Seven Seas of Rhye

Author's Note: All of my gratitude is owed to Angel Mischa, the administrators of this excellent website, and to everyone who has read, reviewed, and enjoyed this story. Thank you all very much for making my first fic such a great experience! If you liked this story, keep your eyes peeled for my next SS/HG, entitled Soul Man.

Seven Seas of Rhye

Hot water cascaded down Snape's face in a soothing stream. He stood perfectly still, allowing his muscles to relax, and tried to remember whether he had ever had a shower that felt so good. Two and a half days' worth of grime had sloughed from his skin when he'd washed himself with the flannel. He was grateful to be clean, but he was hungry, too: starving, actually, as he had not eaten a proper meal in nearly three days. Twisting the taps closed, he dried himself and, wrapping the towel around his waist, padded into his bedroom to summon a house-elf to bring food.

He sat in the armchair next to the fire and let its heat burn the last water-droplets from his body. Ronald Weasley's appearance in Azkaban this morning had not been unexpected, he thought, resting his head against the back of the chair. Not unexpected, but not unwelcome, either. Snape, along with Hermione, had been overjoyed to be released from the prison, and he had found himself unable to spare much thought, until this moment, for anything but getting back to Hogwarts. Now, comfortably ensconced in his personal chambers once again, he began to plan the many tasks he needed to accomplish today.

First, and most importantly, he needed to consult with Flitwick. Snape's reputation, and that of Hogwarts, had to be protected. He wasn't entirely certain how the death of Antonio Silva would affect the attitudes of the parents and the Board of Directors, but Flitwick would almost definitely want a strategy for damage control. Snape was well aware that the black marks he already had against his name would work in his disfavour. He doubted that he would be sacked, but enrolment might suffer if parents maintained sufficient doubt about his moral rectitude. He knew, too, that a cloud of suspicion would continue to hang over him, and over Hermione as well, until the true culprit was found.

Second, he wanted to speak with Hermione. The damage caused by this business to his relationship with her was nearly incalculable; he could not reasonably see a way to salvage even what was left of their friendship. While he understood that his behaviour toward her throughout the school year had been neither honourable nor honest, he was deeply hurt by the accusations and condemnations she had flung at him while in prison. He was willing to allow her certain latitude: the prospect of an extended stay in Azkaban was enough to make anyone, even the most reasonable of people, a bit deranged. What he found hardest to excuse were her remarks about Dumbledore; they had ruthlessly opened an emotional wound that had never properly healed. He would never have thought her capable of such cruelty – had she not gracefully forgiven people whose treatment of her had been even worse than his own? Snape felt as if he were the one who had been stabbed.

And finally, of course, there were things to be discussed with Miranda. Lucius's tale of her elopement with Antonio Silva had been a gripping one – such romance, of meeting on holiday in the Mediterranean and falling instantly in love, was something Snape had believed to be a thing of the past, if it had ever really existed at all. As good a story-teller as Lucius was, however, he had been unable to conceal his ignorance of the intervening years, apart from the great disappointment the Silva family had expressed, both publicly and privately, about the seeming inability of Antonio and his beautiful English wife to have any children. This minor revelation had had an entirely unprecedented effect on Snape: his entire body had seemed to melt into a puddle of panic – for he suddenly realised that in none of his encounters with Miranda had he ever used any kind of prophylactic, Muggle or magical. He had simply assumed, as one tended to, that she had the matter under control. Strange, how the mention of possible infertility had created, in his mind, the corresponding possibility that she was pregnant. Now, he would have to go to her to make sure that she was not, and how could such a conversation be anything but painful and awkward? Imagine saying to a woman, 'I hope to God you're not pregnant with my child'!

When the house-elf appeared with a platter of sandwiches and fruit, Snape put his thoughts aside and tucked in, determined not to let his manifold anxieties disturb his digestion. The meal was so satisfying, and so filling to his shrunken stomach, that he was tempted to take a nap afterward; he had missed the comfort of his bed. With a regretful sigh, however, he shrugged out of his towel, dressed, and meandered into his office to catch up on his post. The newspapers he set aside to read later; there was some professional correspondence as well, which he made a note to answer that afternoon. And there was a blank envelope, which he picked up and stared at for some time before absently reaching for his letter-opener, only to remember that it was no longer in his desk drawer. Suppressing a shiver, he slit the envelope with his fingernail and, with a dawning sense of horror, read the letter therein:

Dear Severus,

Miranda

Snape stood frozen, the letter dangling from his fingers. His mind was a perfect blank. For once, he felt no identifiable impulse to act. The emptiness of his office almost frightened him; all of his possessions, which had once seemed so familiar and comforting to him, suddenly seemed wrong and out of place. The idea of continuing to stand here alone was growing unbearable. His eye snagged on the final sentence of Miranda's letter, and with the sluggishness of someone moving through water, he turned to light a fire behind him and tossed in some Floo powder:

'Grimmauld Place!'

***

The basement kitchen, with its long, rough-hewn wooden table and copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, was warm and cosy when Snape stepped through. He thought briefly that he might be alone and nearly panicked before catching sight of the figure dozing in the wooden chair next to the fireplace. It was Ginny Weasley – now Ginny Potter – sitting there, and Snape did a double-take before realising that she was not fat, just very heavily pregnant. He hadn't known, and he felt guilty for disturbing her nap. Then he saw the saucepan bubbling on the range and felt even worse for interrupting her lunch.

As he stood indecisively, wondering whether to go back through the flames before she noticed his arrival, she stirred and pulled herself upright. 'Professor Snape?' she asked, blinking groggily.

'I'm terribly sorry. I was just...' He trailed off, at a loss for words.

'Please, sit down,' she said, hoisting herself out of the chair. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost. Can I get you a cup of tea?'

'No! No, thank you,' he stammered, blocking her path. 'Don't get up. I'll get it myself.'

Ginny sank gratefully back into her seat and cracked her back while Snape boiled water in the kettle and poured himself a cup of instant coffee. 'I assume you're here to see Harry,' Ginny said from across the room. 'He should be home for lunch soon.'

'Thank you,' Snape said, coming back toward the fire and settling himself at the end of the nearest bench. Looking meaningfully at her stomach, he asked, 'Er...when are you due?'

'Any day now, thank God,' she said and laughed. 'It's a boy. We're going to call him James.'

'Congratulations,' Snape offered weakly. It unnerved him to see this scene of domestic tranquillity after the letter he had just read. He patted his pocket absently.

'They let you out of Azkaban, then,' Ginny commented, flicking her long red braid behind her back.

'This morning.'

She cocked her head and looked at him searchingly. 'I hope everything is all right,' she said, and Snape heard the note of questioning in her tone.

'Well, sort of,' he answered.

He was saved from explanation by the flaring of the fire. Harry Potter stepped through and shook the coal dust from his hair. His eyes went straight to his wife, and he leaned over to kiss her forehead. When he straightened, he noticed Snape sitting on the bench, cradling his mug of coffee, and his brow furrowed.

'Professor,' he said, offering his hand. 'What can I do for you?'

Ginny levered herself from the chair and moved toward the door, saying, 'Lunch should be ready in about ten minutes.'

When she had disappeared into the hallway, Snape reached into his pocket and wordlessly handed Miranda's letter to Harry. After a moment, Harry exclaimed, 'But this is good news! A written confession.'

'Read the rest,' Snape said tonelessly, staring at the chair Ginny had vacated.

When Harry looked up again a few minutes later, his face was white. 'Snape, is this true? What is this Enhancement Charm?'

Snape explained the charm and how it was meant to work while Harry listened in obvious consternation. 'But that doesn't mean she's right,' he protested when Snape had finished. 'She might have made a mistake.'

'I don't think she did,' Snape responded wearily. 'I haven't felt well for a long time now. I get sick at odd times for no reason. I'm worn out after the smallest exertions.'

'You don't think she could have... you know... poisoned you?' Harry asked delicately.

Snape laughed dryly. 'Why should she? She needed me alive.'

Harry blinked and rubbed his eyes uncomfortably. He sat on the bench next to Snape and spread the letter out on the table. 'If this is true...' he began, then stopped and swallowed. Meeting Snape's eyes, he said again, 'If this is true, then it's my fault. I left you there on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. I thought you were already dead.' His guilt was etched across his face.

Snape shrugged listlessly. 'Always thinking of yourself, Potter,' he said, but without any real venom.

'Does Hermione know about this?' Harry pressed, ignoring the taunt.

Something sparked in Snape's memory. 'If you mean, does she know about this letter, no. But she's always had a great dislike of that charm. Maybe she understood, or guessed, what it was showing. She knew about its diagnostic use.'

'You should go and ask her, then,' Harry suggested, brightening a little. 'She'll be able to tell you whether there's anything to worry about.'

'Hermione Granger, the know-it-all.' Snape's lips twisted in a mirthless grin. 'I'll leave this with you, then,' he said, pointing at the letter and pulling himself to his feet.

'Don't you want it?' asked Harry, puzzled.

'Good God, no,' Snape shuddered. 'Give it to the Aurors.' He picked up a fistful of Floo powder and turned to the fire. 'Please convey my apologies to your wife for interrupting your lunch.'

Harry put a tentative hand out as if to stop his leaving. 'Snape... you won't try to deal with this alone, will you?'

Snape gave Harry a look that almost approached his trademark smirk. 'Why do you think I came to see you, Potter?' He threw the powder into the fireplace and stepped into the flames.

***

At least an hour passed before Snape felt able to go Hermione's rooms, during which he paced back and forth across his sitting room, letting his rage and resentment and bitterness build until the impending explosion finally drove him down the corridor to pound on her door. When she didn't answer immediately, he snarled the password and burst inside only to find her sitting calmly at her desk by the window, chin cradled in hand, staring through the glass almost blindly. She turned her head to look at him, eyes dark in her pale, haggard face, one eyebrow raised slightly in enquiry.

His rage flagged as if he'd been popped like a balloon at the sight of her melancholy expression. Just as once before, out by the lake, he'd been unable to vituperate her, he now had the distinct impression that shouting at her would have the same effect as kicking a puppy. Clearing his throat, he said hesitantly, 'I've just had a letter from Miranda.'

'Oh?'

Cringing inwardly at the tone of disinterest, he continued, 'She's gone. She did it. I gave it to Potter.'

Hermione nodded slowly, digesting this information. She pursed her lips ruefully and gazed up at him apologetically. 'You must hate me.'

Heaving a deep sigh, Snape sat heavily on her sofa and rubbed his temples. 'Of course I don't hate you.'

'I'm sorry, for what that's worth,' she said.

'Thank you.' Snape wondered how to take the conversation in the direction he intended and decided the direct approach was best. 'There was one other thing in that letter,' he added, twisting to watch her over the back of the sofa. 'Regarding the Enhancement Charm.'

Hermione shifted apprehensively in her chair. 'What did she say?' she asked cautiously.

Snape gave her a look of deliberate appraisal. 'What do you think she said, Hermione?'

She sagged; he felt a brief flash of triumph combined with relief that she was not going to deceive him. 'You know what it was, don't you,' he said flatly.

'Yes,' she admitted. She stood abruptly and joined him on the sofa. 'I didn't know if I was right – I thought I might be interpreting the spell incorrectly. The book I found wasn't especially clear. Otherwise I would have told you!' Her voice was imploring. 'I hoped I was wrong.'

Snape closed his eyes. This was the confirmation he had not wanted. How was it, he wondered, that he had managed to survive through twenty years of stress, anxiety, bitterness, and fear, only to discover that now, having conquered most of his demons and leading a lifestyle of reasonable contentment, he was going to die? Perhaps, he reflected, some human beings were not created to experience joy. The thought was purely academic and caused him no particular dismay; if some people were created to be happy, then others must be created to struggle. He had been fighting one thing or another for so long that the prospect of beginning a new battle was nothing too alarming.

Hermione seemed to sense what he was thinking. She placed a gentle hand comfortingly on his forearm.

She seemed to want him to speak, so he dredged up some suitable words: 'I may be dying, but I'm not dead yet. I have time to figure something out.'

'I'll help you,' she offered instantly. 'I'm sure there are lots of things we can do to find out what's wrong with you and fix it.'

Snape nodded. 'That would be good.'

He wanted to live, that much was clear to him. He might have faced death without fear before, and even resigned himself to it, but then it had all been in the name of a worthy cause. He didn't see any need to undertake such a philosophical view now. Determination grew inside him. Death was obdurate, but had he not accomplished even greater things before? Had he not earned the trust of the two most powerful wizards ever to live? Had he not protected the Boy Who Lived and prepared him for his impossible destiny? Had he not cheated death once before? There was nothing, however Herculean, that he could not do.

'I would do anything,' he said simply, 'to keep living.'

'No!' Hermione exclaimed sharply. 'Not anything.'

The look on her face was stricken and worried, as if she feared some incipient madness in him. It was almost funny; perversely, he felt a great tide of happiness rising inside his chest that erupted into genuine, healthy laughter.

Hermione watched him indignantly until he composed himself and responded, 'You're right. Not anything.'

'Good.' Relieved, she sat back and rubbed her index finger across her lower lip thoughtfully. After a moment she asked, 'You know more about this than I do. Where should we start?'

Impulsively, he cast his eye over her enormous, blue-enamelled gramophone and said pensively, 'Since you ask, Hermione, I'd like to start some months ago, on the night I asked you to play your favourite songs. I realise now that I never played you mine, which turns out to have been a good thing, since I think it's changed.'

He levered himself from the sofa and selected a record from the shelf. 'There are many things still unsaid between us,' he went on, frowning briefly at the thought, 'mostly about how foolish I've been for the past eight months. I'm glad you're going to help find me the time to say them. And I'm pretty bloody determined to make sure I have longer than a year to do it.'

Snape placed the thin disc of vinyl on the turntable. Meeting Hermione's eyes, taking in her youthful beauty and resolute posture, he was startled to find her smiling impishly.

'What is it?' he asked.

'I was just thinking,' she explained, starting to laugh, 'that as bad as she was, well, otherwise we never would have known. I never thought I'd find myself saying this, but – thank God for Miranda!'

He paused doubtfully.

Hermione laughed again and waved her fingers at him impatiently. 'Just put on the music, Severus. We've got a lot of work to do.'

***

Storm the master-marathon, I'll fly through

Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive