Chapter Two

Chapter Two.

Sunlight streaming in through the window gently prised her eyes open, and as her mind wakened, she stretched lazily upon the bed, luxuriating in the idea of snuggling back down for an extra few minutes. It had been a terrible, terrible nightmare. She was in her bed, feeling the softness of the duvet against her cheek and the comforting warmth of the bed. She smiled and wriggled down; soon, her mother would shout up, calling them down for breakfast. There was something that didn't seem quite right, but whatever it was, she wasn't in the mood to analyse it and thus ruin this wonderfully relaxed moment.

Her tongue slid over her teeth, and she grimaced at their unclean texture; her very mouth seemed coated with fur and tasted stale. Sighing, she flung aside the covers and climbed out of bed to walk over to the slender wardrobe in the corner of the room. Pulling open the doors, she rummaged around for some clothes, selecting a pair of jeans and a cinnamon-coloured, roll neck jumper. Her undies were plucked from a drawer, and she padded off to the bathroom, inhaling and salivating at the thought of her mother's cooking.

The hot water pummelled her skin; she closed her eyes and slowly turned, letting those wonderful jets massage her all over. It ran through her hair, the hot water soothing her scalp, and she let it relax her. After a few moments of indulgence, she scrubbed herself clean and then lathered her hair, teasing her fingers through the myriad knots that her hair was predisposed to settle into. Wrapping a towel around her shivering body, she stepped out of the shower and glanced in the mirror on the cabinet door. She was surprised at how pale she looked... and had she lost weight? Shrugging her shoulders, she withdrew her toothbrush and toothpaste and proceeded to scour her teeth clean.

There was something so soothing about brushing her teeth; she felt so content for those few minutes as the brush moved over her teeth and gums. She spat out the paste and frowned at the pinkish hue to it; her head lifted towards the mirror, and she pulled back her lips to examine her mouth. From between two molars, blood oozed out, coating her teeth; at the sight, she felt her chest constrict, and she gagged into the basin. Gripping the edge of the sink, she closed her eyes and fought the urge to vomit. She'd had bleeding gums before, but she'd only ever felt that stinging disappointment, never fear.

The toothpaste slid towards the plughole, bubbles and streaks of blood moving with it, and she focused on it, hardening herself to the image. The nausea passed, and she straightened. Ignoring the mirror and the metallic tang in her mouth, she roughly towelled herself dry. The jeans slid up her legs and over her hips with extreme ease, and she frowned...she had lost weight! The jumper that has been so snug now hung loosely on her frame, and she felt a burgeoning distress at the sudden, inexcusable change. She walked back to her room and slipped on her slippers; they, at least, seemed fine.

The collection of mail on the table by the front door made her pause on the bull-nose... How odd that Dad hadn't picked it up! She scooped up the pile, amazed at how many there were, and walked along the hallway into the sitting room.

"Morning, Dad. I..." she said, only to stop abruptly at the sight of the empty chair. Her eyes darted around the room, each compelling piece of evidence crushing her: the computer, cold and lifeless, the empty chair, the fire not warming the chilly room, no newspaper on the coffee table and no music filling the silence. She licked her lips and ran her fingers through her damp hair. It wasn't unusual to find the house empty; her parents were both busy professionals, but this time, their absence sent a thrill of fear through her. Trying to keep calm, she nibbled her lower lip and looked down at the plastic-wrapped magazines and plain white letters. She sorted it so that she could study the postmark on each one, and she frowned. The oldest was from three months ago...some Home Insurance information. She ignored the tremor deep in her bowels. Where were Mum and Dad? It was so tough to think; her thoughts moved so sluggishly, and the ones that managed to break free were confusing and disjointed. Mum and Dad had mentioned going on holiday... That's it! They'd saved up to go away for... how long? Didn't her dad say something about a sabbatical? She let out a shaky laugh and dropped the junk mail on the kitchen table. She'd been at the airport to wave them off; how could she have forgotten?

She set about preparing some tea, flicking the kettle on and removing her favourite mug from the cupboard. She smiled at the embossed pale blue letters, 'We all make spelling mitsakes', and remembered the impish smile on her father's face. It had been a gift, an apology from him for his ranting and raging after she had let Madam Pomfrey repair her teeth to how they wanted to be and not to what they had been. Her smile faltered...that seemed so long ago...she seemed to have been someone else. She recalled sitting in the infirmary, weeping quietly while she had waited for the matron to finish healing the bite wounds on a first-year's hand; her mind had gone over Snape's hurtful words, and she had felt a burning resentment that she had been caught up in one of Harry's fights.

Lost in her thoughts, the kettle made its peculiar hissing sound as it boiled the water, and the sound slowly permeated her nostalgia. She shook herself and glanced at it; she could see the bubbles rising from the metallic plate through the clear plastic. The noise was fascinating; had she ever stopped to listen to it before? Her eyes followed the sway of the water's surface as the heat agitated it from below. It was odd, but the sibilant hiss of the kettle seemed to fill her skull; it seemed to reverberate within her mind, and she frowned as she tried to ignore the sound and tear her gaze from the frantic eruptions of hot water. With a struggle, she managed, but the amount of effort both alarmed and annoyed her.

The teaspoon clattered satisfactorily against the china mug, and she slammed the cupboard door closed after retrieving the coffee; she began to hum a melody from some song, but that kettle still managed to be heard. She shook her head and smiled; how ridiculous to be so affected by a mere machine. The fridge greeted her with a blast of cool air, and she relished the distraction. With a sigh, she saw that there was no milk, and the inside of the fridge looked decidedly derelict; she would have to do a shop. She shivered. She would have to go out. Go out. Black coffee would have to do.

The fridge door closed with the merest sigh of expelled air from between frame and plastic seal, and she hesitated before approaching the vexing kettle. She glared at it, and she felt her upper lip curl in disgust. Frustration welled-up and lanced down her arms, instilling the urge to fling the kettle from her. Clutching at her ears did nothing to smother the horrible hissing, and now, the water was roaring as it boiled. And then it came! It shredded her control, and it leapt through her wounded mind. The image of Nagini, rising and writhing from Bathilda's shell, exploded in her mind; how she slid sinuously, extending her slender body with that haunting susurrus as her scales slid over the shag-pile. Hermione staggered, vomiting bile as she relived that terrifying moment.

oooXooo

The explosion had him standing with his wand at the ready. With heart in mouth, he flung off the sheets he'd found and rushed from the spare bedroom. Breathing erratically, he peered over the banister; fine dust billowed out from the kitchen, and there was the sound of metal screeching against metal and dull heavy thuds. Taking two stairs at a time, he then jumped lithely into the hallway and hugged the wall as he crept towards the kitchen door. Chunks of plaster and slithers of wall tile littered the dust-smothered carpet in the hallway, and cracks in the plaster around the doorframe suggested that something heavy had impacted against it. Swallowing and narrowing his eyes, he entered the kitchen.

She was standing like some sculptured statue, pale alabaster and eerily beautiful; no churchyard angel with her serene beauty had ever stolen his breath in such a manner. He could feel his eyes widen, the skin on his scalp tingle and something coil in his guts. Descending dust and the light from the hole punched through the wall silhouetted her, giving her the appearance of some fine dryad shrouded in mist. Her eyes were closed, and her lips parted. Her head tilted up so that her throat was extended and the curve of her jaw exposed; she looked as though in rapture from some Benediction. Her wand was held in the gentlest of grips, looking so innocent and incapable of such destruction within those slender fingers. He gaped. Perhaps she heard some sigh from him, but she slowly lowered her head, and her eyelids fluttered open...oh those eyes as they fixed upon him!...so dark and deep against the pale, dust-coated cheeks. Her lips, where the moisture from her mouth had wiped away the plaster, were so enticingly pink. He shuddered.

Tearing his eyes from hers, he looked around the kitchen; the worktop that had rested beneath the kettle was a pile of splintered rubble, and the base units were shattered and scattered about the kitchen. Sections of the ceiling had fallen to expose the joists and floorboards, revealing dangling power cables, and the floor tiles looked as though they had melted, cooling into the same swirling patterns as lava. Smoke rose from the detritus of battered pans and smashed crockery like gentle, elaborate filigrees, despite the wounded wall, and in that huge silence that follows such explosions, the water from the ruptured pipes trickled and babbled.

"Oh my!"

The trembling, awestruck voice shattered the scene, and Snape's head shot round to see a worried face peering in through the hole. Hermione was still lost in some ecstasy, her eyes half-shuttered and her lips mouthing silent litanies. The neighbour, her face pale with wide eyes and mouth, watched him approach.

"Are you both all right? That was a mighty bang!"

"Obliviate!"

Kitchen renovation had not featured heavily in his life; it wasn't on the school syllabus, nor was it prevalent in the Death Eater entry requirements. He looked at it all and gritted his teeth. The neighbour smiled vacantly as Snape cast a variety of spells on the mess; she even giggled a few times when chunks of wall whooshed past her ear, and after an exhausting few minutes, the wall was as fixed as it was ever going to be. Wiping away the sweat from his forehead, he gently caught the befuddled woman by her elbow and steered her out of the kitchen and into the driveway between the two houses. He looked over the short fence between the houses and saw the back door wide open, and assuming that that was the door she had obviously rushed through, he led her back to her home.

Hermione was still standing where he had left her, that same disturbing serenity suffusing her. If she had wept or screamed, he could have dealt with it, but this stillness and quiet was disturbing. Licking his lips, he walked behind her and tentatively placed his fingertips on her shoulders; she didn't flinch, and so he moved to grip them firmly. Giving her a gentle push, he directed her away from the wreckage and over to the kitchen table. She obliged and made no sound as she followed his directions. While he repaired as much as he could, he kept a watchful eye upon her. He suspected that he knew where she was: in a safe and seductive place where nothing was there but what she wanted to know; and he knew that the eviction from that haven would be as shocking and as vile as anything she had suffered.

The expression of utter peace...on the face of it, looking quite exquisite on her thin features...still looked wrong: it was akin to seeing rainbows in oily puddles, beautiful, but from a contaminated source. Those lips still trembled minutely as she mouthed some incomprehensible code to her troubled mind, and her dust-laden eyelashes cast long shadows upon her cheeks. It would be a hard task to help her, and he wondered why he felt so compelled to be the one. Snickering thoughts, cloistered in the back of his mind, taunted him with whispered recollections of the time when he had sought mental oblivion rather than face the terrible present with its terrible past. He had been plucked from that duplicitous heaven and fought and battered at his malicious saviour until he had seen the vicious lure to that disgusting trap. It was like a drug, and even though he had weaned himself off it, the memory of that state still haunted and teased him. He closed his eyes against the sting of withheld tears.

Steadying himself, he strode over to her and looked down upon her slightly upturned face. The rounded features of her youth had been ground away by age and experience, and he recalled that shock he had experienced when forced to look at her in her fifth year to assess the damage of a wayward curse. She had grown, blossomed! Her eyes had reflected her horror, and he had seen it all looming to descend upon her, that pain and fear following her due to her friends. He had heard her stuttering gasps as she had clutched at her mouth to try to stop the teeth from growing, and he had felt a flutter of understanding at her sense of humiliation. But he had had no choice, and he had ridiculed her.

Snape pursed his lips; the dust would be irritating her skin past the point of just sensation; it would be now damaging it. Raising his wand, he cast a cleaning spell. It was a milder form of the one used to scour out the cauldrons, and one that was a standard for potion-makers who would at some point in their careers need to remove noxious ingredients completely from their skin and clothes. Swathes of colour appeared with each gentle stroke of the wand, and her hair billowed as if in a gentle breeze; he ignored what he thought was a gasp of pleasure. He had hoped that the feel of the spell would have penetrated her fugue, but aside from the smallest of sighs, she was still as wrapped up as ever; just like another witch he had known.

oooXooo

"So, why 'ave we got this 'ere letter?" he snarled angrily, waving the vellum paper in the air and glaring down angrily at the cowering woman. "If 'e's all right, then 'ow come we...'ave... this... letter!" he roared out, his voice getting louder as his face got redder.

As Severus stood in the kitchen doorway, he watched with wide eyes; his mother crouched defensively as his father waved a letter inches from her face, and he noted the redness of his dad's knuckles and a few spots of blood on the back of his clenched fist. Something gripped him round the throat, and he couldn't breathe; some force kept him riveted to the spot while he watched. This couldn't be, he thought; not after everything that had happened, and not after all the others had turned from him.

The large, hook-nosed man turned and saw his son standing in the doorway. His long face was red and trembling, the fleshy lips pulled back into a disgusted sneer, and the tendons in his neck protruding grotesquely as his anger coursed through him.

"What the 'ell is this, boy?" he asked, his voice softening to a fearful, hissed whisper. "Trips to that 'ospital for some kind of check-ups."

"It's St Mungo's, and I think the letter is quite complete." He knew it was stupid, he knew it was provocative, but he had to fight the fear; if he let that win, then he'd be as lost as she was. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother pale and shake her head slowly, her mouth falling open in distress and her head lolling back, and he felt sick to his stomach.

Tobias straightened and his face softened, a small smile curved his lips. "Ye like bein' smart, don't ya, lad?" he said jovially.

Fury surged up, heating his chest and burning his cheeks. His teeth bit down on his tongue to stem the flow of words that wished to erupt from his mouth. He had baulked at Madam Pomfrey's request that he see a Healer about any possibility of being infected, but even after his rant about being nowhere near Lupin's mouth, she had pointed out that he had been close enough to have been exposed to the beast's saliva, and given the number of cuts he'd received, a check-up was in order. But it was all right because Potter would have to go too. He inwardly seethed, All so that Lupin could stay at school... The boy who could have been his friend... had not Black seen fit to ruin all that he had.

"Ye've always been a cut above the rest, ain't ye; thinkin' that ye've got that gift that'll see ye thru'." His pale eyes, bloodshot and sunken, glared into Severus', and he took a step towards his son. "Well, it didn't, and it never will." He smiled viciously and waved a hand lazily back over his shoulder towards his trembling wife. "Ye're no better than she is; ye're nowt!" he said in a vitriolic whisper. "Ye think that ye've got everythin', what with that wand an' all. Didn't 'elp you much when you went messin' round in that forest and got too close to that werewolf, did it? Some stupid stunt, I bet!"

It took a moment for the words to sink in; he was too engrossed in his own pulsing anger, and as his face fell at the impact of his father's words finally struck, so rose the numbing surge of disillusionment. Confusing his success, Tobias leant forward until his breath ghosted over his son's cheek, and the reek of alcohol clung to the back of Severus' throat.

"Ye're weak like 'er, and without that there wand, ye're a coward!"

Still numb from his father's disclosure, he lowered his head; had they dismissed everything? And worse: in their explanation, they were blaming him for the consequences. He felt sick.

It was always quiet afterwards; a few moments of bangs, fleshy thuds and shrill pleas, and then this consuming silence, swallowing everything. No sound ever left the house. He knew that his mother would silently tidy up and cast surreptitious healing spells while his father went to his room to watch the television. He had once crept downstairs to help his mother, but the blank shell that had bled into tea-towels had pushed him out the door and ushered him back upstairs. Once that period of quiet was over, Dad would go out, and his mother would be all smiles and hugs. They would bake and play; but that had changed. His father had stopped going out, and with each passing month, his mother shrank further and further away.

Shaking himself out of his melancholy, he waited until he heard the television click on; muted strains of conversation filtered up through the floorboards, and he slipped off the bed. He knew every creaking floorboard, and he danced his way silently to the door; he had oiled the hinges so that the door would swing open without betrayal. He walked down the shadowed stairs; he could see the light from the television flickering over the thin carpet from beneath the door, and he could hear the soft, careful clink of crockery. Licking his lips, he withdrew his wand from the sleeve of his smock and held it at his hip; the black wood was warm within his fingers, so much so that he barely felt as though he held it, but rather that it was a part of him.

"Accio!"

Heart pounding and guts rolling, he stood in a half-crouch, waiting for the cream letter to flutter to his fingers. The sounds of the television seemed excessively loud, and every creak made him twitch and turn, thinking that the front room door would pull open. With a muted gasp of relief, the paper appeared around the edge of the doorframe, and straight as an arrow, it darted to his eager hand. Steadying himself, he swallowed and crept back up the stairs, the letter held in a crushing grip against his thundering heart.

There was no light bulb in his room, so he walked up to the window and held the crushed letter out and into the weak daylight. He stared at it, such an innocent looking thing, and felt oddly scared to open it. He could believe that his father had been spewing more hurtful nonsense, but he had that snarling and scratching doubt attacking his faith, and he found that he couldn't bear the idea of finding out that he really did have no one.

The letter opened, the edges vibrating as his fingers trembled, and with cautious and hopeful eyes, he read the words:

Dear Mr and Mrs Snape,

(Muggle Liaison Office)

He heard a whimper escape from his pursed lips; not only was he told not to reveal the identity of the werewolf, but they were blaming him for the whole horrific mess! Black and Potter were to remain innocent of culpability in his pain and terror. His chest burned with the effort of trying to breathe, and when he managed to inhale, it was a series of shuddering, desperate gulps. The print blurred before him as his hands trembled, but it was no matter as his eyes were stuck at the point they had read to, paralysed by the tumultuous impact of Dumbledore's betrayal. His heart thundered in his chest in violent, heavy thuds as it broke.

The revealing and vicious letter crumpled in his fist, and with a tear-free face, he looked up and out of the window; he had nothing and no one... Well, almost no one.

oooXooo

He was impressed. After almost two hours, the kitchen looked as though nothing had happened to it, although all his efforts had failed to yield a kettle. However, he felt little remorse; the blasted thing was a nuisance anyway. The last of the repaired plates was placed in the cupboard, and the saucepans were all lined up on the worktop, dent-free and gleaming. He selected a small pan and filled it with water; he desperately needed a drink, and the more caffeine it possessed, the better. With some trepidation, he turned the knob on the cooker and pressed the ignition switch; he let out a sigh when the gas ignited with a gentle, mocking pop. He set the saucepan to boil and rested against the worktop.

It was unnerving to have her sitting there, so quiet and still...it was unnatural! The girl...woman, some thought said suggestively before he stomped on the suggestions springing to mind...had been the bane of his life, always ready with the answer, always eager with a question. He had grown to respect her mind, though begrudgingly, and not so because she was a Gryffindor or Potter's playmate, but because she flaunted and revelled in her own prowess. Her pride could be a lure for the ever-watchful predator, and it would blind her to the perils of misplaced admiration. But here, she was... dumb!

He opened up the recently repaired wall unit and pulled out the first two mugs his fingers caught. He needed some lure to pull her out of her state, some subtle sign to lead her back...he would even tolerate her constant questioning to have her back.

The mugs hit the table with a clatter, and she remembered that she was making tea, but why should she bother? It was so nice here. It was quiet and still, nothing loomed or snarled, and she wasn't thirsty any more. She had never known such peace; never known such freedom. No pain. No anger. No anything. Something caught her eye, and it niggled at her, worried at her until she just had to take a quick glance, just a quick, little glance to ease that pestering.

That pestering would not cease! Her eyes focused in on what her brain was complaining about and settled on the mug. Hadn't she just made tea with that mug? What was the problem? Think... It was so hard to think! Panic flared. What was this place? Focus! Her eyes finally settled on the neatly printed words, the pastel blue on cream looking very pleasant, but then as she processed what her eyes had discovered, she saw the vileness of it.

Snape took a deep gulp of coffee, wincing as the hot liquid scalded his tongue and the roof of his mouth, but it was worth it, every scalding second of it. He felt itchy from dust that had slipped down his robes, and he longed to use the shower. He was wondering whether it would be polite to ask, when Hermione suddenly surged forward and grasped the mug in front of her so that her knuckles and tendons were white and straining. Snape watched her intently, wondering what had triggered the response; he would never have thought that something as trivial as a mug of coffee would have made any dent.

"My cup!" she wailed.

Snape looked down at the mug; it seemed perfectly normal and inoffensive.

"What have you done to it?" she asked waspishly, her gaze darting from the cup in her hand to his startled face at her table. She had never realised that she could be so angry. It leapt through her like wildfire, igniting all those niggling and petty injuries that she had laughed off or ignored. She was a conflagration of past scorns and dismissed hates. It was so much better than the fear and the terror.

"You should be grateful that I repaired the mug, Miss Granger!" he replied snidely, his tone hiding his concern as the woman rose from her chair to loom over him. He noted that although coffee spilt over the sides, in her fury, she paid no heed to it.

"You had a temper tantrum earlier on and destroyed it."

"I did no such thing," she snarled. "You ruined it!"

"Miss Granger," he shouted out, rising to his feet and leaning forward so that their foreheads were a few inches apart. "You found something in this kitchen to be deeply offensive that you eliminated it by using Reducto; a foolish thing to do."

He saw a flicker of confusion in the depths of her wild eyes, and some of the tension slipped out of his body; if she doubted, then she was still listening to him, and if she was listening, then she could be reasoned with.

"No!"

Her breath brushed over his face at her spat out objection, and he could see how her lips trembled with the effort of trying to keep it all under control. Keep fighting, he urged her. Don't lose it now. I know that it feels glorious, that anger racing through the veins, making you feel alive, but don't lose it only to slip back into that nothingness. Use the anger, girl; use it!

"It's you! It's always been you," she said, hate and anger staining her words with disgust. "You corrupt everything! You ruined Harry's mother, tried to destroy Harry, and you killed Dumbledore. It's you that is offensive." It was so obvious; why hadn't she seen it before? Snape was the one behind everything; he had been at the heart of everything. She looked into his dark eyes, noticed how they shimmered like crude oil; nothing about him was clean.

"If the mug is ruined, then we can repair it." He ignored the vicious barb, tried to suppress the pain that her words incited and focused on the fact that a powerful witch was losing the plot not more than a foot away from him. She was incandescent with rage, and he could sympathise with the sheer power and force coursing through her; she would feel invulnerable. "Tell me what is wrong, and let us fix it."

The mug, she mused, that was important. Sod the mug! He killed Dumbledore, he tried to kill Harry! He loved Lily. She sobbed. He hated Sirius. She rallied. He saved Harry... No, he tried to kill Harry. He protected George. Her heart thumped with the revelation. He cursed his ear off! some snide voice corrected. He stood up against the Dark Lord. A valiant attempt to stave off the sneering and hateful thoughts. He served the Dark Lord. The condemning truth battered at her. Dumbledore trusted him. He killed Dumbledore. You saw him cry! Lies... Lies... Lies...

"Lies!" she screamed out, clutching at her ears as though they pained her.

He was ready to die to save you all.

"No!" she said in a hushed whisper. He had had risked nothing; he was standing in her kitchen, more alive than the dozens of others who deserved to live. A sudden, horrible thought exploded! He was alive, and Dumbledore, that mad, conniving bastard, had helped him to escape, helped him evade the justice that he deserved. Sick to her stomach, she reared back. He was alive; after all that he'd done, he was still alive, and she was the only living person who knew that. Fear slid down her spine and seeped through her abdomen, clutching and squeezing at her guts. A sob escaped her quivering lips.

Snape was trying to keep track of her thoughts; her mind was a mess of mixed memories and churned up recollections; it was impossible to make sense of it. Just as her eyes widened, like a welcome invite, he saw her thoughts condense down to one horrific thought.

He watched as she backed away, her hand slipping frantically into her clothes, trying to find her wand. As each pocket was searched and found empty, her face crumpled further, and by the time her hand fell limply by her hip, she was weeping and keening. Moistening his lips, he lifted his hands slowly. Sherry-coloured eyes followed his raised palms and she crouched defensively. A spark of anger flared; how could she be so weak? After all that she'd done and had suffered, how could she be so weak and just give up now? The waste that she represented revolted him, and he sneered. To have that power and let something so basic and so conquerable as fear sap it all. Unforgivable!

"Miss Granger," he said as soothingly as he could manage. "I didn't bring you here; you brought me here. I have done you no harm and intend you no harm."

She shook her head, and he almost screamed at her to end her foolishness; why was she being so obdurate? Raking his fingers through his hair, he wondered at his own foolishness for thinking that he could help her. What was he thinking? That after losing so many, saving one would make it all worthwhile? His eyelids fluttered closed as his mind tormented him with his own morbid failings, how he had witnessed and allowed so many to die in front of him while inside, he screamed and raved at their unnecessary deaths. How long had it been since he had been able to save any of them? If he could save just one.

She watched him gape and shudder. Turning on his heel, he faced away from her, his hands cupping his face, and she could see his rounded shoulders tremble as he struggled under some great weight. All a trick, some part hissed at her. But that didn't seem right; he had never tricked any of them, and as far as she could recall, he had never lied. He will kill you, the voice said, just like all the others. You are nothing to him but an obstacle to his freedom, and he will destroy you.

It was the greatest test of faith she had ever faced. Hadn't she wept at his Pensieve, hadn't she felt rage against Sirius and James and a flicker of remorse that his love had left him bereft? Had he ever hurt her? She stepped over to him and rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, and though he flinched as though she had burnt him, he did not step away. What right did she have to try to help? What skills did she have that would impact upon him? All she had was her suffering. Would that be enough of a common denominator to nullify all other boundaries? She circled him and gently caressed his hair.

He jerked at the contact, rearing back and staring down at her with a mix of wonder and wariness. Hermione looked him in the eye, opening herself up to any and all of Snape's tricks to determine her innocence, and as she stepped forward to embrace him, she bowed her head forward until it rested against his shoulder. At that touch, he felt a need rise up from deep within. He knew as best as he could what she felt; it echoed in him from ages past, and it resonated within him now as he watched her. Pulling her towards him, feeling her press up against him, as if his warmth could somehow keep all that hurt away, he wrapped his arms around her. Her hands reached round to clutch desperately at his back, and his own fingers dug into her skin in his own attempts to help ease her pain and understand his own.

They held each other while the sun slipped over the roof, while the traffic rumbled on and the birds wheeled in the sky. They let the world continue while they secured one moment of peace. The mug had tipped over on the table, the coffee spilling across the wood, and it had rocked upon its curve until the last few perfect and provocative words on the mug were aimed at the consoling pair... 'spelling mistakes'.

Some intense burn of an itch finally managed to pierce the wonderful sensation of a human in his arms and made his fingers dart to his throat, and he scratched frantically at the source of irritation. He felt her stir against his body. A trickle of warmth down his throat made him pause, and he looked at his fingertips. Blood had collected under his nails, and trails had run down the palm of his hand. He spluttered and pressed his hand against his throat, and his palm became wet and warm.

Hearing his distress, Hermione moved away from him, her swollen and red eyes searching his face for the cause. Her eyes latched onto his fingers, finding that the tips were bloodied and glistened sickeningly in the light. Jolting away from him, her hand pressed against her mouth; she saw him press his palm against the wound several times, his face a picture of terrified confusion, and watched as he bolted from the room.

It can't be! he thought as he raced up the stairs and into the bathroom. The potion had been refined; he had worked on it as a prophylactive, and he had made it ten times more efficacious than the one he had made for Arthur!

The mirror confirmed his fears. The skin was ripping, the knitted flesh unravelling, and he saw tiny slits appearing in the garish, pink skin, just where that vile viper had sunk in her fangs. Blood oozed from the narrow apertures, collecting in a spherical ruby before melting to run down his throat. His eyes widened in panic, and he aimed his wand at the wound, casting the most powerful healing spells that he knew. The flow of escaping blood waned, and the holes healed closed, but he could see some weakness where the skin had not fused properly. Gripping the sides of the basin, he spat out spit and swallowed the rising bile. What had gone wrong?