Chapter Eight

She arrived at home in a fog. It had been years...almost decades...since she'd slept in an unfamiliar bed, slept beside an unfamiliar man, whose angles and movements did not perfectly match her own. And periodically, she had woken in a panic, thinking what the hell am I doing? I just cheated on my husband. And then Severus had murmured her name, or drowsily brushed the hair from her face, and she had settled again into a thin and restless sleep.

The soreness she felt (it seemed she hadn't used some of those muscles in years) compounded the sense of otherworldliness she felt at arriving back in Ottery St Catchpole. She needed to sleep...really sleep...but she was far too restless and jittery to lie down. This is no longer my house, she thought. I don't belong anywhere.

Ronald was already at work when she arrived, either in the office they'd rented as a makeshift classroom, or in the home of one of his pupils. She knew she should know which, but it seemed she'd lost track of his schedule somewhere along the way. Despite her chagrin at how completely she'd seemingly already abandoned her life with Ron, it helped that she was alone, that she did not have to put on, for now, the weary face of the late-night worker and bury the maelstrom of emotions that were assaulting her. She felt certain, deep down, in the place she had spent months refusing to acknowledge or inspect, that she was going to leave her husband. There was simply no way back from where she'd gone.

Loving Severus was unlike anything she'd ever known. She wanted to compare it to being young again, though she didn't think she'd ever felt quite this way when she was young. She wanted to compare it to the first desperate lungful of breath after being submerged in water for far too long, but that felt terribly and unnecessarily cruel. She simply knew that the world was brighter, deeper, more vibrant for loving him, and that she could not imagine going back to a time in which her heart did not feel so matched, so near to exploding, as it did now.

She could only assume he felt the same way. Hermione had left early, before Severus had even gotten out of bed. He had not asked her to stay again, for which she was grateful, but they also had not set a time to meet again, and she felt, now that she was safely away, a mad desire to go back so that they might begin to discuss what all this meant. He knew her situation. He'd been to the house, met her children. If he was willing to... to what? she thought impatiently... well, to pursue her, then he must... he must want her, yes, as some permanent fixture in his life?

She realized that her hands were shaking slightly. She'd banked her family on his love for her and...

She Floo'd her office, because there was simply no way that she was going to be able to go in. There was too much to process, too much that would need to be set in order, and she knew that she was not going to be able to focus, let alone pull herself together enough to appear in public. And too, it seemed there might be some chance that he'd have tried to contact her there, for surely he would not Floo the house. She took several deep breaths.

"Angela," she called into the green flames in the fireplace.

"Miz Weasley," the girl replied. "You're quite late."

"I know, Angela, I'm sorry. But I've been unavoidably detained this morning. I'm afraid I won't be in. Would you please contact Ragnok in Beasts and Beings and reschedule our meeting for Wednesday, if he's available? And also find out the Wizengamot's preliminary schedule for next week and owl it over."

"Your husband called this morning," Angela said without acknowledging Hermione's requests.

"Oh?" she said. "Did he leave a message?"

"No, but he seemed to think you were somewhere in the Ministry. I told him that I hadn't seen you, and that to my knowledge, you were not in the building."

"That's fine, Angela," Hermione said. And, sadly, it was. The Department of Mysteries was an iron-clad alibi for all sorts of wrong-doers, as the Ministry would never admit it existed to anyone who didn't work there. Hermione knew that she was not the first, nor would she be the last, to use the Ministry's paranoia for personal reasons. She sighed.

"Did I have any other messages?"

"No, ma'am. I'll Floo when I've heard from Beasts and Beings. Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Hermione said. "Just a touch of a bug or somesuch. I'll wait for your Floo."

She withdrew her head from the fire and sat on the hearth, feeling momentarily too frightened and drained to get up. What the hell am I doing? She thought. Am I honestly considering leaving Ronald? For a man who hasn't even said that he wants me? She let her head rest in her hands, and felt the blood pounding in her temples. Merlin alive, Hermione, she said to herself sharply. Are you really envisioning Severus Snape as a cad about town, seducing all the married women away from their husbands? Surely if he just wanted some female companionship, there were easier courtships to be had, yes? And perhaps the reason you haven't heard from him is that A. you left his home not yet an hour ago or B. he knows better than to try to owl you at home or at your very high-profile job. Perhaps you could leave off the histrionics and attend to the mess that is your life.

Feeling slightly better (if a bit bemused that apparently, the voice that she chose to chastise herself with was that of Minerva McGonagall), she rose.

She wandered from room to room, taking in the clutter of her daily life with Ron. The genial mess of the Weasley household stood in stark contrast to the almost austere home she had just left. Other than the sitting room into which they had first arrived, Severus's home was plain and white, almost as if it were waiting, like a blank piece of parchment. Could she live in such a place? Would the chaos of her self overpower it?

She looked around her. Never before had she considered any of their belongings hers or Ron's. Young as they were when they married, most of what they had, they'd bought together, or acquired from their families over time. She supposed that anything that had come from her family was technically hers. The console table in the hallway where they kept all their Muggle things...money, keys, mobile phones. The kitchen table where the children had done their schoolwork back before Hogwarts. The dresser in Hugo's room. A stray chair or two.

Not enough to imagine moving to a place of her own, she thought. And she felt in a deep and inarguable way that she was not entitled to anything in the house. Ronald had kept his promises, and so (regardless of whose money had been spent) it was he who had earned these things.

Oh? a small voice asked in her mind. And what about the children? Has he 'earned' them too?

The children were the problem she least wanted to consider. Every solution was the wrong one where the children were concerned; there was no happy ending for them now, and what hurt Hermione's heart the most was that she had somehow created a situation in which, for her to be happy, the children had to be unhappy. What kind of mother allowed these dichotomies? What kind of mother fell in love with a man who was not her children's father?

Hugo, she thought, might someday accept Severus, might learn to like him, even, if Christmas was any indication. But he would be hit the hardest by the destruction of their marriage, Hermione knew. So sensitive, so reliant on the safety of his family... Hugo would not understand what she had done to them.

And Rose? Rose was the more likely of the two to understand. She was at an age at which love was paramount, and she had a bit more distance from her parents than Hugo did, having left for Hogwarts two years earlier. She had friends whose parents had divorced; she was not so naïve... and yet, Severus and Rose, she thought, would never understand each other. Rose, with her boys and her clothes and her Quidditch...what could she share with a man like Severus? She was pretty, popular, and distinctly Gryffindorian. They were a recipe for disaster.

Hermione made her way upstairs, lingering in the doorway of Hugo's bedroom. She could smell his musty, little-boy smell, and she longed for him more acutely than she could ever remember having done. She crossed the room and sat down on his bed, pulling his pillow to her and hugging it over her stomach.

Who had invented boarding schools, anyway? she thought. It was barbaric, sending your children away for most of the year, losing them before such a thing was natural. She rocked slightly, still holding tight to Hugo's pillow.

If you do this, you really will lose them both, she thought. And not in this maudlin, empty-nest sort of way.

She did not cry, because she was too stunned to do so yet. Too caught in the headlamps of that thought, too terribly aware of the truth of it.

You see them only three times a year as it is, and if you are lucky, when this is over...if Ronald is kind...one of those holidays might be yours. But you can only guarantee their presence. Their forgiveness is another matter. McGonagall's voice was back, and now Hermione did cry, her arms holding Hugo's pillow in a death grip.

"No," she cried aloud. "Not my children, no." She shook her head uselessly back and forth.

But how could it be any other way? she thought. Such exacting standards she'd always had, hadn't she? Fairness, justice, honor...weren't those the watchwords of not just their home, but of the House affiliation she'd passed along to her children like the color of their eyes? How could they forgive a mother who asked of them what she failed to hold to herself? The kind of mother who cared so little for her promises that she would break their hearts, their father's heart...

She lay down on Hugo's bed and sobbed. There was no way. She could not do it. Not with her children at stake.

But what about love? her traitorous heart spoke up. What about the extraordinary? Did she want to teach her children to settle for safety and routine when something life-changing came along? Should she teach them to deny their hearts, the truth? Would it truly be kinder to them to live a quiet lie?

Fort, perhaps drawn to the hitching sound of her breathing, padded down the hall and into the room, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors.

Fortescue. Here was one more betrayal to add to the list, for she had failed to think of Fort at all. The children were away, caught in the throes of their own lives, but Fort was here, and he endured in his helpless Crup way the loss of his beloved playmates, left behind with Ron and Hermione. And now she would tear even that apart. There was no way she could take him with her. He was the children's Crup...they'd got him when Hugo had turned two, and he should stay in the children's home. Besides that, the very idea of Severus tolerating a Crup was absurd...hair on the furniture, the potions garden all dug up...Oh, god, would she be made to give up everything she loved? Was that the price of this?

She scooped Fort up and buried her face in his neck. "I am so sorry," she whispered, over and over again into his fur.

***

After a time, she quieted and went downstairs to fetch a cup of tea. If the very thought of the family Crup was tearing her to pieces, she needed to regroup and consider the situation logically. She sat at the scarred wooden table, letting the warmth of her cup seep into her hands. She longed for Severus. Seeing him would remind her of how she had come to be in this situation, remind her why all this pain and upheaval was necessary. And yet, she felt reluctant to contact him.

Mostly, she was afraid of her own hysteria...she seemed to be swinging the pendulum between hope and despair; her thoughts were a scattered mess, and she didn't trust herself to refrain from sobbing all over him. And Severus was so frighteningly insecure, so apt to bolt at the slightest hint of her fear or reluctance. Better to have herself sorted first.

What she really needed, she told herself, was someone to talk to...a woman to whom she could lay out this whole sordid mess, someone who could be made to understand, someone who could stay calm and help her sort it out. What she needed was a best friend.

She threw a handful of Floo powder into the kitchen fire without a second thought. "Gin?" she said. "Are you busy?"

"What's wrong?" Ginny asked, her worried face appearing suddenly in the fireplace.

As soon as she saw Ginny's hair shining molten emerald, Hermione remembered the problem. How had she surrounded herself entirely with Weasleys? She thought miserably. It suddenly seemed like incredibly poor planning to have her husband's sister as her closest friend. If trouble arose...even trouble not of her own creation...she would be left alone.

Not to mention the rest of the Weasleys, who'd been like family to her...who were family to her...and Harry. Married to Ginny, best friend to Ron, practically a Weasley in his own right, Harry would side with them, of course. (And what choice would he have? She didn't really have a 'side;' there was no argument in favor of what she was doing) and then even her childhood, fraught as it was, would be lost to her. The Golden Trio would be fractured beyond repair.

And while she was on the subject of the Golden Trio...the press! Oh, the press would have a field day. Hermione Granger betrays Ronald Weasley! Takes up with Death Eater Severus Snape! They would both be crucified. It would destroy the children. She remembered all too well the effects of the Daily Prophet on the Great Hall at breakfast.

"Hermione, answer me! What's wrong? I'm coming through."

"No!" she said, snapping out of her reverie. "No, I'm fine, honestly. I worked overnight at the Department of Mysteries, and so I'm a bit low on sleep, and then I used some doxycide on the curtains and it always makes me feel ill."

Ginny looked vaguely mollified. "Well, you need to use better ventilation. You scared me. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Hermione said quickly. Why had Flooing Ginny seemed like a good idea? "Nothing. Like I said, I spent the night in Mysteries, and so I've taken the day off to rest. I just thought I'd Floo to chat, but now I think I had better lie down."

"Yes, I think you'd better. I'll Floo later to check on you. When is Ron coming home? I could send Harry round with some soup after work."

"No, there's no need. Ron will be home soon. Thanks for thinking of me, Gin."

They disconnected, and Hermione sat at the table, staring at the wall and feeling her cup going cold in her hands. This was her life. There was no way out of it.

***

She fared no better over the next several days.

She stayed at work as much as possible, for when she was there, she was forced to attend to tasks other than remembering the thrill of seeing Severus waiting for her in that classroom, other than turning over and over her increasing certainty that she was somehow going to have to let him go.

Not for lack of loving him. Not because he was unworthy of the sacrifice or the pain that would result in leaving her family, but because she was Hermione Granger (Weasley or not). And if part of loving him were loving herself, then she had to admit that she could not do it while breaking all her promises, while harming her children. She doubted he would ever understand.

"So you were toying with me?" he sneered in her head. "You thought you'd have a bit of fun at Snape's expense, is that it? Sad old Severus, so starved for attention that he'd simply jump at the chance to roll in the hay with Weasley's seconds?"

She argued with him in her mind. She allowed the Severus of her imagination to say hurtful, awful things. She knew she deserved all of them.

***

When the day of the class finally arrived, Hermione was unable to eat. She sat at her desk in the Ministry of Magic, hollow-eyed with fatigue and empty-gutted, as if she'd been scraped clean inside.

She would never have looked through the post, if not for the charm: a familiar Notice-Me-Not that seemed somehow to beg for her attention all the same. She did not need to ask herself who had sent the letter. She simply warded the door and read it.

Hermione, it said.

I am writing to tell you that I have withdrawn from Advanced Contemporary Potion Making.

I have looked for the loophole. I have allowed myself to imagine that there might be some way to continue our... here there was a blot on the page as if he had let his quill rest too long against the parchment... relationship while leaving your life unharmed. I was, after all, a spy. Secrecy is not foreign to me. But I find that I cannot stomach it. I have been slave to so much, Hermione. I cannot take your marriage as my newest master. However little I have, it must be mine. In time, I would grow to hate you, and I could not bear that either.

Severus

She folded the letter with numb fingers and set it on her desk. She laid both her hands on top of it as if it were his skin, as if this were the last touch she would ever deliver to him. She closed her eyes against the tears that were forming in her eyes.

"Live well, Severus," she whispered.

***

It was heartbreaking, she thought, that it should be the end of their affair that made her so certain it had been real. In that agonizing week before the letter had arrived, she'd asked herself a hundred times if she was sure that she loved him, if this were not all, in fact, some bizarre concoction of hormones and novelty that had left her as senseless and infatuated as a teenager. His letter, at least, had put that fear to rest. It soothed her, somehow, to know that she could still trust her own judgment, if not her own unfaithful heart.

She did not know how she was meant to go on, except to put one foot in front of the other. She did not know how many months or years would pass before she stopped watching for him in every black-haired stranger's face on the street, before she was able to open the post without looking for his spidery scrawl. But she knew that she must go home, because that was what he had bought for her with his love. A way back.

***

She dumped a scoop of food into Fort's dish and aimed her wand at the pan on the cooker, turning the beef. It would be these things, these simple routines, that would lead her back to her own life, if such a thing were possible. Dinners at home. Empty-nest nights with Harry and Ginny.

She heard the pop of Ronald's Apparition in the foyer. "Hello!" she called.

"Hey, 'Mione!" he called back, and the simple pleasure in his voice squeezed her heart. "I wasn't expecting you home!"

He walked into the kitchen, dumping a pile of papers onto the table.

"I decided to drop the class," she said, not looking at him. She removed the pan from the heat and set a knife to dicing peppers. "And you look like you could use a little help with the marking."

"Well, maybe just a little," he said, smiling his sheepish grin at her. "I think that Violet Dinwiddie is going to be a little Arithmantic prodigy when she gets to Hogwarts. I'd like it if you'd check over some of her more advanced maths, if you would. You know I sometimes get the signs..."

"Yes, I know," she said. "After supper I'll take a look."

"Dropped the class, eh?" Ron asked, coming up behind her and slipping an arm around her waist. "Just not the same without Snape?"

She closed her eyes and smiled a sad little smile, just the barest turning up at the corners.

"Something like that."