Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven.

Someone, many years ago, had said that any answer was better than no answer, and as he trudged wearily down the stairs, he bitterly amended that spurious comment to be that any answer was better than the right one. At least not having an answer had given him hope. He glanced towards Hermione's door as he stepped onto the landing, and he wondered if her eager brain was ferreting out its own answers. Now that he knew, he could see that the clues were almost leaping off the pages, so eager to be discovered, and he suspected that once her mind found the trail, it would follow it to its source with the smallest effort.

The sheets were colder than he recalled as he slid beneath them, and the odd, orange light suffusing the small room that had once delighted him now seemed to be sickly and revolting...so like that amber phial! Scowling and pummelling his pillow, he slithered under the duvet and tried to block it all out. Techniques taught to him by Dumbledore allowed him to relax, and after a few minutes of steady and deep breathing, he felt soothed enough to sleep. Closing his eyes, he thought of Hermione; he recalled her in flashes, a snap-shot show of her progress from the silent and withdrawn woman and fiery fury to a strong woman accepting the harshness of her condition and finding the will to surpass it. His last thought as sleep gathered him was that she no longer needed him.

Late nights had consequences, and it was with an increasing sense of frustration that Hermione opened her eyes to another early afternoon; it was such a shift from those days where she had sprung from her bed while others still snoozed, but how could she be dismayed when the evenings were such a delight? Sipping coffee in the soft light from the lamp, listening to him share his knowledge and wisdom, knowing that he considered her thoughts and opinions to be worthwhile, sinking into the softness of the sofa and feeling more contented than she could ever recall. She would miss every sunrise to sit next to him, wrapped up and held in the wonder of those midnight conversations on the sofa.

The potion had been a pleasure to make, simple and elegant, and she had submerged herself in the complexities hiding so well behind the straightforward procedure and ingredients. For her, it was like opening Hogwarts: A History all over again; the peeling back of the obvious to the true awe and magic behind it all. She had held, chopped, sliced and diced, stirred, boiled, collected and decanted, and yet, she had only ever seen the ingredients and the equipment; the magic behind it had eluded her, remaining obscured by her naïve interpretation of the subject...the castle was so much more than just stone and structure; the potion so much more than just ingredient and method.

When she entered the kitchen, Snape was bent over the Daily Prophet; he had pinned the paper to the table with his long index finger, and his stern, intent gaze focused on some troubling snippet within. Perplexed at his consternation, she walked forwards, her eyes wide and darting over the text, trying to see what troubled him. The headline was the same Ministerial bolstering that had dominated all the other papers: how they were fighting the dregs of Voldemort's army and securing the future for a happy and safe Wizarding world! Nothing about the bold declaration seemed incendiary; not even to a Death Eater on the run and his accessory!

"It's rude to read over someone's shoulder!"

She jolted backwards; his tone had been distant, his response almost a reflex rather than a criticism, and she found herself caught between a surge of pique and a contrite murmur. Her lips worked silently and her eyes roved over his profile as she wondered which to mete out, and slowly, she realised that the bandage was gone. Enthralled by the colour and smoothness of the flesh on his throat, she glided closer to him. Those lips that had struggled with a retort fell open, and her eyes widened. The ragged pink slashes that had evidenced Nagini's bite had disappeared, and the swelling and bruising that had tormented the fragile skin had resolved. In that moment, nothing had ever seemed quite so beautiful. Caught up in that wonder, she did something that she had never thought herself capable of: she reached up her hand and extended trembling fingers towards the healed and perfect skin.

The gentle brushing of warm fingertips against his skin sent a wave rolling out across his neglected flesh. He shuddered and yet felt incapable of moving away; that slightest of caresses held him more securely than chains. Even his lungs dared not move, and as her fingers traced patterns over his neck, following the memory of his wounds, he stared blankly at the paper, and his thoughts scattered as one large and unstoppable realisation emerged: he liked it!

Those hesitant lungs suddenly reacted, and he inhaled in a series of sharp and stuttered gasps; his eyelids fluttered closed and his hands curled into fists. The warm, tormenting fingers continued, and his skin felt as though it writhed over his bones; he didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or scream, beg her for more or beg her to stop. Behind shuttered lids, his eyes rolled up, and he knew that his treacherous, greedy chin lifted so that her questing fingers could explore more of his neck. A soft moan rumbled in his throat, and...oh gods!...was that her breath ghosting across his skin?

"The potion worked?" she asked incredulously.

It was perhaps that observation which smothered his burgeoning feelings; the realisation that she was simply too young to know how she affected him...her mind being focused solely on the healing and the potion while her eyes were blind to his reactions. His eyes snapped open, and he summoned the anger and the bitterness that had sustained him for nearly twenty years; it coursed through him, killing his affection, his pleasure and his nascent desire. He looked down upon her, and her look of awe sapped much of his enforced ire; he found it impossible to maintain his irascible nature when her eyes shimmered with tears and her lips trembled. Instead of the anger that he had expected and needed, he felt his breath snatch and his heart clench.

The hand fell limply at her side, and he looked at it as if it had some bizarre terrifying power and a thing to fear. Tearing his gaze from it, he looked up, his attention riveted to her forehead and to that patch of furrowed skin he spoke.

"The potion worked," he said softly; the lie slipping easily past his lips, and his resolve firm until she pressed a hand against her mouth and sobs burst out of her. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and she flung herself at him, her arms wrapping round him as she slumped against him.

Tell her! some voice insisted. Let her help you... don't suffer this alone, don't let it eat at you and take everything that you have left. You know that she'll figure it out soon enough; why not use her brain?

Dark lords and mad, old men had never caused him as much pain and torment as this girl weeping against his chest. He lifted his eyes heavenwards and cursed under his breath.

"Thank Merlin," she whispered.

"Merlin had very little to do with it," he groused as he disentangled himself from her ever-tightening grip. "The difference between Mr Weasley and myself is simply that he took the potion after the bite, not as a protection against it, and as such, for me, a dose was required to bolster the intended affect; it was a clumsy oversight. An oversight that I maintained by assuming that my potion had done its job."

Almost right! Even your truths are lies, that voice persisted. After all that you have done, you suddenly discover cowardice now? What is it that stops you? What is it that you fear?

Various emotions marched across her features, and for a moment, he fretted that he had gone too far, that in his confusion, he had made an error by challenging her intelligence, but her face softened, and she sniffled a few times. Inwardly, he sighed as she accepted his interpretation of the potion's sudden efficacy, but some doubt lingered, and he was only mollified by the fact that when she turned her mind to the problem, he would be gone.

Intense relief and joy had suffused her, filling her from follicle to foot, and she was giddy at the sight of his clean neck. Curiosity had erupted within her; it battered through her euphoric haze and demanded satisfaction... how had it worked? Even as her mind swirled at the amazing result, she still felt somehow... spurned that she had not been a witting partner in the recovery, and that at the last, it had occurred almost without any effort and without her participation.

Foolish, selfish child! She bit her lip and cringed at her pettiness, but she had wanted to help, to repay him for his many kindnesses and sacrifices; she felt that she had been denied, she felt that she had not worked hard enough to equal his suffering and that her debt was still extant. At his assurance that the potion had worked, she let the relief smother her grumbling bad feeling, and as it sank in that he was cured, she fell against him, the sense of release sapping her strength, and she clung to him as she cried. She mumbled her gratitude, and he pulled away from her, citing that Merlin had done nothing for him.

The cure had seemed small compared to the complaint it had resolved, and a flicker of confusion flared; something so simple to beat something so catastrophic? She felt the urge to argue and complain that it seemed so wrong that it should be so simple, but she recalled the apparent banality of the potion. It had seemed implausible that the dull liquid could do anything other than smell and taste foul, and yet she knew that it had healed Arthur and now had healed Snape...perhaps sometimes, it was simply that... simple! For now, she was content to wallow in the warmth flooding her...he would live.

The day had been odd. With nothing tying them together, they seemed to merely exist within the same room, smiling politely at each other and discussing rather mundane topics...safe topics. The pleasure that had warmed her was cooled by the developing distance, and some dread settled heavily in her bones: now that the potion had worked, he no longer needed her. With that sombre thought, she slowly, reluctantly, helped him sort, prepare and store the remaining ingredients, and with every packed away item, she felt all the closer to having to say goodbye.

The sense of loss was already immense; her guts stirred unpleasantly, and her chest tightened as she pondered existing in his absence. No more chats on the sofa, no more highlights of a world that she craved to know, no more sharing and exchanging, and no more him.

"If you hold that Hellebore root for much longer, you will end up with blisters."

She jumped at his voice. Ironically, while she was thinking of life without him, she had forgotten that he was standing next to her; her cheeks flamed as she realised her wasteful notions. Stuck for words, she turned her hot face away and studied the root held in her tight grip. Muttering an apology, she set about slicing the thin root and spent the time trying to soak him up; perhaps if she grabbed enough memories then they would tide her over.

oooXooo

It would have suited him to slip away, but her recovery would suffer; he knew that she had drawn strength from him, just as he had from her, and the sudden loss had potential dire consequences. It was equally untenable for him to stay.

Contrary to axiom, a watched pot does boil, and as he watched the water begin to bubble, he felt that everything was moving too quickly, tasks were less tedious and time-consuming and the hours seemed less difficult to kill. Already, the sun had set, and the fluorescent light in the kitchen cast its harsh and unnatural light. And that was how it had seemed throughout the day...artificial and too bright.

At least her smile when she took the proffered mug was genuine, and he felt his lips twitch gladly in response. The lamp gave off a gentle light, just enough to help create a pleasant cocoon as they sat on the sofa, and within that safe confine he felt himself relax...one bastion had stood against the inevitable.

In the silence, their thoughts gathered like thunderclouds, and with each sip, the need to rain down their thoughts intensified. Jolts seemed to lance down their limbs, making them tremble, and the very air around them seemed charged and volatile. Neither wanted to shatter the silence, but the pressure was becoming almost a tangible thing against their sensitive skin.

"The Daily Prophet reported that several suspected Death Eaters were captured late last night and the people supporting them arrested." His voice was tight and his gaze did not quite meet hers. "Now that the potion has performed its required function, it seems imprudent for me to stay, placing you under unnecessary risk."

It had been hanging in the air since she had noticed the missing bandage, but even for its looming presence, it snatched her breath as it was formalised. She swallowed past a reluctant throat to halt the rising bile, and she trembled as her fears were given form. Logic was her shield, and she rallied behind it. Taking a sip of coffee to restore her nerves and collect her thoughts, she nodded slowly and, inhaling deeply, she smiled and studied his tense and pale face.

"I knew that you'd go," she said softly. "Deep down, I knew that you'd have to. But," and her voice cracked, "it never really sank in that you would." Tears prickled, and her lip quivered. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You'd have managed perfectly well," he said firmly, even if her deeply sceptical expression and the memory that the kitchen tap sputtered rather than ran contradicted him. "Those who love you would not have sat idly by and watched you slip under."

She smiled, letting her head fall to the side to rest upon the back of the sofa, and she studied him with unhidden affection. It would have been so easy to let himself slip into that heaven, but it was a fool's heaven...just as fool's gold tricked the greedy, so this heaven would trick the needy. While his heart pounded with eager anticipation, his mind whirled with desperation, and he called himself all kinds of fool. The consolation that kept him whole was that nothing had been committed that would rot the relationship that had bloomed between them. In years to come, nothing would blemish his recollections of five days with Hermione Granger; nothing would make her regret her generosity and faith.

"When will you go?" she asked stoically.

"The potions lab will need to be removed and the table returned to Mrs Cooke; also," he added, "unless you wish to switch Nationality, then your parents should really return to their native soil."

The colour drained from her face, and she blinked rapidly. "I know," she admitted softly. "I've been putting it off."

Hastily swallowing his coffee, he smirked and arched an eyebrow. "I'm so glad that I have been a convenient distraction." His smirk widened into a genuine grin as she flustered next to him, and he lifted a hand to soothe her worry. "Given the circumstances, having your parents return home would have caused a few comments and queries."

Mollified, she returned his grin, but then sighed ruefully and closed her eyes. "I expect that the whole situation will have caused comments and queries... I dread what they're going to say when I reverse the Obliviate." Her teeth worried her lower lip, and her brow furrowed as her imagination went wild.

Rescuing her from mental scenes of parental outrage, Snape Summoned some paper and a pen, and with a puzzled frown, she stared bemusedly at the stationery thrust out towards her.

"Write to Mrs Weasley and ask if she would accompany you to collect your parents. Even if you do not entirely need her help, I think that she would appreciate being able to help you."

Hesitating for the merest moment, she took the paper and leant over to the coffee table to compose her letter. Next to her, Snape stood and silently swept out of the room. She suspected that his suggestion was two-fold...ensuring that she would not be left alone when he departed, and also a gentle reminder that she did not suffer alone, and with the simplest of gestures, she could help alleviate the distress of others. The pen scratched across the lined paper, and with each stroke, she felt the despair morph into determination; it was difficult to accept, but life went on and, for a while at least, she would have to stumble along with everyone else until the road ahead evened out. She harrumphed under her breath at the irony of the situation; after the last few years under Voldemort's malign gaze and the recent Final Battle, she felt that she was only just beginning to grow up.

oooXooo

"I suggest finishing storing away the excess ingredients then we can clean the equipment without interference and shrink them down afterwards."

Hermione nodded and waved her wand over the table, watching with mixed feelings as dried, chopped, sliced and pickled ingredients flew through the air into various brown paper bags. There was so little to do, but they both seemed to be inefficient and slow so that the meagre tasks were drawn out; several times, Snape had asked that certain things be stacked differently and declared that the glassware was still in need of a cleaning spell. The next step in the procedure lay on the kitchen table, awaiting an owl to carry it mercilessly to its destination; of all limited steps, that was the most agonising.

Despite their efforts, by mid-afternoon, the table was bare. Two piles of condensed potions equipment rested against the wall of the attic, and the hole in the roof had been repaired; save for the lingering aroma of plant material and the reliable refectory table, it was scarily easy to think that the attic had never been used for anything other than the storage of life's acquisitions.

A scratching at the back door while they apathetically stirred the cooling soup in their bowls caught their attention, and she flashed him a pained glance before slipping off the chair to open the door. A grey owl walked over the threshold and fluffed its feathers, gave the kitchen a wide-eyed study from the doormat and then launched itself onto the back of the chair. Hermione idly wondered if the delivery owls had been trained to perch on the nearest chair or if she had in someway encouraged the behaviour by not being owl-friendly. Around its leg was a small pouch designed to hold the fee for delivery, and on its back, like a tiny backpack, was another pouch for the letter. It clicked its beak, and she huffed at the bird's apparent impatience. Gathering some cat treats en route, she picked up the letter, and as the bird nibbled on its treat, she slipped it inside the backpack before sliding five Knuts in the purse. With the rasp of claw against chair, the owl extended its wings and glided away.

"How long do they take?" she asked mournfully, watching the rapidly disappearing speck before it became lost against the sky.

"It depends upon any other deliveries the owl has to make, but the service states that for a British address, it will be within twenty-four hours of receipt."

"That soon," she whispered. There was a panic building within her; it seemed that she was on the verge of flying apart, of shattering and scattering. Her grip on the handle intensified; the metal bit into her palm and the soft flesh in her fingers, and she used it, used that pain to herd her errant emotions away from danger and back to the calm fold of logic.

He represented some thread weaving through the tattered fabric of her life, pulling the weft strands together so that she could repair the warp. Without him, she would have ripped and unravelled, and the thought of losing her support and strength was discomforting. But listening to him had opened her eyes to the immense and glorious future stretching out before her, and he had done nothing but bolster her for her place in it, all she had to do was step up and claim what was hers, without any guilt or regret. But it would be devoid of him, and that hurt.

The last strand fell in to place, and with a wistful smile, she pushed the door closed; he had ensured that he would no longer have to be responsible for her by presenting her with an undeniable responsibility...her own life, lived to the full. Whether he had indeed orchestrated her epiphany, she couldn't determine, but she would always hold him responsible.

The bread roll lay in crumbs after his nervous fingers had devastated it, and despite his protestations, he felt a certain reluctance in leaving her. He had enjoyed her company, and he had derived a great deal of satisfaction from aiding her in her struggles. It had been a remarkable balm to be able to offer himself to save another, rather than being forced to sit and watch them suffer...he felt redeemed. No matter what had happened previous to his stay in her house, he could leave it knowing that he would be thought of as something other than a murdering traitor. In itself, that was her greatest gift to him.

A serenity descended as their mood lifted, and they sat on the sofa, listening to summer rain softly striking the windows. There was nothing left to do; the table had been returned, and Snape had removed the Befuddlement Charm affecting Mrs Cooke.

"Where will you go?"

Snape turned to her, his expression thoughtful and gentle. "There are a few places where I would be safe." His eyes closed, and a small, rather sad smile tugged at his lips. "A very long time ago, I was asked that very same question... in slightly similar circumstances." The smile was wiped from his face and he inhaled shakily.

"Where will you go?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," he replied, his breath warming her temple, "he says that there is someone staying with his father that he wants me to meet."

Gods!

His neck itched!

He gritted his teeth and grimaced; his neck tingled as though dozens of ants stung his skin. Quickly smoothing his features, he stood and excused himself. As soon as he turned the corner into the hallway his hand delved into his deep pocket and he fumbled for the phial that he knew was in there. Still walking towards the stairs, he withdrew the amber phial and unstoppered it; with an ear out for Hermione, he brought it to his trembling lips and hastily swallowed the potion. The sensation in his skin began to feel like a burn, and he felt close to the cusp where he would have to cry out and relinquish to the urge to scratch. His hands tightened into talons, and he held them at his sides for fear that the nails would slash into the skin if he let them move freely. His jaw cracked, and a small, frustrated moan escaped; he should have known that thinking about Lily would have set it off, but he found it almost impossible not to think about her.

Even before the pungent taste had faded from his tongue, he felt the horrible sensation abate, and he sighed with intense relief as the potion worked to soothe the unseen weakness beneath his skin. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he twirled the empty phial between finger and thumb; time had softened the impact of the potion's duplicity, and he regarded it as a dubious ally rather than a traitor. With the potion, he would have the time and chance to perfect a true and abiding cure.

Of course, he mused sardonically, unless the potion finishes me off first!

It was so clear! Now that he had the opportunity to study it objectively...of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty...he could see the major and critical flaw in his thinking. He sniggered under his breath...Miss Granger had thought his grades for weak potions in class had been severe; here he was, facing death due to a simple error. But he had fended death off, and although it lingered uncomfortably close, he had a small surge of hope that he could work his way out, and he would do it without burdening her.

Slipping the empty vessel into his pocket, he walked back to the kitchen and avoided her curious glance by busying himself making tea. Soon she was by his side, tipping most of her uneaten soup into the sink, and he bolstered himself with an adage that had always, until now, made little sense...least said soon as mended. He wasn't even sure what he would have said to her if he had had either courage or words... What was there? They had strived together and succeeded; beyond that, there was nothing, and he would, given time, believe that. But! Sighing and closing his eyes, he willed away the stirring buts and maybes, the teasing possibilities and the cruel fantasies; he would leave, and she would live the life she was deserving of. It was the safest, the easiest and the wisest course of action... just not the happiest.

oooXooo

Glancing at the clock in the sitting room became a shared pastime, and the minutes seemed to march on relentlessly. They had occupied themselves with idle chatter, oftentimes touching upon the War, but slipping away from it as rain would down a window pane and trying, now, to assuage their current anxiety by contemplating the future ahead of them.

He adored her optimism, appreciated her enthusiasm and revelled in her sense of awe; it rekindled some hope within him. As he wrapped himself up in her dreams, he discovered some of his long-dead ones resurrect themselves, and the idea of travelling suddenly found itself pushed the fore, looking rather uncertain as dust was blown off it and a contemplative mind studied it. It grew bold, and he imagined himself journeying away from Wizarding Britain. Mountain ranges and placid lakes rose up in his mind; huge, glorious open spaces with no foe other than the weather, and the freedom to roam where he pleased with no leash tugging at his throat.

Their talk, musings and dreams were rudely interrupted just after breakfast by an owl flying past the window, and they shared an uneasy look before she stood and opened the window. The owl seemed to sense that its presence wasn't appreciated as it lingered on the sill, but it refused to fly away, and some dark inspiration informed her that it was waiting for a response.

He could see her hands trembling as she slowly walked back to the sofa, and his own fingers drummed a rapid, nervous tattoo against his thigh. Barely breathing, she opened the cream envelope and pulled out the thin letter within. She inhaled and read out the few paragraphs.

"It's no bother at all, Hermione, and I'm thrilled that you asked us. The Burrow has always been open to you, dear, and now, more so than ever. Ron will be so happy to see you! We all will," she said carefully, her voice thickening as her emotions gathered.

"I thought that it would be nice if we could come and collect you later on today, in time for some dinner, perhaps, and then we can plan the trip to fetch your Mum and Dad afterwards. Arthur is beside himself because he knows that Apparating that far in one go is impossible, and he has this idea that we'll go on one of those airyplane contraptions." She smiled, even giggled, at the thought of Mr Weasley on an aeroplane, but it just smothered the knowledge that she only had a few hours until she returned to a more difficult life than the sweet one cultivated between sofa and potions lab.

"The owl will wait for your reply, and I look forward to seeing you this afternoon. Love, Molly.

Snape glared at the owl, focusing his sudden dissatisfaction at the feathered fiend that merely blinked slowly and stretched out its leg... almost viciously showing off the waiting pouch. Compounding his despair was the sound of a nib scratching across the rough parchment and then the sight of her moving towards that heinous harbinger.

She turned to him, her eyes brimming with tears, and her twitching lips curved up into a weak smile. "I've told her to collect me at noon."

"How dramatic," he said with a wry smile while his eyes darted towards the clock...one and a half hours left.

He had intended to leave well before that dreaded deadline, but she would say something that required his attention, and he delved into those delaying discussions with delight. The sofa was tormented by their distractions; Hermione would pick at the stitching, and Snape would occasionally tug on the zip nestled behind the cushions. When the minute hand marked that they had only a quarter of an hour, they fell silent, idle chatter stifled and casual thoughts snuffed out as their minds focused on the impending separation.

"I don't want you to go," she whispered, knowing that she had to say it, but hoping that he wouldn't hear. Her ears sang in the silence. She licked her lips and looked up at him; his head was bowed and his expression stony.

He could feel her gaze upon him, and his mind circled around concepts that he couldn't quite formalise, but she had done something remarkable for him, and that, he felt, needed defining and thanking. It was most probably the reason why he felt such reluctance to leave; she had made him feel human and whole.

"I have found a peace here that I hadn't expected to ever find," he replied equally as softly. "A redemption that I had never thought able to receive." As he heard his own words, he grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. "I have done so many terrible, terrible things; some of them with a disgusting eagerness that should appal you, and some as a consequence of my oath to Lily. I never sought to ask for forgiveness; indeed, I never thought it right to ask... how could I?" He turned to her, and she keened in response to his haunted, red and tear-filled eyes boring desperately into her. "How could I even dare to kneel before them and beg that they forgive me for killing and hurting... and ... and... oh Merlin!" He threw back his head and pressed the heels of his palms against his weeping eyes. Gritting his teeth and breathing noisily, he tried to keep that terrible wave of rampaging emotions at bay.

Sniffling and hiccupping, she reached out a hand and touched his arm; at her touch, he lowered his hands and opened his eyes to stare at the smooth ceiling. "I don't know what you've done, and I don't want to, but I can see how you hurt because of it; I doubt that there could be a greater punishment than the one you've imposed upon yourself." Hot tears poured down her face, and she felt her heart thundering against her ribs as she witnessed his suffering.

"I thought that I was dying; I thought that Nagini had killed me, and I felt such peace." He sounded almost bitter that that sense of peace had been so transient, but as she studied his face, it seemed that he was merely struggling with expressing what he was recalling. "I lay there, feeling it all slip away, and then I noticed that something was missing," he said with a strange smile on his face. "I knew that I had given Potter all that he needed to defeat the Dark Lord, but in those moments, I gave him more, and I knew that I had given away my memories of Lily." He let out a dark laugh, and she suddenly felt very immature in her inability to understand something vital, not having lived or loved enough to fathom it. "Even at my death, she still held me captive...still made me do what she wanted."

Confused, but desperate to support him, she squeezed his upper arm. "I'm glad that she helped you."

His head snapped round towards her, and he mouthed silently as he digested her words. "Thank you," he finally managed to croak out.

"It's going to be very difficult, isn't it?" she said in a hushed voice. "Carrying on and whatnot."

"Yes," he said simply. "It is the price we have to pay for living through such a thing." He smiled at her and gently cupped her slick cheek. "You have to decide to value each day irrespective of the cost, because, at the end of the day, the dead don't really care."

The clock, beginning its deceptively soft and harmless little tune, jolted them apart, and they stared at it in horror. Fuelled by panic at the last moment, they leapt from the sofa and listened, straining, for the knell of the doorbell. Driven by impulse, she stepped forward and cleaved to him, her fingers digging into his back as she tried to collect as much from him as possible. In turn, he wrapped his arms around her, his hands pulling her closer so that he could feel her warmth, the warmth of a human in a his arms. She would never really know what happened; perhaps some thoughts exist beyond logic and understanding, but she tilted up her head to capture his face in her memory, and his eyes were dark and glittering in an intoxicating fashion as he looked down upon her. As his head bent slowly lower, her lips parted, but at the last moment he stilled.

"Say my name," he begged, his breathless whisper ghosting over her moist lips.

Without thinking, nor requiring the necessity to think, she closed her eyes and obliged...

"Severus."

She gasped and stumbled against him as his lips pressed against the corner of her mouth. Unable to stand, she clung to him, and with a shudder, she felt his hands slide down her upper arms to cup her elbows, and then she frowned and groaned as that mouth moved away. Lips still tingling from his kiss, and her elbows still burning from his touch, it took a few seconds to think on that gentle breeze that had rushed over her exposed skin. A sob escaped her, and she slumped were she stood. The doorbell pierced her pained realisation, and at the second ring, she opened her eyes to an empty room.

oooXooo

Epilogue.

The letter looked innocuous enough as it lay on her desk, but the rather shabby-looking amber phial next to it hinted at perilous, but enthralling reading. Tugging off her green overcoat, she lowered herself into her chair and ran her fingertips over the smooth paper. It had been almost six years since she had seen a similar phial, and as her fingers felt the paper, she was taken back to a time when she had been overawed by a man holding the key to his potion. A key that she had discovered much later was to his prison and not his release.

How it had pained her when she had finally concluded after years of study that Snape's potion, despite their efforts over six days in her home, had not cured him of Nagini's bite. She had silently and bitterly cursed him; cursed him for letting her believe that he was leaving her for a better life; instead, she had spent five years, scouring newspapers and obituaries for news of Severus Snape's demise from blood loss.

Licking her lips, she plucked up both courage and letter.

Dear Hermione,

Severus Snape