exercises that I will expect you to follow to help you to regain your mobility."

She summoned a roll of parchment from underneath the trolley and flicked her fingers at it. The roll opened out promptly and fluttered onto the bed in front of him. Severus picked it up. Various diagrams promising pain of increasing magnitude lay before him. His eyebrows rose at some of the illustrations.

Snape grimaced. The Muggles had a word for that sort of activity. Exercise.

She smiled but then looked him up and down appraisingly. "You know, you really are in excellent condition though, given what you have been through for the last eleven years. Your body should show far more damage than it does." She moved closer to him, raising her hand towards his neck. "May I?" she asked quietly.

He nodded and turned his head a little to the side.

Cool fingers gently felt the new skin of his scar, gently testing its quality and resistance to pressure. The nerves were newly grown, and her touch was painful, but he did his best to remain still. Eventually, she grunted in satisfaction again and withdrew her hands, offering him the cool water again. He drank some more and replaced the glass on the table himself. The potions were taking effect, and he was feeling much better.

Poppy tidied the jars and potion bottles away carefully on her trolley, fussing with the containers for longer than seemed necessary.

Severus cleared his throat carefully. "Poppy...?" he whispered.

She spun around quickly. "Don't talk, Severus. You need to give the elixir time to work," she berated him sharply, but then she sagged, her hands wringing together.

What is she doing? he thought, confused by her body language.

"Oh, Severus," she whispered. "I am so sorry! I missed... I didn't know...."

She sat down shakily on the bed beside his hip, and he realised that she was crying. Slowly, she crumpled forwards, and he put up his thin arms automatically to hold her lightly, fighting the roiling emotions within himself just as he sought to offer her comfort. "It's alright, Poppy," he whispered back to her, and the Healer's shoulders shook. Awkwardly, he patted her back. "You didn't know," he hissed, his voice a ghost of its usual richness. "It's alright."

After a few seconds, her shaking abated, and she remembered herself, pushing her body backwards and away from his stiff embrace. She wiped her eyes on a cloth from her trolley and nodded. "Thank you, Severus."

Severus needed to change the subject. "How... How is Miss Granger?" he asked, unable to resist any longer.

Poppy smiled. "She is recovering well. She wants to see you, Severus, when you are up to receiving visitors. In fact, she is quite insistent on the matter. She claims that there is a... an understanding between you both...?" She raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

I'll bet, he thought in resignation. Miss Granger must be ready by now to unleash her legendary temper upon him. He had no doubt that she would have worked out what had happened to her as quickly as he had.

A sudden, horrible thought occurred to him. What if she still fancied herself in love with him? That would be even worse. Intolerable. The feeling would certainly fade as all such false emotions dissipated in time, and that would leave her hating him even more than he hated himself at this moment. He steeled himself. "I would like to see her," he said.

Poppy smiled. "Perhaps later on today," she promised, passing him another healing draught.

He held it in his hand for a moment, trying to work out what it was.

"It's a little concoction of my own, Severus. It's a combination of Strengthening Solution and Calming Draught. You are not the only one here who can invent new healing potions, you know." Poppy waggled her eyebrows at his expression.

He glowered, but swallowed the potions. He shuddered. Aniseed.

She reached forward and gripped his hand with hers. "For now, I expect you to get some rest while the restoratives work. We should have you up and about in no time at all. Good morning, young man."

Severus suddenly felt his eyelids grow unbearably heavy. "Not young...," he mumbled, even as sleep claimed him.

***

"Professor Snape?"

Severus remained perfectly still, his eyes closed, his breathing carefully regulated.

A dry cough and boots scuffing the stone floor of the room. A rich, strong, earthy smell mingled with the sharper scent of decomposition...

"He's asleep. Sir, I really don't think we should be... Didn't the Healer say..." Another voice with a lighter tone... a younger man... two of them, then.

"Do shut up, Abercrombie. Ahem! Professor Snape, sir?"

Severus heard a squelching sound, and a fresh waft of putrid vegetable matter struck his nostrils.

"I don't understand why drying charms are not working on our robes, sir," the younger man's voice said, taking on a whining tone.

"It was an enchanted swamp, Abercrombie," the older voice replied, obviously irritated. "We will soon be able to get new robes once we have reported back to the Auror's Office... which we will be doing, once we have interviewed the... suspect."

"But it's Professor Snape, sir! He's a hero!" the one called Abercrombie exclaimed. Severus tried to remember anyone with that name.

"Is he, Abercrombie? Or is there something more sinister going on?"

Aurors, Severus thought disparagingly. Inevitable. He opened his eyes, affecting an exaggerated sigh as he did so. He was pleased to see both young men recoil from him.

The older one recovered first, stepping forward towards the bed. Severus narrowed his eyes, flicking through his memory to recall the man's name. "Mr... Finch-Fletchley, isn't it?" he drawled, pleased to hear that his voice seemed to be returning to its normal timbre. "Decided to eschew the family estate for a career in..." he deliberately allowed his eyes to rake over the men's dishevelled appearance, taking in their sopping wet and filthy robes... "swamp management...?"

Finch-Fletchley flushed a bright red. "Now look here!" he said hotly, but the other one, whom Severus did not recognise, stepped forward instead and enthusiastically extended his hand.

"Abercrombie, sir! Euan Abercrombie... Gryffindor, 2002... I was in your first year Potions class back in 1995. It's a pleasure to meet you again, sir!"

Snape stared at the young man suspiciously, but then extended his own hand to offer a handshake. Abercrombie pumped Severus's hand up and down, a foolish grin on his open features. The actions dislodged more foul-smelling globules of black matter from the sodden cloth of his robes onto Snape's bedclothes. Snape's nose wrinkled at the smell, and Abercrombie pulled backwards quickly, muttering hasty apologies for the mess as his more senior colleague stepped forward smoothly.

"Professor Snape," Finch-Fletchley began rather pompously, despite his somewhat ridiculous appearance. "We are here investigating the kidnap of Doctor Hermione Granger from St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries..."

The door banged open.

"Which the Professor could not have had anything to do with, given that he has been trapped in his tomb in some sort of magical coma for the past eleven years, Justin!" Harry Potter stated firmly, entering the room with a firm step. He planted himself in front of the Aurors, his body angled slightly between Severus's bed and the two Aurors in a subtle but unmistakable attitude.

Snape stared. Harry Potter was attempting to protect him.

"Look, Justin," Potter continued, "Hermione's safe and well. I'm more than happy to come to the Ministry to explain what happened, but she's okay.... and... You really need to get out of those clothes soon, don't you think?"

Finch-Fletchley looked as if he were about to argue with Potter, but then seemed to collapse slightly. "Very well, Harry," he agreed grudgingly. He gestured towards his colleague. "Come on, Abercrombie. We have a report to make."

Abercrombie was still grinning at Severus like a star-struck lunatic, but he allowed himself to be led away by Finch-Fletchley.

The door closed softly behind them.

Potter turned to face him, wafting his hand in front of his face to try to dissipate the lingering stench from the Aurors' clothing. He met Severus's eyes and stilled. Now that Potter faced him, Severus could see he was carrying something in his arms. It was a small carton about the size of a shoebox.

"Sorry about that," Potter said. "They got away from Filius once he had helped them out of The Weasley Memorial Swamp on their way to the Headmaster's Office, and then they found their way down to the infirmary...." His voice trailed off into silence.

Severus said nothing, watching carefully. Had Hermione said anything to Potter? Was she all right? What was in the box? Why was Potter being so... pleasant?

Potter was still staring at him. Severus looked back at him levelly, but Potter did not move. He seemed to be frozen.

Snape cleared his throat. "Is that box for me, Potter?" he asked and slowly raised an eyebrow.

Potter nodded and set the box down on Snape's lap, taking the lid off with a fumbling flourish.

Snape looked into the box. Inside it, he saw his wand, the old Time-Turner, and a key.

"After Ron left, I... I went back to the sarcophagus and found them," the young man said.

Severus looked up at him and met, once again, those earnest, bright green eyes. "Thank you, Potter," he said gruffly, his fingers ghosting over his wand, feeling the slight tingle of recognition from the birch wood.

Potter was looking at him oddly, as if he wanted to say something but was uncertain how to begin, so Severus tried to lift the other eyebrow. The action appeared to have the desired response.

"No-one knows what you did," Potter said abruptly. "Hermione won't let on, but I think I understand. Only a Horcrux could have anchored you to life while you healed."

Severus tensed, his fingers reaching carefully around his wand, ready to defend himself if necessary.

But Potter merely stood still, watching him for a moment. "When we were hunting Horcruxes, Hermione told us that there was a way to destroy one without violence," he continued softly. "You had to be sorry. You had to be so sorry that your remorse shatters the part of your soul in the Horcrux and transfers it back into your own."

Severus felt his body go very still indeed. His memories of Potter were mostly of an impetuous hothead, a boy whose reckless actions and impetuosity had frequently placed his friends in great danger. Mutual animosity had marked their relationship from the moment that Potter had appeared in his first Potions lesson. What had changed during the past eleven years?

The young man standing before him now seemed quieter and more thoughtful.

Older.

Changed.

Severus shivered. Why was this castle always so bloody cold?

"I'm very glad to see you again, Professor," Potter said quietly. "But I think that you should be moving on quite quickly, don't you?"

***

After Potter left, Severus stared at the contents of the box. The quiet implications of Potter's words had not gone unnoticed. The Aurors would be back, and trouble would follow.

He was not going to think about her.

He wasn't.

Oh, fuck it. Where is she? He slipped back into unconsciousness.

***

Two hours later, Poppy came back and roused him from a fitful sleep. She fed him another round of revolting restorative potions and then suggested that he try to eat some soup. He had been pleased to see his hand only shook a little as he brought the spoon to his lips, and Poppy had smiled a wide and proud smile at his increasing strength and independence. He felt a flush creep slowly up his neck and to his face. Bloody woman.

Clothes. She had also brought him clothes.

She draped them awkwardly over the chair by the side of his bed as he watched her numbly: underthings, a grey cotton shirt, black woollen trousers, thick socks... a buttoned frock coat. Boots.

He looked at them, schooling his face into a blank expression.

"I know you, Severus," Poppy teased him. "You will have been missing these. I was sure to ask the elves for exactly the same design that you always used to wear."

He said nothing, simply staring at his costume, remembering the last time he had worn it. He realised that his hand had crept up to feel the livid scars on his neck, and quickly pulled it away before she could notice.

"Now... let's have a look at you." Poppy pulled his sheet back and cast a diagnostic charm over his chest. He peered at the wavering numbers and symbols, trying to interpret the results. Poppy grunted, apparently satisfied by the results, banished the floating sigils and pulled the sheet back up to his chin, tucking it in around his shoulders.

"I am not an infant," he said stiffly. "You should see to Herm– Doctor Granger."

"Hermione is recovering well, Severus, but she is still not well enough to leave her bed. No matter what she thinks," Poppy added rather sharply under her breath.

Severus fought to keep his expression disinterested.

"I'm leaving some more Strengthening Solution and restoratives on the trolley here," she said after a moment. "In case you need to take any more today or tomorrow."

Their eyes met and a sort of mutual understanding fell between them.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said.

Poppy smiled at him again. "It really is wonderful to see you back again, Severus," she said, resting her hand lightly on his arm. "Now get some rest. You should feel able to get up tomorrow morning."

Severus nodded, settling back against the pillows, waiting for sleep to wash over him again.

***

He woke the following morning, feeling brighter. The lassitude of the previous day had receded, and he was thinking more clearly. What to do now? He could continue teaching... No, he shuddered at the thought. Another generation of mewling addle-pates to prevent from destroying my laboratory. He could write and research... or open a small shop perhaps. But where? He was not foolish enough to think that he could escape notoriety in Wizarding Britain. That is, he remembered, if the Aurors don't come back and throw me in Azkaban first.

He used his wand to summon Poppy's potion and quaffed another dose of the restorative, grimacing at the awful taste. Then he used the bell by the side of his bed to summon a house-elf to order breakfast.

He wondered if Hermione would come to see him today. He longed to see her again, but the longing was mixed with the crushing sense that he had completely fucked up. She would hate him. She should hate him.

He pulled the sheets and blankets away from his legs, staring at the pale limbs in front of him, at the knobbly knees and black hairs on his thighs and calves. He cast a glance at the parchment of exercises and contemplated one of them, stretching his arm out to try to catch hold of his toe to stretch out his hamstring.

He gave up after the third attempt, glowering balefully at the smugly flexible wizard in the picture.

Slowly, he moved his legs to the side and carefully levered himself upright, steadying himself carefully on the high back of the chair. He took careful breaths, willing his head to stop spinning and the stars in his vision to dissipate. He counted to twenty carefully, then lowered himself back down to the bed, summoning the horrible clothes to him instead.

He dressed slowly as if arming himself or preparing for his execution. It seemed to take much more effort than it should have done. The fabric felt stiff and unresponsive under his fingers, and he felt a sudden, irrational pang of longing for his Pompeian tunica – at least a man could move in that. But the castle was chilly, and he hated the idea of receiving Hermione in his nightshirt. Buttoning his collar hurt his neck badly, but he forced the buttons into their place and smoothed down the jacket, feeling layers of defensive energy begin to slip into place about him as he did so.

The clock on the wall chimed the hour.

He drank more of the disgusting aniseed solution and settled down to read some of the old, archive copies of the Daily Prophet that Poppy had brought him.

He completely lost track of the time, sunk in the story of the fall of Voldemort as reported in the popular press. The Prophet had published a full account of the final hours of the Dark Lord. Severus devoured the testimonies of Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, and Susan Bones, trying to picture how a group of children had fought so bravely against fully-grown Death Eaters and largely survived to tell the tale.

He was oddly pleased to read that Longbottom had dispatched the snake – that boy had grown in stature and confidence during Severus's time as Headmaster. He had admired the boy's spirit, recognising in him the resolution of a born leader and a brave man, even though at the time he had condemned the boy for the risks that he took and his stubborn refusal to subordinate himself to Severus's authority. He wondered briefly if Augusta Longbottom had been proud of her grandson in the end.

He flicked on through the yellowed pages of the newspaper, dismissing the emotive language, contemptuous of the triumphalism of the editorials.

A grainy picture of a battle-scarred and weary Hermione finally caught his attention again and stopped him restlessly flicking through the pages. She was staring out from the page with dull exhaustion, her wand dangling from her hand as she sat on the bottom of a stone step. She looked remarkably like she had done in the bathroom of his Pompeian house.

Beside her in the picture, Potter scrubbed his hand through his hair and smiled bravely for the camera while Ronald Weasley leaned into her side, tears streaming down his face. Severus remembered reading in an earlier edition that Fred Weasely had been killed during the fighting. Presumably, the boy had just been told , he thought.

The caption of the photograph read: Our heroes reflect on a battle worth fighting. I'll bet, he thought wryly. Severus made a disparaging sound in his throat and turned the page.

His eyes lingered on the names of the Death Eaters who had perished in the battle. McNair... Greyback... Lestrange.... No Malfoy. He skipped to the next edition and searched for news of Lucius's family.

The clock on the wall chimed, and he was shocked to see that it was nearly six o'clock already. He had been reading for hours.

The collar of his jacket was chafing his neck badly, but he welcomed the sensation. He could feel his old professorial persona slipping more firmly into place with every passing breath. He tried standing up again and began to walk across the room. Simply putting one foot in front of the other was exhausting. He managed seven steps before he began to feel uncertain on his feet. Sweat beaded on his forehead and settled in an uncomfortable pool at the base of his spine. Gritting his teeth, he turned and walked stiffly back to the chair beside his bed and half-sat, half-fell into its seat.

He was still sitting in the chair next to his bed in his uncomfortable clothes, working his way through another edition of the Prophet, and trying not to think about when she would come, when he heard a quiet, but firm, knock at the door. He knew it was her immediately by the strange stirring in his chest at the sound of the knock and the adrenaline that spiked through his stomach.

The heavy oak door opened, and suddenly, she was there.

Hermione shuffled through the doorway, wearing a different version of the Hogwarts' infirmary gown, buttoned up to her chin, and white slippers. Her hair was in its usual riotous state, the curls forming a frizzy aurora about her head. Dark circles shrouded her eyes, and her face was thin and flushed. The light from the window behind him was dazzling her, and she blinked, lifting her right hand up to shield her eyes from the glare, while her left hand gripped the door handle so tightly that Severus could see her knuckles flashing white. When her eyes fell on him, she straightened her body under his stare, shifting her weight until it was balanced on both feet, and she let go of the door. It shut behind her, and he saw her turn to it and heard the lock snap shut.

She looked dishevelled and exhausted, yet stubbornly triumphant.

His heart gave another lurch in his chest.

She smiled warmly at him, and her eyes seemed to sparkle in the summer light through the window behind him.

His mouth suddenly went dry. "H..." He tried to buy himself more time by flicking the pages of the Prophet closed and folding the paper in half before letting the paper fall to the floor by his side. He cleared his throat and swallowed. "W– Doctor Granger," he ground out eventually, wincing at the timbre of his voice, at how raw it sounded.

"Hello... Severus."

There was a slight inflection in her words, and he could not quite grasp her meaning. Was she angry with him? She deserved to be, after all. He placed his hands carefully on the soft arms of his chair and tried not to grip them too tightly.

She advanced into the room slowly, shuffling her stiff limbs forward. She was obviously fatigued and sore, but her jaw was set determinedly, and she was making stubborn progress towards him, a blazing look on her face.

Without thinking, he pushed himself up from his chair equally stiffly, his weak leg muscles protesting as he forced himself upwards. He held out his hand to guide her to sit on the bed in front of him. She grasped his fingers with surprising strength, and he felt the thrill of their contact fizzing through him as he had done before when she had been in her coma.

She stared up at him for a long moment, then reached up and cupped his cheek in her hands. Feather light touches ran fire across the skin of his cheekbones, his ear, down the uninjured side of his neck, onto his shoulder. "You look... terrible," she said softly.

He could not help but smile at that, allowing his free hand to slide around the curve of her ribcage, down to her hip, pulling her gently towards him. "So do you," he murmured, drunk on the sight of her.

He knew it was foolish to indulge his emotions like this, but he could not help himself. He let go of her hand and wrapped both of his arms around her, breathing in the faintly peppermint smell of her hair – the distant remnants of a dose of Pepperup, his sensitive nose reminded him. He realised, after a moment, that she was shaking and, shortly afterwards, that he was too. He felt lightheaded, giddy with pleasure, as he sank his fingers into her hair and rubbed the small of her back with his other hand. After a few moments, he realised that he was breathing more shallowly and his vision was becoming a little clouded.

She seemed to realise that his legs were wobbling badly, and she giggled slightly, letting go of him so that she could lower herself carefully onto the blankets with a small sigh of relief. He sank back into his chair, his knees almost buckling beneath him. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, and his neck was throbbing badly. He tried to force himself to be calm; to face what had to be done.

"I am sorry that I have not been able to come before," she said breathlessly, leaning forwards towards him, her knees nearly brushing his. "Poppy wouldn't let me get up for bloody ages, and I had to convince my parents and Ron that I was perfectly capable of walking down two corridors to see you on my own." She looked about the room, her eyes resting for a moment on the open parchment of exercise diagrams that he had banished to the end of the bed.

He thought he saw her lips twitch. Then she looked at him again, her face settling into a more serious expression. He readied himself.

She leaned forward, putting her hand on top of his, curling her fingers around his fist and pressing down. "I missed you," she said quietly. "Thank you for rescuing me from that place."

He nodded stiffly, not knowing how to reply. He had expected recriminations and anger and could not believe that she did not hate him for what he had done. He tried to move his hand out from under hers, but she tightened her grip.

"Are you comfortable in those?" she asked, indicating his clothes with a little flick of her fingers.

"Perfectly," he lied and raised his head as if daring her to contradict him.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and rocked her head slightly on one side, a small smile once again twisting the corner of her mouth. "It's just... You don't look like you in those clothes any more. I liked you in your less formal robes when we went to the dinner party, remember? Doesn't that collar hurt your neck?" she asked, leaning forward, her other hand raised towards his jaw line.

Snape flinched and scowled. "This is me, foolish woman." His voice was rough and sore. "There is nothing else."

Her hand froze in mid air, and she frowned. "Are you alright, Severus?" she asked, her voice suddenly tentative. "How much do you remember?"

"Nothing," he said flatly. "There is nothing to remember. I was in a coma, after all."

Her eyes narrowed, and she gave him another one of her thoughtful stares as if she were gauging his response. She took in his stiff and uncomfortable clothes, his defensive posture, and then her attention was drawn to the wand and key on his bedside table. "Harry's been here, hasn't he?" she asked quietly. "And I bet that he threatened you and told you to get out."

He did not answer, but he felt his traitorous body begin to flush in response.

"Well, I remember everything," she insisted firmly. "Conviva, Restitutus, Marcella... the smell of the streets, the sound of the eruption. How terrifying it was. Sabazios and the Manticore. You and me."

"There is no 'you and me', Hermione. It was a dream. An illusion," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"It felt real to me," she said quietly, stubbornly.

He pressed on, not looking at her, hating himself but knowing that this needed to be said – better now than later, when his heart surely would not survive the destruction. "Of course it was not real! I used you in order to survive. Everything else is in your imagination. What do you remember... tender words? Caresses?" he spat the words at her as if they were distasteful to him. "You were enchanted, Hermione, ensnared by the... the thing I put inside you. Well, now that has gone, and even if we are still feeling some... regard... for one another, it would be less painful if we were to stop now than wait for the emotion to fade, as it surely will." He waited for her to respond, flexing his fingers underneath the hand that still covered his, not wanting to look up at her.

A few seconds passed, and then she sighed tiredly and withdrew her hand.

He darted a look across at her.

She was fumbling awkwardly at the buttons around her neck, and he watched in horror, thinking that she was taking her gown off and what was going to happen then? His heart was hammering so loudly he feared that she might actually hear it.

She dragged the little Daum perfume bottle up from around her neck and offered it to him. "I took this when you were... after... anyway – I know that it's yours... It was your mother's. My mum had it in her handbag from the hospital in Italy where they found me. You should have it back," she said.

He stared at her for a long time. "No," he said eventually, although his voice came out as barely a whisper. "No. It is yours. You must keep it."

"Because you gave it to me," she said. "Back then. You gave it to me to look after for you."

"Yes."

"To keep you safe."

"Yes." He cleared his throat.

"And I did. We kept each other safe." Her voice had taken on a husky tone. Her fingers tightened on the little bottle in her hand. He saw her knuckles whiten. She leaned forwards towards him, raising her other hand as if to touch him.

He stiffened, his chin rising defensively. "You have an unusual definition of the term 'safe', Miss Granger," he bit out. "I nearly killed you."

"But you didn't," she argued quietly.

He could not let her continue. Back in the real world, here, among her friends and relatives, his deficiencies were painfully clear for all to see. "I am not the man for you, Miss Granger – no matter what you... imagine is in your heart," he insisted, fighting the rise of bitterness in his throat at how he now appeared. The image of Potter popped into his mind's eye – that odd look the young man had worn as he had returned Severus's meagre belongings to him. An ambivalent hero once safely dead, now suddenly comes to life... how fucking inconvenient.

"I think I should be the judge of what is in my heart, Severus," she replied with more of that insufferable certainty which made his chest constrict and his insides squirm.

The fantasy has bitten deeply, he thought. What have I done? He had to say something to break this dreadful delusion that she had genuine feelings for him.

He tried a different tack. "You are making an assumption, Miss Granger," he purred, forcing his voice to keep its mocking tone, glad that he had forced himself into the costume that was strangling him – it made it easier to play the turncoat Death Eater, the predatory old professor.

Hermione's expression shifted immediately: he had set her a challenge. Her eyes narrowed and her head cocked slightly on one side. He clearly was not intimidating her... far from it, indeed.

He let the silence grow between them for a few moments before he curled his lip in a sneer and hissed, "Dark magic is beguiling, Miss Granger. You have precious little experience of it. You are assuming that you can trust what you feel. I assure you, that is not the case."

"After all..." He bent his head towards her, his face contorted with vivid condescension. "You could not possibly feel anything like... that... for..." he indicated his wretched self with a flourish of his thin fingers, "...this."

She didn't answer him.

He could not think of anything more to say. He stared at her, transfixed, waiting for her reaction.

Her expression did not alter for a number of seconds, but then he saw her features clear and her face soften. Instead of a stinging rebuke or a frightened withdrawal, Snape watched, his nerves strained almost to snapping point, as she slowly lifted her free hand and advanced it towards him, as if she was trying to gentle a distraught Thestral.

Her hand came closer and closer to his throat, and he thought he should stop her, but when her fingers brushed the stiff fabric away from his neck, he almost whimpered with relief. Her touch was a balm to him and yet, at the same time, seemed to set his senses on fire with prickles of energy.

Slowly, she moved closer still. "Foolish man," she whispered. "You'll rub your neck raw like that...." Gently, she began to push the black woollen fabric further away from his skin. "I hated him for what he did to you, but Dumbledore told Harry something significant once," she said softly, easing her fingers under his jacket, pushing it further away from the damaged skin on his neck. She placed her other hand gently on one of the fabric buttons at the front of his jacket. "Just because it's happening in your head doesn't mean it isn't real," she emphasised softly, her face inches from his.

The jacket fell open under her hands, the buttons shucking themselves clear of their anchors. His breath caught sharply in his chest, but he could not move, mesmerised by her calm touch. She licked her lips, and he found himself fascinated by the action. He swallowed thickly, leaning forward to help her remove the heavy and restrictive jacket, pulling his arms clear of the sleeves and replacing them on the arms of the chair because he did not know where else to put them. He could feel the susurration of her breath on his lips as their faces came even closer to each other.

"It happened, Severus," she continued. "We shared that experience. I got to know you. The real you. Brave. True. Strong. I don't want to lose that, and I don't plan on losing it either. Everyone has to work on relationships, Severus. Even the strongest love only lasts if you nurture it. I don't know whether I still have a piece of you inside me, or if the Horcrux made me start to love you. Frankly, I don't care. Right now, I want you and none other, and that's the truth of the matter. I remember everything, and so do you. That's our reality."

He couldn't speak. He felt the truth of her words, their resonance and weight. Slowly, he could feel a burning sensation begin to unfold in his chest. Is this what hope feels like? he thought suddenly to himself, surprised and intrigued by the unfamiliar sensation.

Her hand traced over his collarbone, back and forth with the lightest of touches, her face drawing closer and closer to his. She was shaking slightly with the effort of moving so slowly, but he could not move, could not stop her. She brought her hands up to his face and shoulder, resting one gently against the sharp bone of his clavicle and running the other through the fine strands of his hair, over the curl of his ear, around the base of his skull.

"And so is this...." He felt the faint brush of her breath on his face, saw her hesitate for a moment as if asking for his permission, but before he could cudgel his brain into making any suitable response, to push her away, her lips met his.

***

Oh, love... I hope that this works, she thought, pressing her lips tentatively against his.

Almost immediately his mouth gentled beneath hers, and his hands shook slightly as they grasped her hips and guided her as she climbed awkwardly onto his lap, knees digging into the corners of the chair seat. Her thin hospital gown rode up her thighs, and she could feel the harsh rub of the horrible, woollen trousers chafe the insides of her thighs as she settled more comfortably on his lap, exploring his mouth with her tongue and running her fingers through his hair.

Severus growled into her mouth, tightening his grip on her hips. He was moving against her now, kissing her back with a fierce passion that sent waves of thrilling intensity pulsing through her. Without thinking, she began to grind her hips into his pelvis, delighting at the increasing pressure that she felt as she pressed her body closer to him there.

He moaned again and broke away from her for a moment, taking frantic gasping breaths before reaching for her lips once again. His hands fumbled underneath her gown, pushing upwards along her flanks and spine, hot and needy as he caressed her skin. One hand found and cupped her breast, and she whimpered, tilting her head backwards and exposing her throat to his eager lips and teeth.

The spell that had opened the buttons of his jacket had done the same for his shirt.

He was so thin, thinner than she remembered from her time in Pompeii, even thinner than her memories of him at school. His pale flesh was stretched cruelly over the bones of his face and body like the taut skin of a drum.

She ran her fingers slowly across his chest and ribs, then down to the concave of his belly, feeling how his skin puckered and shifted at her touch. When her fingertips returned to his shoulder she could feel the heat of his body rising through his shirt, dampening his hair at the collar.

He was breathing very heavily now, sucking great rattling whoops of air into his chest even as he kissed the column of her throat. He was also shaking badly. Not just with passion, she realised guiltily as he emitted a frustrated growl and fell back against the leather chair back. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he fought for breath, scowling heavily.

"Severus, are... are you okay?" she panted anxiously, moving her hand down his heaving chest. His shirt was damp with sweat, and his taut skin slick with moisture. He nodded quickly, eyes tightly closed and hands firmly clutching her hips once more, but she was not convinced. "Severus?"

She gently put her hand on his forehead. It was feverish and sweaty. He was still sucking air into his chest, and she looked about her for something to help him.

Her eyes fell on the little bell by the side of his bed, but as she reached across for it, he flapped his hand at her and shook his head. "P-potion," he gasped. "On the trolley over there. Green bottle..."

She pushed herself off his thighs awkwardly and padded quickly over to the wheeled table, snatching up the only green bottle there. Her legs shook a little as she returned to him. She held the phial to his lips and watched him gulp its contents down greedily.

"I should fetch Poppy," she said, taking the bottle back out of his hand and placing it on the bedside table beside the little bell, his wand, and the Gringott's key.

"No..." He stopped her, catching her wrist again in his hand and pulling her gently towards his body until she was sitting on his lap once more. He settled back against the high leather chair back, his breathing becoming noticeably easier. Slowly, she curled up against him, resting her cheek on his bony chest and feeling the reassuring thump... thump of his heart against her skin. The adrenaline rush was dissipating, leaving behind hot prickles of self-consciousness. What had she been thinking? He was barely recovered, and she had practically ripped his clothes off.

"Do you feel better now?" she asked and was embarrassed by how much her voice quavered as she spoke.

The arms around her tightened, and she felt him bury his face in her hair. "Much better now," he mumbled. A few seconds passed, and then he let out a small, exhausted chuckle. "But I do not think that I am up to your level of... erm... enthusiasm quite yet."

"Mmmmm," she burrowed further into his shirt. "At least you've stopped trying to push me away, stubborn man."

"Obdurate woman," he retorted, but there was no heat in the words, and his arms still cradled her firmly against his chest.

She smiled, feeling an extraordinary sense of peace begin to creep through her limbs. "Obstinate man."

She heard him take a shuddering breath and release it with a faint chuckle. "Indeed," he replied. "It seems that there is no getting rid of you. Dum anima est, spes est."

She frowned. "Where... there is a soul, there is hope?"

He shrugged rather awkwardly. "I heard it somewhere," he muttered.

She made her decision. "Come on," she said, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her eyes. "Let's get you into bed."

"Hermione..."

She placed her fingers to his lips and shook her head, smiling. "Just to sleep, Severus. We could both do with the rest for now." She reached for his wand, feeling the same familiar quiver of recognition from it that she remembered from her dreams.

"Engorgio," she commanded softly and smiled in satisfaction as the narrow infirmary cot expanded under her direction.

She levered herself off his lap then, tugging him to his feet in silence, pulling the covers down, and sliding quickly beneath the sheets before she could change her mind. She turned and watched him lever off his boots and reach forward to pull his socks off, methodically balling them together and pushing them into one boot. His movements were rather stiff, and she realised that he was a little nervous.

"It's okay," she reassured him quietly, scooting backwards to make room for him in the bed and closing her eyes.

After a few moments, Hermione felt the bed dip as he gingerly settled onto the mattress, and she sighed with relief when she felt him stretch out his long limbs under the blankets beside her. His body language was still stiff and unsure however, and she felt him turn on his side away from her, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms about his torso, tension still evident in his frame.

She rolled over, pressing herself against him, revelling in both the scratchy wool of his trousers as they rubbed the front of her thighs and calves, and the rise and fall of his ribcage under her forearm and hand. At that, she heard a soft exhalation of breath and felt him beginning to relax; his body seemed to sink further into the mattress, and the rigidity in his frame eased. She nuzzled into his hair and began to rub his chest slowly with her palm. He stretched slightly and arched his neck, shifting slightly so that he could catch hold of her massaging hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.

He rumbled a question, but she could not tell what he was asking and anyway was too tired to press him to ask it again. "Sleep now," she murmured, feeling the heavy weight of her own exhaustion pulling her into unconsciousness.

*********************

A/N2: Severus is quoting from Cicero's Letter to Atticus, in which Cicero is, in turn, probably quoting the earlier Greek poet Theocritus. This quotation is where we get our phrase "Where there's life, there's hope" from.