Chapter Three

Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR.

A/N: Thanks to Psykiapa, Rhiannon, & ladyinthecloak for their continued work and support of the story.

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The memory's ghost visited her in her sleep ...

It was barely a week after Victory Day. Hermione had been awake for a few hours, and was currently preparing a late lunch in her cramped kitchen. Her hair fell around her shoulders in tangles; she still wore the clothes she'd slept in. She figured that after the constant pressure, tension, and anxiety of the war, she was within her rights to be as unkempt as she wanted to be.

And this particular afternoon, she desired to be very unkempt. Today there was a press conference for the Daily Prophet – which was, in fact, the tenth of its kind in the week since Voldemort's final destruction. Completely ridiculous, Hermione thought. Anyone staying glued to the Prophet's front page at this point in the lives of British wizards was, to use her former professor's words, a complete dunderhead. The threat of violence, of terror, and death – it was gone. Celebrations had already died down as people sought to spend time with family and friends.

With Harry and Ginny off celebrating on the French Riviera ('celebrating' had become synonymous with shagging, Hermione thought), Ron finally able to accept the position of reserve Keeper for the Canons, and the more mature Order members off frolicking about England in well-deserved merriment, Hermione felt at ease to relax and spend a day with her coffee and her books.

At present, though, she was cooking up a delightful batch of fried sopapillas. Comfort food was the order of the hour. She smiled to herself. Sopapillas were her favorite Spanish dessert – or was it Mexican? She could never remember. The pieces of fried tortilla were currently bubbling and expanding. She had a jar of honey and a bowl of sugar waiting to adorn the fried wonders. Hermione's sopapillas were, her friends agreed, better then the ones offered at any restaurant in London, be it magical or Muggle. Personally, Hermione was convinced that a brilliant potions student was likely to be as equally brilliant in the kitchen. Both were widely thought to merely consist of measuring and mixing various ingredients into one homogenous, edible blob. In truth, a good potion and a good meal required a good deal of intuition and brains. Coupled with golden gut instincts, they produced, undeniably, the best results of their kind in their respective fields.

Besides, sopapillas and dark roast were divine together.

He appeared quietly in a corner, admiring the figure that stood in the heated kitchen, mindlessly poking at the frying pan, so sure in her abilities and practised in her skill that barely any concentration was needed. He inhaled the aroma ... sopapillas. He sighed – one of his two weaknesses. Considering that the other weakness was in the process of making said sopapillas, he felt a strong urge to embrace her and pledge his undying love.

Considering what he'd come here for, that was decidedly out of the question.

Hermione glanced up, seeing him standing there by the fireplace, leaning against it in a roguish manner, a contorted look of pain and pleasure on his face. She gave it little thought.

"Severus!" she cried, running to leap into his arms. She was elated to see him, and certainly the way he looked did nothing to discourage her. Fitted black dress pants, a crisp white shirt with unbuttoned cuffs, and that mane of black silk that hung barely inches from his shoulders ... it was enough to drive any woman completely mad with lust, let alone love.

He had, for one heady moment, returned the embrace, before stiffening and removing her arms from his neck. It almost killed him to do so.

Hermione looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Is anything wrong?" Their eyes seared into one another's.

His eyes had flickered, she noticed. They now had assumed their cold, steely stare, but what was it that had been in them before? Alarmed, she realised it had been painful regret.

"I'm leaving England tonight," he said, at last.

"What?" she gawked, the words not registering in her head.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking to the floor for a miraculous explanation. "I have to go. This place ... this country ... it is too full of memories, too full of ..." he caught the words before they formed. Too full of pain. He cleared his throat. "A continued existence in this land is not something I can do right now, nor is it something I want to do. I desire some remnant of peace; I need rest," he finished, slipping into his classic professor voice. He hoped that that would be enough to placate her, but he knew that it wouldn't.

There was a flash of fire in her eyes. He'd been right. This wasn't going to be easy. Then again, was the right thing ever easy?

Hermione's eyes were practically scorching him with their intensity. "Is that really why? Do not try to woo me to your decision with short, contrived words, Severus. It does not become you. Since when did you ever need to give reasons to anyone?"

"It is not your approval I seek, woman. I came here to tell you of my decision, as I have told other Order members," he said through clenched teeth.

She gulped. "Other Order members? So that's all I am to you – a person to inform? Do I mean nothing?"

He paused.

Oh shit, she thought.

They hadn't been involved – well, not in a romantic sense. They were the intellectuals, the academics that had been at Grimmauld. Like-minded people gravitated towards each other. They'd soon become not only colleagues and critics of each other's research, but close friends.

If only he knew how she wanted him – his body, mind, everything. Well done, Hermione, she thought to herself. Now he's leaving, comes to inform you just as he would Remus or Molly, and you decide to drop the Atomic Bomb of clues ...

Meanwhile, Severus stood dumbfounded. Had she just insinuated what he thought?

Hermione sighed, mentally slapping herself. May as well go for the gold.

"If you are leaving, Severus, it is obvious that I am not enough to hold you here."

Oh shit, he thought.

Did she know what she was doing to him – to his resolve? He had to leave England, had been practically ordered to do so – and now was when he found that the one woman he had ever truly loved had also loved him in return?

The mingled fire and pain in her eyes was enough to make him want to throw the Ministry's demands to the Atlantic. His hands twitched with the desire to embrace her.

He had fought with himself mentally for months. He loved her – everything about her. Her brains, her desire for knowledge (a perfect match for his own), the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she looked at him with those doe brown eyes ...

He had thought about how exactly to approach her. He knew he was older – considerably older. His past was anything but decent. His reputation had been practically destroyed after Albus' death. He fought to control the welling emotions as he thought of his mentor. Any sane witch would never want him.

Hermione Granger, admittedly, walked the line of genius and insanity with graceful ease. She was, of course, brilliant, and an entirely well-adjusted person. But Severus had seen her in the throes of research; he'd been at her side when she had discovered both solutions and things that ruined the entire experiment. In these instances, insanity was a more apt description of Minerva's prize lioness.

She stood there, silent and deadly, waiting for an answer. How could he, was all she could think. After everything they'd been through together. Now he decided to leave ...

He didn't need Legilimency to know what she was thinking. And he so wanted to tell her why he was doing this.

The Ministry had approached him the day before. He knew what they would ask of him, had expected it, but was still slightly surprised when the time came. His compatriots, Hermione included, had come out of the war smelling like roses. He, on the other hand, was still tainted with the murder of Albus Dumbledore to his name – and to the Ministry, a cleared murderer was little better then a convicted one. He had been told in not so kind words to make himself scarce; preferably, to leave the country.

Leaving the country was not the problem for Severus. He preferred the warm, sunbathed summers of his youth to the bitter chill of the English seasons. He had many places he could go to. Personal residences, friends, and fellow Potions masters begging him for assistance with research. They were the least of his worries.

Hermione. He had fallen in love with the woman – his correspondent, and then colleague, who he'd worked with for the year preceding the war's end. She had such a bright mind, such a promising future.

She loved him. She had to. Severus had once heard that the eyes were the windows to the soul. He'd thought it was some daft Muggle phrase. In retrospect, though, it was certainly true. At this moment, he saw the mixed emotions fighting for control. Anger, fury, passion, and pain. Sadness and loss. Love.

He swallowed his emotions. It was better this way, it really was. Society would not want her if she came with him attached at her side. Her future – the one that promised to shape the wizarding world for centuries to come – would not look so bright with a pardoned Death Eater in the picture.

She spoke before he could, barely a whisper. "If you don't want me, Severus, then for God's sake – leave me." Her eyes clouded with tears that began to stream down her face.

He couldn't take it. He walked to her, his face inches from hers, as he placed his hands roughly on her shoulders. They both shuddered.

"It is not that I don't want you. My reasons are beyond explanation, and are without excuse. This is not something I choose to do. It is something that is required of me."

Hermione gave an incredulous laugh. "You, the great Severus Snape, Potions master Extraordinaire, the man who ruled the unscrupulous Slytherins with an iron fist, the right hand man of Voldemort, the trusted ally of Albus Dumbledore – you are telling me that you cannot make one simple decision to stay? For me?" she raged.

His hands fell from her shoulders.

"This is it then," she choked, eyes brimming with tears yet again. "You want me?" she asked numbly.

He was hardly able to nod in response.

She put all her remaining strength into one last stand.

"Well, Severus, you have me, but you refuse to take me." She raised her eyes defiantly in challenge.

She wanted him to kiss her. Or do something more. Something that, Severus knew, would not bode well for either of them when his time for departure came. He broke away from her stare, declining the challenge. He saw her eyes begin to well with emotion.

"I am sorry, Hermione," he said softly. "It does not ... change things."

Hermione shut her eyes, trying to control her emotions. She loved this man. He was leaving her. Nothing made sense. She didn't know why this was happening – she was sure there was an underlying reason. One strong enough to set this choice in stone.

She nearly heard her heart snap in two.

She raised a hand to his cheek, unable to see his features clearly through her tears. "I ... I don't understand, Severus. But ... I accept this ... decision. I am sure you have your reasons, but I," her chin was quivering so harshly she could barely speak. "... I ..."

He tried to draw her into an embrace, but she stepped back, evading his arms. "No," she said harshly, pointing a finger at him. "No," she attempted to control her breathing, "that will only make this harder. If you are so determined to do this, I need you away from me completely." She was scarcely able to get the words out.

He hung his head.

Several moments passed.

"Leave. Please leave."

She had turned her back, and heard him Apparate.

She held her face in her hands as her tears spilled onto the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her framed pictures sitting on a side table. There was her family on vacation in St. Tropez, Harry, Ron, and herself, waving happily as the train took them to school before their fourth year, and, of course, a beautiful snapshot of the Weasley family taken last Christmas. And there was the picture. Her leaping into Severus' arms.

She couldn't take it.

"NO!" she shrieked, letting out a primal scream as she hurled the picture against the wall. Sobs began to wrack her body as she slowly knelt to the floor. As she leaned on the lowest part of her apartment for support as she cried her heart out, she realised that this was the lowest she had ever been in her life.