Check Mate, The Black King Advances II

Guard... Check... Mate

By Bambu

~o0o~

Chapter Five: Check Mate, the Black King Advances

The next thing Snape felt was a thud as he collided with a hard tiled floor. He hoped it was the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and right at Albus Dumbledore's feet. He couldn't see where he was. He could only feel and smell... scorched sinew and flesh. The burning hex was still active and he screamed and whimpered in pain as he pressed his singed, bloodied face into the cool floor.

"Merlin! Severus, what's happened?" Molly Weasley's voice was terrified, almost as high pitched at Voldemort's, and as welcome as an ice-bath.

Snape faded in and out of awareness, and he longed for the oblivion of darkness... insensate darkness.

He felt Dumbledore's gnarled hands rip the Portkey from his clothing, and heard the old wizard shout for Harry and Ron and Lupin. Dumbledore was summoning the Order of the Phoenix, and his voice receded from the kitchen. This was it, the showdown.

Snape had made it. He had fulfilled his duty. Hermione was safe and he'd been unerringly correct in his prediction: Dumbledore hadn't spared him the time to remove the Inflamare Curse, which was even now about to consume him. Snape forced his mind to think of Hermione, he wanted his last thoughts to be of the peace and companionship he'd found with her for these short few weeks.

He burned and writhed on the tile floor. Forgotten... dying.

He vaguely heard running footsteps and then Arthur Weasley's voice, surprisingly steady, say "Finite Incantatem!"

The searing, burning, boiling in his veins ceased, his lungs sucked in pure, cold air, and, Snape screamed in relief, tears of blood tracked down his ruined cheeks.

Just as the waiting arms of darkness enveloped him in her embrace, he felt an oddly shaped object thrust into his cramped, clenched fists, and, of all people, Harry Potter's strained voice, say, "Thank you, Professor... for everything. Live. Live for Hermione."

Blackness descended and Snape felt the familiar tug behind his navel as he was whisked away from Grimmauld Place.

Snape slipped into and out of consciousness and lucidity for an indeterminate period of time. He couldn't see anything, and once or twice feared for his eyesight, then laughed, an unrecognizable sound, gurgling and choked, at worrying about so trivial a thing when death was dancing with him in the darkness.

Pain wracked his body, the fierce blaze of tissue and nerves damaged by Cruciatus and Voldemort's last hex. Snape's body was a mass of raw, bloodied welts and muscle spasms. He was unsure whether he was alive or in some extremely bizarre ante-chamber of hell.

Interspersed between blissful periods of nothingness, the sounds of scurrying footsteps, multiple stasis and healing spells intruded into his screaming mind. A noxious and foul mixture was forced between his clenched jaws, and he gulped the liquid, uncaring whether it was poison or cure. It cooled everything it touched as it made its way down his throat, through his esophagus and into his stomach. The welcome relief caused him to sigh and shed more bloodied tears, and he barely felt his body transferred to a bed. The effects of the potion began to spread, to counter the torturous inroads blazed by the Inflamare Curse.

Snape sobbed at the respite from his agony and at the fleeting, semi-formed thought that he might still be alive.

After some time had passed... days... weeks... he had no concept, the faint smell of an astringent assailed his nostrils and distant sounds of feet made him draw the conclusion, his last for some time, that he was in a large room and that there were healers present. Where he was exactly he didn't know, and didn't care. Rational thought was far too taxing for his violated body and mind to deal with.

Sounds, snippets of conversations, flickered through his semi-conscious state. He thought perhaps, but dismissed it as wish fulfillment, that he heard Hermione's voice raised in panic, and later that she was arguing heatedly with someone.

Am I alive?

Darkness remained his friend, for wakefulness was confusing and painful. His eyes were bandaged; in one moment, he remembered a Senior Healer saying something about ruptured blood vessels in his eyes. He had no idea if they would heal. He'd been unable to remain awake for the rest of the conversation.

I must be alive.

Someone at his bedside murmured responses to questions. He couldn't make out the voice, it was indistinct but female, and he hoped it was Hermione, even if it couldn't be. She was waiting at the cottage for him. Waiting at a cottage he no longer knew how to find. Tears tracked from beneath his bandaged eyes and across his wounded cheeks, and the muscle spasms took him again.

Maybe I'm in hell.

His face itched as did his forearms. Every time he moved to scratch, some group of muscles seized in uncontrollable spasm and he'd whimper in pain. When they would cease, he was left shaking and with absolutely no muscle control whatever. His brain, marginally coherent, supplied an answer: after-effects of the Cruciatus. Soothing fingers would massage the spasms, and more noxious liquid would be poured down his throat. But the burning had ceased, and he wondered if his brain was intact.

I'm alive.

The exultant thought roused him. His throat was parched and he was intensely thirsty. He tried to ask for water but his voice was unrecognizable. He would later find out that his vocal chords had been seared as a result of the Inflamare. It wasn't an Unforgivable... only by virtue of being so new a curse that it hadn't been classified. As he croaked again, urgently needing some water to soothe his throat, he heard a stifled sob, then liquid was poured into his mouth. It wasn't water, but it was soothing and his raw vocal chords soaked up the curative. A scent that he thought he recognized filtered through the odors of healing wounds and seared nasal membranes.

He slept.

Finally, after an indefinite number of days, Snape woke feeling as if he knew who he was and that his body was under his control. His throat was once again dry and he was terribly thirsty. Again there was a faint, recognizable scent in the room. The gauze wrapped around his eyes was thin enough that, if he squinted, he was able to make out the shape of a window in whatever room he was being kept, and that there was enough light to assume it was day.

Snape turned his head stiffly, careful not to set the muscles into spasm. Squinting through the filmy layer impeding his sight, he could vaguely make out the figure of someone at his bedside. He knew who he wanted it to be, but had no reasonable right to expect it. She'd said that she'd wait for him at the cottage. He couldn't bear it if he'd lived and couldn't find out whether Hermione had waited for him to return. Did she even know that he'd survived? Did she even know that the final... Gods. He didn't even know what happened. Had the confrontation occurred, had Potter won? Had his personal sacrifice been in vain or had it been a success?

Impatiently, Snape shifted, and a startled noise at his bedside drew his attention. It was a half-choked sob. Gentle fingers touched his face. His cheeks were no longer bandaged and he could the feel fingers gently tracing what would be thin scars inflicted by his own hands seeking to ease the pain of that final hex. He was so entranced by the touch that he failed to notice the repetitive whisper of her voice or that familiar scent intensify.

"...forgive me, forgive me. I couldn't just sit and wait... not knowing. I had to help."

It was Hermione. Against all his expectations, she was at his side, she was here. SHE WAS HERE!

"What are you doing here?" It was a croak. Snape's voice bore no resemblance to his normal, controlled tone.

"Severus?" She stood in a rush, almost leaping on him in her eagerness, and the sudden blockage of light through the gauze blocking his vision caused him to flinch and Hermione to cry out. "Oh!"

"Damn it, woman! What are you doing here? Why are you not at the cottage?" Anger rose to the surface of his relief, evidence of his fear for her. But nothing intelligible emerged from of his mouth, only a guttural cough. He certainly couldn't speak with her like this.

"What do you need, Severus? The Healer?" She took a step away from the bed, and his hand, finally acting upon directions from his functioning brain, reached out to stay her departure. Hermione caught his flailing hand, gently sandwiching it between her smaller hands. "I won't leave. What do you need?"

You! I need you!

He couldn't say it yet. He croaked, "Water."

This time she understood and he was elevated by invisible hands and Hermione put a cup to his lips, tilting it enough for him to slake his thirst. The invisible hands retreated and he breathed deeply, just those few moments had exhausted him.

He closed his eyes. She was there. Hermione was at his side. "Stay," he croaked.

"Of course," she responded, her fingers tracing patterns on the back of his hand.

Snape slept.

When next he awoke, the gauze around his head was gone and he hesitantly opened his eyes. It was dark. The room was illuminated only by moonlight streaming in through the curtainless window. His vision wasn't impaired, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips.

Snape turned his head, wondering whether Hermione had been a figment of his imagination or not. Not. She was there, and his heart lurched. She was asleep, curled up in a chair at his bedside. He didn't need light to see her clearly or to recognize the outline of her unruly hair. He'd seen her sleeping face so often that he knew what she looked like. Nonetheless, Snape's greedy eyes peered at her in the dark, seeking out her familiar, beloved features. He strained to make out her face, her determined little chin, the full mouth, slightly pert nose, and her luminous dark eyes... which were even now staring back at him in the dark. Hermione was awake.

This time when he spoke the words were intelligible. "Why did you not wait?"

Her voice trembled. "I knew you would be angry with me for being here, but I was so worried."

"That is not an answer. You said you would wait for me."

"I did wait. I waited for six days after the Order meeting. Six long, agonizing days when you didn't come, you didn't arrive. I could only think of you, and, finally, I had to know if you were... alive."

His mind was waking up, was working through what she'd said. Snape rejoiced that his mental faculties didn't seem diminished. He didn't know about the rest of his body, but he could think and he could see and his limbs seemed intact. "How did you know where to find me?" And then he answered his own question. "Potter! Potter sent me here."

Snape scowled at Hermione in the dark. Somehow he owed another generation of Potters a life-debt.

Her voice was quiet, hardly carrying to his bed. "It was a contingency plan I worked out with Harry earlier this summer... in my first letter to the boys. If he thought it necessary... he promised... if you needed help, he agreed to have you brought here."

"Hermione! You should not... you did not..." He stopped babbling to gather his wits, perhaps the lack of control was a side effect of Voldemort's curse. "He did. Potter put a Portkey in my hands..." He looked at her again, the moonlight giving him insufficient light to see her clearly. "How could you risk yourself like this?"

His fear for her, his anger that she'd broken the Fidelius charm practically rendered his sacrifice immaterial. More coldly than he meant, he demanded, "Tell me what happened?"

Her breath hitched but strengthened as she spoke, "Harry won. We lost too many, but it's over. Voldemort is dead and the Death Eaters... most of them are either in hell with him or languishing in Azkaban for the rest of their natural lives. Malfoy is one of them."

Relief flooded Snape. He was alive. Hermione was alive. Potter had won and the Dark Lord was dead. It was inconceivable... unbelievable... apparently true. His mind attempted to assimilate the concept of his new... incredible... circumstances, and he hardly heard what Hermione was saying.

"I know that you have every right to be angry with me. But please understand. The day after the meeting, when you hadn't come all night and I'd kept from panicking by rationalizing that something important had happened, I felt the wards waiver and reset. Severus, the key in my pocket changed, the bit shifted into a new pattern."

She rose from the chair and he was lured from the mental distraction by her movement. He could see the tension in her body, and the familiar scent that was one part floral shampoo and one part Hermione wafted to him, borne on the currents of air she was creating by her anxious pacing. He inhaled deeply, the fragrance filling his senses as listened to her explanation.

"I knew that you were either mortally injured... or were... were.... And still I waited. I didn't sleep for two days. Then it was the next day, and then the next. I argued with myself, but I worried constantly. And I waited. What little sleep I got was riddled with nightmares."

She stopped pacing and stood at the foot of his bed, a slender shadow cloaked in darkness. Only her eyes gleamed in the dim moonlight filtering in through the window. Her voice was steady but strained, and he remembered how they'd talked when a glamour had covered her face. He'd relied then upon reading her eyes and her voice. From the tone of her voice now, he knew that she was utterly sincere.

"My promise to you was so important, that I couldn't cavalierly toss aside your sacrifice for my safety, but after almost a week with no word, I couldn't continue one more minute without knowing if you were alive or... or... dead. I knew that if you were alive, you would be here. Harry had promised me. I thought that I could safely risk one Apparition... I'm sorry if I've abused your trust. I understand if you can't forgive me." Her voice ended on a whisper, and she was perfectly still.

Snape thought that his heart might burst, it was so full of her confession and her distress. She'd worried herself sick for him. Not for Harry, nor Ron nor anyone else... but for him. A tiny shard spiked through his brain... perhaps there was a later for them, after all.

"Hermione..." There was no question of forgiveness and he wasn't angry with her, he was too damned happy to see her. He should have known that she wouldn't stay put. When had she ever let her friends down when they were in need? Snape's mind supplied his answer. Never. His breath caught in his throat. She'd done as he asked until her nature... her Gryffindor nature... had asserted itself and she'd come to find him. She had found him and remained by his side. His chest swelled with emotion and his throat was tight.

"Hermione, my only concern has been for you... that you stay safe. I should have expected that the Gryffindor in you wouldn't wait quietly while others fought your battles." There. Some of the flexibility had returned to his vocal chords, and he'd sounded more like himself.

Hermione remained at the foot of his bed, her hair a corona of inky, shadowy curls. "You forgive me?"

He held out his hand, and even in the dark she reached it in two quick steps. She leaned forward and scalding tears dripped onto his face as she lowered her mouth to brush his cheeks with her lips. Her hair cascaded around them, tickling, and her tears irritated his newly healed skin, but when her lips found his, Snape forgot the slight annoyances. She tasted sweet and a little salty, and he wanted the kiss as much as he wanted his next breath of air.

It was tender, it was passionate, and Snape deepened the embrace, sucking her lower lip between his, then flicking his tongue against her lips. When she responded with equal fervor, he caressed her tongue with long, slow strokes, teasing, tasting... pouring his relief, his understanding, and his desire into his kiss. His unclasped hand snaked around the nape of Hermione's neck, and his fingers splayed to cup her head.

Time stretched, pulled taut and snapped as Snape felt and heard Hermione utter a tiny, whimpering sigh. He moved his free hand to cup her face and then, as they broke their kiss, to trace her kiss-plumped mouth, feeling her lips move as she smiled.

One-handedly, Hermione retrieved her wand and, with a flick of her wrist, summoned her chair closer to his bedside. She never relinquished her grip on him, clasping his hand tightly in hers, remapping the veins, tendons and epidermis. Snape turned his wrist to entwine his fingers with hers, a pleasure he'd never felt before flooding his soul. It was far closer to true contentment than those weeks he'd spent sitting in a chair watching her, even with all the hours of stimulating conversation. It was different simply because he was touching her.

"You do not need my forgiveness, Hermione. Instead, I shall say the words you once said to me. I missed you."

"Oh, Severus," she choked, "you have no idea... I had no right to expect that we would both survive, but we have, and I don't have the words... I missed you... so much."

For a time, longer even than the kiss, they lapsed into companionable silence. Although he'd only spent one night a week in her company, their time together had been of such a quality -- especially after the epiphany that had launched their unique relationship -- that sitting quietly in the dark seemed, to him, entirely appropriate for two such as they.

After a time, Snape asked, "Tell me everything that you know about what's happened, Hermione. Where's Potter?"

"He's here, but there's one thing you need to know first... they wouldn't let me in here to begin with, so I..."

They were interrupted by the arrival of a Senior Healer who entered the room, and the lights came up. His voice dripped disapproval. "He's conscious? Why didn't you alert me, Mrs. Snape? You agreed to inform us immediately."

Snape stared at Hermione in startled disbelief. Mrs. Snape?! She met his stare and actually had the audacity to grin at him. Snape couldn't quite wrap his mind around the concept of Hermione Granger telling people that she was his wife. His wife!

The Senior Healer unceremoniously pushed her aside in his need to check Snape's recovery. Their hands separated, and Snape growled at the other wizard's rudeness. "Do not presume to treat Her... my wife... in such a manner."

The Senior Healer paused in his examination, and muttered an apology.

Snape arched an eyebrow at Hermione as her delight at his return to consciousness shone clearly on her face. He thought his heart would leap from his chest. As the Senior Healer, who hadn't bothered to introduce himself, poked and prodded and cast several diagnostic spells on his patient's body, the former spy categorized every piece of evidence that proved Hermione cared for him. He knew that she was grateful, and thought of him as a friend. He could easily have dismissed the signs of the affection she'd shown at the cottage as some sort of subconscious, traumatic sympathy transference due to the circumstances surrounding the deaths of her parents and the betrayal of Dumbledore. Except that she'd seen to his safety, making arrangements with Harry for his medical care, just as she would have done for her friends. But she'd remained at his bedside since he'd regained consciousness, day-in-and-day-out, and she'd kissed him... not an affectionate buss between friends or acquaintances, but a real, honest-to-Merlin tongue-twining kiss.

Unbidden, certainty began to snake its way through his mind, and he turned to look at Hermione, assessing her in the now well-lit room. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and her cheeks were gaunt, her lower lip had small darkened reddish sores where she'd peeled off layers of skin in her anxiety. He noticed the tension in her jaw... the jagged, red scar running along the right side of her neck, wrapping around her throat and into the collar of her rumpled, over-worn, Slytherin-green jumper. He hadn't noticed it in the dark, hadn't felt it during their kiss.

He quickly appraised the rest of her appearance, even as he was forced to roll to his side for the rest of his examination. Her hair was wild and needed a good grooming, her clothing bore the evidence of having been worn for too long, and held the slight sheen that indicated a cleaning charm applied too often.

How long has she been here?

Hermione looked exhausted and too thin, almost as she'd looked when they'd dismantled Dumbledore's glamour. Her scar was visible... and uncovered. She wore no glamour, no scarf, nothing to hide the evidence of Lucius Malfoy's curse. Snape knew that she was uncomfortable with the idea of strangers seeing it. They'd discussed it on several occasions. It was, therefore, astounding that Hermione had been distracted enough – she'd been frantic, the undulating hint of belief whispered -- to ignore its presence simply to be by his side. He wracked his hazy memory. If it could be relied upon, she'd been at his bedside since almost the beginning. For weeks she'd obviously worn the same clothing, hadn't gotten adequate rest and food, and had allowed the staff to think that they were married. Those details, coupled with the fact that she seemed unaware of the scar, led Snape to an inescapable conclusion. Hermione cared for him... beyond gratitude, beyond friendship... perhaps deeply.

Snape's heart beat hard enough that the Senior Healer checked his vital signs again. He was suffused with a strangely ebullient emotion, and decided that he could even forgive her for coercing Potter into her plans. That thought served to remind him. "Potter, what happened to Potter?"

Hermione's smile dimmed and Snape was afraid that the young wizard hero's wounds were terminal and would yet consign him to an eternity with the Dark Lord. It was only a fate he would wish upon Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange and an especial few who'd earned their rightful place at Tom Riddle's side in perpetuity.

The insufferably interfering Healer handed him a vial and ordered him to drink it. The Potions master sniffed, ascertaining the quality of the elixir, and then impatiently tossed it down, anything to be rid of the distraction. He scowled at the wizard who had moved across the room to quill several notes on a parchment chart.

"Harry's still unconscious, but he's lucky to be alive and he's lost an eye. His room is next to yours, and I've been checking on him daily, whenever I can pry Ginny from his side. That girl's like a niffler with a galleon. She wasn't terribly happy to see that I survived my 'ordeal.'"

Snape snorted in amusement. Hermione had no idea how tenacious the youngest Weasley could be. But her next words corrected his misconception.

"I'd thought that we were friends, but I realize now that I was merely a means to an end. But I don't think Ginny's going to find Harry as malleable as she believes, nor is she likely to find the support she expects from Ron. As much as she loves him, she'll never be Mrs. Harry Potter. He's given his heart elsewhere."

Snape froze and the Senior Healer left the room with a fierce, non-verbal berating of Hermione. She bowed her head in the face of the censure and the Healer patted her shoulder in understanding.

Ignoring the exchange between Hermione and the departing Healer, the dark-eyed wizard remembered that Potter had retreated for days after he'd believed Hermione to be dead... holed up in the library at Grimmauld Place, his faced streaked with tears and his eyes reddened and puffed. Was it possible that Potter had feelings for Hermione? Was it possible that – when he'd just convinced himself otherwise -- his fantasy utopia was as rotten as Thomas More's imagined paradise?

Once again, Hermione seemed to read him like one of her beloved books. "No! It's not me. That's just wrong on so many levels, besides our interests lie elsewhere... as you should already know." She stepped to his side and reached for his hand, snugly fitting her fingers between his, bringing their conjoined hands to her mouth, and pressing her lips against his knuckles. "Harry's in love with Luna Lovegood. Has been ever since they realized how much they had in common at the end of fifth year. Ron and I are the only ones who know. It was the only way Harry could protect her."

Hermione's eyes blazed with intensity and she seemed to be communicating something to him. Snape's brain didn't understand, but his body had no difficulty receiving the message. His stomach coiled with anticipation, and she leaned over him, her hair tumbling around them, blocking the light. But he found that he couldn't muster the energy to decode the message as she pressed her lips against his, demanding entrance. He was an intelligent man and welcomed her, once again suckling on her lower lip before opening to her tongue's exploration. A frivolous thought spiraled through his brain. She appeared to be as inquisitive in the physical manifestation of her passion as she was tenacious in her research. He might have smirked if his mouth hadn't been otherwise more pleasurably engaged.

When Hermione ended the kiss, she settled on the edge of his steel-framed, narrow bed and traced the veins on the back of his hand once again. He drifted off to sleep, coaxed by the hypnotic caressing of her fingers on his skin.

The next three weeks passed in an increasingly frustrating round of potions, examinations, and something the Healers had adapted from the Muggle world, physical therapy. As far as Snape was concerned, he would have called it 'Silly Wand Waving for Morons.' He hadn't been able to convince the Junior Healer that his wandmanship was perfectly fine and had submitted to exactly two painstaking, excruciatingly fundamental sessions before he'd sent the blond Beauxbatons graduate packing.

Hermione would smirk from her position in the squashy armchair she'd commandeered as her own, and every night they'd recreate their moments from the cottage. She would read or write letters, he would watch her obsessively and they would talk about the cottage garden, going so far as to draw up diagrams for a formal herb garden, and a structured potions garden. The flowers, Hermione insisted, would grow everywhere.

The best part of the recuperating wizard's day was when Hermione would kiss him. She rationed her kisses: the good morning kiss, the after breakfast kiss, the mid-day kiss, the awakening kiss, the dinner time kiss, the dessert kiss, and his personal favorite, the bedtime kiss. He named them all, hoarding their memories for a time when he might be bereft of them... or her. For all his seeming good fortune, Snape had never before been the beneficiary of sustained affectionate interest. He kept waiting for the penny to drop and Hermione to realize that she was now unfettered in her choice of futures.

Hermione stayed in the room during his 'therapy' with marginally competent Junior Healers; 'dunderhealers' she called them, but only after they'd left the room. He was never so circumspect as to hold his stinging wit, and it was a source of inner amusement to Snape that he never had the same 'therapist' twice. His reputation had spread rapidly. Snape waffled between eagerness to leave St. Mungo's and reluctance that it might signal the end of his time with Hermione.

Finally, after three weeks, Snape's patience had snapped. He snarled at everything and everyone, including Hermione, who remained at his side despite increasing suggestions from the St. Mungo's staff that she spend time elsewhere. She did... for three hours a day when she returned to the cottage to bathe and change her clothes, and then went to sit with the recovering Harry for an hour.

During one of the first evenings after he'd regained lucidity, Hermione had told Snape the list of those who had died the night of the last encounter. Hermione refused to call it the final battle because she'd learned from her intensive and protracted course of study during the summer that the inequities of power within civilizations erupted into conflict on a frighteningly regular basis. There would never be a 'final battle' between those who sought equity for all and those who wished to subjugate others. As she'd vocalized her conclusions, Snape had realized that she was truly no longer an idealist... just as he was no longer a pessimist. Indeed, it would be difficult to sustain pessimism when faced with the fact that he was alive when he shouldn't have been. Finally, she'd gotten around to telling him the names of those they knew who'd died. She'd cried as she'd spoken: Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy-- who'd died at the hands of Ginny Weasley when he'd killed her brothers, Fred and George. Nott, Goyle and Crabbe, fathers and sons had perished together. Avery, Macnair, the Lestranges. Killing Bellatrix Lestrange had been Neville's last stand. Shackelbolt, Tonks, Fletcher. So many lives truncated, so many lives wasted.

The air had left Snape's lungs and his eyes had grown wet when he'd realized that he'd never have the opportunity to make things right with McGonagall. She'd been a good friend to him in her brisk and practical manner, and he would miss her. He'd ached at the thought that his and Hermione's deception might have added to his colleague's burden in the end. Her death was a pain that he would carry for a very long time, even as he'd known objectively that his decision to keep Hermione's secret had been the correct one to make. Regardless, it hadn't eased his heartache or blunted his regret. Hermione had quietly let him brood for the better part of two days after she'd given him the full accounting of the dead. He'd appreciated her compassion.

He had been surprised to feel pleasure that Remus Lupin had survived. The werewolf had visited twice on his way to see Harry, once while the young wizard had been comatose and once after he'd regained consciousness. The werewolf had entered Snape's room leaning heavily on a cane, his robes still worn and tatty, and they'd had stilted but anger-free conversations. Remus had forgiven him for not revealing that Hermione had been alive, bitterly remarking that he'd wished Peter Pettigrew had been as loyal a Secret Keeper. Snape had later learned that Remus had refused to speak with Dumbledore since the first day Remus had seen Hermione in Harry's room watching over her friend. Hermione hadn't told Snape what had been said between Remus and her beyond the fact that he was incredibly relieved she was alive, and that he hadn't wanted Harry to suffer the same, lingering sense of loss and guilt that had plagued him following the deaths of James and Lily... and Sirius.

Molly and Arthur Weasley had stopped by to see him. They'd been very subdued. Three sons lost to the predations of Voldemort, on both sides of the battle had dampened even Molly's ability to find a silver lining. Percy Weasley had been exposed as a Death Eater after the final confrontation, when his eldest brother had unmasked his body lying among the protective phalanx at Voldemort's feet. Molly hadn't even chastised him for hiding Hermione and worrying those who loved her. Her only comments had been whether the healers could do something about 'that awful scar... such a shame... such a pretty girl.'

Arthur had exchanged a wordless look of complete comprehension with Snape, and the former spy's estimation of the seemingly hen-pecked wizard had risen considerably. Apparently, the Weasley patriarch had accurately surmised that Hermione was alive and had managed to keep his own counsel, in spite of Molly's distress.

Harry's sidekick had even stopped in to speak to Hermione, his left arm in a sling, his hand swathed in bandages, two fingers severed neatly at mid-knuckle. Snape and Ron Weasley hadn't spoken, but they'd eyed one another as men. The youngest Weasley son had been as changed as war could make a man. Gone was the slightly frivolous teenager, and in his place had stood a resolute, staid, courageous man. Snape and the blue-eyed scion of the Weasley's had nodded at one another, and then Hermione had accompanied her friend to visit his nearest neighbor.

Adoring fans had apparently flooded the hospital, requiring Auror intervention for the hero, Snape had thought scathingly, until he'd discovered that he, too, rated a guard. The first time he'd attempted to leave his room, he'd been shocked to find his passage blocked by a young Auror. One of his ex-students, Gus Finch-Fletchley, who was the remaining son of his family. His younger brother, Justin, had been struck down in the final round of the furious battle. Snape had retreated to his room in something like horror after listening to the stammering, profuse thanks of his ex-student.

Now he was waiting for Hermione to return from her daily trip to the cottage. Snape paced in front of his windows, missing the comforting weight and sway of his teaching robes. He looked down on the dingy London street where small clusters of magical folk gathered, an occasional sign waved upward. "Harry Potter is our Savior!"

For weeks, the sidewalk had been filled with posies and other floral offerings in tribute of the final victory over the Dark Lord and those soldiers who had paid the ultimate sacrifice in defense of their world. Snape had been speechless when, one day, he'd seen a placard with his own name on it, "Professor Snape is a Hero!"

He'd been more cautious looking out the window after that. His tolerance, what little of it he was blessed with, had finally reached its limits a week ago, the day that Albus Dumbledore had come to see him. Snape had been in St. Mungo's for seven weeks at that point, and it had been the first time that he'd seen or heard from the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. He'd known that Dumbledore had visited Harry several times while the young hero had lain in a coma and none following the first visit after Harry had awakened. By all accounts, including the muffled shouting that he'd heard through the shared common wall between his room and Harry's, it had been a fairly explosive conversation, and Dumbledore had been refused entry since. He remembered having heard Hermione's name more than once during the heated confrontation, and Snape had smiled grimly and thought that sometimes justice does indeed balance the scales.

Later, after Dumbledore's visit to him, Snape realized that the old wizard had carefully timed his arrival to coincide with Hermione's daily departure. The Potions master still remembered the whitened head of his one-time mentor peeking around the door of his room, cautiously. Snape had thought that Hermione had forgotten something and had looked up with anticipation, but frowned when he'd recognized Dumbledore. The former spy's shoulders had tensed, his gut had clenched and he'd been on his guard. It had been the first time he'd seen one of his masters since the moment he'd Portkeyed into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

Their conversation had been awkward and stilted. Too much needed to be said to explain or eradicate the bitterness that now flavored the relationship. Dumbledore had been ill-at-ease, and Snape had been unable to forgive.

In Snape's mind, the final betrayal had been the second Dumbledore had left him -- after having torn the Portkey from his clothing -- lying on the kitchen floor, wrapped in his own pain and blood, the Inflamare Curse still boiling in his veins.

Dumbledore had apologized, and for a fleeting stretch of time Snape had believed in the elder wizard's sincerity, but then, in the next breath, Dumbledore had spoiled the moment. He'd offered Snape the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, exposing his true lack of understanding of his spy. To his credit, Snape didn't hex the old wizard. Instead, he'd said, "'Et tu, Brute?'"

The old Headmaster had recoiled as if struck, and Snape had unbent enough to explain. "I never wanted the Dark Arts position, Albus. I just wanted the children to be taught by someone competent."

He'd seen the hopeful look in Dumbledore's rheumy blue eyes, which seemed to have lost their twinkle, and the slight tremble in Dumbledore's fingers. Snape had irrevocably lost the ability to feel sorry for Dumbledore, but if he'd still had the capacity, he would have at that moment.

Dumbledore had assured him that his post as Potions master was waiting for his return, and then the old wizard had launched into a slightly abstracted retelling of Harry's last stand against Voldemort. As much as Snape hadn't wanted to hear the details, he hadn't minded the confirmation that Dumbledore was positive Voldemort was gone permanently.

Their conversation had been interrupted by Hermione's arrival. She'd been freshly changed into a short summer skirt and jumper, the red ridge of her scar a contrast to the pale ivory of her pullover, and her entry into the room had been halted abruptly by her sighting of Albus Dumbledore seated in 'her' chair.

The leader of the Order of the Phoenix had immediately focused on the angry red scar on Hermione's neck and torso, and Snape had seen something he'd never seen before. The old wizard had flushed in mortification.

Hermione's jaw had been clenched, and she'd nodded her head, her eyes flashing.

Her words had been civil, but the underlying anger in her voice had made it clear that there had been other words spoken between them before that moment. "Professor Dumbledore, how kind of you to visit Severus at last."

"I was just leaving, Miss Granger. Severus, I'm glad you're recovering so well, and I look forward to your answer. The term has started and I must return to Hogwarts."

That had been a week ago, and Snape had yet to learn what had been said between Dumbledore and Hermione before he'd regained consciousness, or where the confrontation had taken place. It was just as well, as he still didn't know what he was going to do when he was released.

He and Hermione hadn't discussed future plans beyond the fanciful planting of standard garden herbs and potions flora, and Snape was insecure about what would happen when he left St. Mungo's. He didn't know whether to return to Hogwarts or even where Hermione planned to stay. As far as he knew, Perenelle's cottage no longer belonged to him, and without the key or Hermione to escort him, he was banned from his retreat. The speed of his pacing increased and his mouth turned down into a scowl, his cheeks furrowed, and he firmly decided to hex the next person to enter the room if they weren't bearing release papers. His willingness to remain in limbo when the rest of his life was undecided had reached the breaking point.

Snape was as well as he was going to get in hospital. His muscles no longer locked in spasm daily, and even the residual muscle weakness would decrease over the course of time. Thin, parallel sets of white scars marred his cheeks, evidence of his own feral attempt to rid himself of the pain of Voldemort's final hex. Otherwise, his body bore no outward signs of his final moments as a Death Eater. The Dark Mark had vanished with the death of the Dark Lord, and though his skin still bore the shiny remnants of the Dark Mark, the inky brand had been lifted.

True to his mental word, when the door squeaked to reveal a Healer's aid, he sneered at the young witch until she'd run from the room in tears. Unaccountably cheered by his ability to still render incompetents to a state of jelly, Snape smirked as he looked out the window.

He spun at the sound of the door opening again, ready to engage the newcomer, when he realized that it was Hermione. She was smiling at him and Snape's heart did an odd sort of flip-flop as he took in the dress she wore. It was a summer dress, with a hemline reaching mid-thigh, its skirt swirling about her legs as she crossed the room to stand in front of him. Her eyes were alight with good humor and her hair was its full, unmanageable mane. It suited her.

"Why are you in such a good mood?" he growled.

She almost laughed at his petulance and it annoyed him. "Miss Granger..."

She did laugh at that. "Oh, Severus." She even had the impudence to pat his cheek gently.

He thought about biting her hand. And then he thought he might hex her instead, even though he didn't want her to leave.

He was frustrated and irritated beyond his ability to contain his temper. Since the moment three days ago when the Senior Healer had pronounced him capable of any activity, his mind had continually conjured images of exactly what he wanted to be capable of doing... to Hermione... with Hermione. If she still wanted him... if this was their later.

Now she was here and was... tormenting... teasing him. "What?" he snapped. "Are you here to gloat? I hate this place." He scowled at her.

It didn't scare her away. In fact, none of his bad moods or abrasive words had managed to daunt her recovered optimism. He usually found her soothing and restful company but every now and then her ebullience grated on him... now being a prime example. From the sparkle in her eyes, the tall wizard could tell that she knew something he didn't. He loathed having information withheld from him... as she well knew... it was what had led to their relationship. It only made his mood more sour. "Are you going to tell me or just stand there and simper?"

"I'm weighing my options..." and then he saw her realize the deeper implications of her lighthearted teasing. She'd always been fairly quick. Hermione's eyes widened and her face drained of color. No verbal chastisement would have been as effective as her own intellect and conscience. "My god, Severus, I would never... You know I would never..." Her eyes grew glossy with tears and she hurried to his side, holding his gaze until he allowed her to brush a chaste kiss across his lips, and his eyelids fluttered, half-shut. Her voice was void of a tease when she asked quietly, "Shall we go?"

"Shall we go?" He sounded like a bloody parrot. "Go? Go where?"

"Home, Severus. Let's go home."

The sudden rush of emotion threatened to choke him, overriding his momentary annoyance for her thoughtlessness. Hermione wanted to take him home, to his home, to her home... to what he fervently hoped would be their home. He grabbed her and devoured her lips. Instantly, her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers threading his shiny, stringy hair as she responded. She almost melted against him.

"Hey, 'Mione!" Ron Weasley's voice interrupted them. By the time his copper-haired head craned around the opened door, Severus and Hermione were no longer kissing, but they were still in each other's arms. Ron's eyes almost bugged out of their sockets and he stammered a little, struggling to appear unfazed by their embrace, "Er... Harry... er... Harry's asking if you want to chat for a few minutes. They're releasing him on Monday and he wants to tell you his plans."

Snape hardened his heart against the fact that his freedom would be delayed. Of course Hermione would go speak with her friend. After all, they'd been friends for much longer than he and Hermione had been... whatever it was that they were. He resigned himself to wait, but Hermione's response was gratifying and unexpected.

"Ron, will you tell Harry I'll come by tomorrow? I'm taking Severus home today."

Ron had said easily enough, "Sure thing, Hermione. See you tomorrow." But he'd given Snape one sharp look, the muscles of his jaw working under the freckled skin. The younger wizard's message was clear. It was obvious that Ron didn't really approve of the relationship, but he'd matured and knew that Snape had protected Hermione, at great personal risk, when others wouldn't and hadn't. He would not interfere unless necessary. "Snape."

The door had shut behind Ron, and Hermione turned in Snape's arms, her face inches from his. Snape could read every line of her face, every nuance of her expression. There was no hesitation, no artifice, no indication that she would rather be elsewhere. His heart pounded hard in his chest as he realized that he might just get the dream he'd never allowed himself to believe in. "Shall we?" he asked.

"Yes." She answered, and together they swept from the room.

They were going home.

~o0o~

Author's Note: After I'd written this chapter, it occurred to me that the initial hospital sequence could be reminiscent of KazVL's story, 'Who By Fire,' but any similarity was unintentional and simply the result of logical consequences of Severus' being at the brink of death. This shouldn't dissuade anyone from reading any of her wonderful work.