Chapter 6

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

"Stop."

Hermione ran her fingers through her hair, her head bowed in frustration. She clenched her teeth, making her gums ache. It really wasn't working. Over the last two weeks, they'd worked through the entire first-year syllabus, each potion a spectacular failure in its own right. Severus just couldn't do it. His natural ability, for she supposed he had some, seemed to be blocked along with his memory. Currently, he was working at a level even poor old Neville could have surpassed. And it worried her. The deadline was drawing ever closer, yet they seemed no nearer to cracking the code.

There was a loud hiss as Severus began to neutralise his current potion. Hermione wasn't quite sure what he'd made, only that it was acidic, judging from the colour and the fumes, and shouldn't really be poured down the drain. She sighed gently, rising from her place at the desk and walking over to the open window.

It was dark outside, night having fallen hours ago. The moon, full and bright, shone down on the wilderness below, turning the tall trees a haunting shade of silver. In the distance, she could hear the screeching of an owl, its cry one of jubilation as it caught its midnight snack. Frost clung to the grass, stretching across the ground like a large spidery hand, its creeping fingers digging ever deeper into the sodden earth. A winter wonderland.

Fields and forest playing out below her, Hermione leant out, enjoying the cool breeze on her face. Though her breath froze when it hit the night air, the great white plumes clouding her vision, she felt hot and sweaty. With the room in use all day, it had taken on the role of a sauna, rendering her warm winter layers quite unnecessary. Taking a deep breath, her lungs stinging under the onslaught, she looked down. It was dizzying, after being cooped up for so long, to see the ground, unbarred yet unreachable. There were no locks on these windows. There was no fear of escape: the drop was too far for anyone without a certain death wish.

"Hermione?"

She didn't respond, lost in her own little world. Warmth radiated against her back as he stepped closer. They didn't touch, but they were close. She could hear him breathing, feel the soft tingle of his breath against her neck. Shivering, not from the cold but from the heat both inside and out, she stared resolutely out of the window, forcing her focus on something, anything, other than the man behind her.

A wolf, or a dog, howled in the distance. Not to the moon but to something else. Prey, probably. There were no werewolves anymore, all had been sacrificed for the Ministry cause. No Remus, or Fenrir, or any of the others. No call for medics, or potions, like there was in the old days.

Potions. Wolfsbane.

Hermione spun on her heel, striding past a rather startled-looking Severus and over to the bookcase in the corner. Her fingers skimmed over one canvas-bound tome after another, tracing the golden lettering on each one, looking for answers. Pulling the second one from the right, a thick green book, from its place on the shelf, she hulked it over to the table and set it down with a bang.

"I've got it," she said, skimming across the pages until she found the one she wanted. "Wolfsbane. You used to brew it for a man named Remus Lupin to help with his lycanthropy. He was a fellow professor. Perhaps this will jog your memory."

Severus looked down at the list of ingredients, his brow furrowed.

"It's complicated. Perhaps too complicated."

"It's a difficult potion to brew, and you used to be one of the few who could do it. Something this complex is sure to send a few signals through your synapses. In fact, I'm counting on it."

With haste, she began to set up the cauldron and the distillation apparatus. Precision was the name of the game, and she spent extra time preparing the glass reflux flask until it matched the one in the diagram. She wasn't sure whether the Ministry had provided them with the correct ingredients for the potion, but if all went well, she was sure they wouldn't need them. As long as they had enough for the first couple of stages, they'd be fine. She had to jog his memory, not make a usable potion.

"Follow the instructions to the letter," she commanded, setting a large jar of wolfsbane on the table. With the cap unscrewed, the room smelt strongly of something akin to peppermint, though far more woody in texture. She coughed slightly before continuing. "And remember to chop the ingredients finely. They have to mix for the potion to work."

Severus took up the knife from the sideboard, setting to work on a large beetle husk. Hermione watched him work, hope fluttering uneasily in her stomach. This was their last chance. After this, she was all out of ideas and probably out of a job too. She shuddered to think what would happen then.

With all the ingredients for stage one chopped and shredded to perfection, Severus began to add them into the cauldron, stirring clockwise with the birch rod the book specified. His dark eyes were focused solely on the potion before him, so intense Hermione thought they'd burn a hole in the bottom of the cauldron. He looked very much the Potions master she remembered, only older and more worn. His hands, as skilful as ever, sprinkled in pepper and lacewings, his long fingers grasping each ingredient just firmly enough to manoeuvre them without causing any damage.

He muttered the steps under his breath as he went, the list becoming his mantra. With each new step completed, his voice got louder and louder. His eyes drifted to the book less frequently until they stopped altogether. It was coming from memory.

Hermione cried out, a sweet sense of success filling her as she watched him move through the required motions with no hesitation. His eyes drifted up to meet hers. They were alight with the pure pleasure of potion making, something he hadn't felt in the longest of times. A small smile even curved the edge of his thin lips.

The potion bubbled and spat, belching out lurid green smoke. Severus wafted away the fumes, adding in an extra pinch of monkshood. The smoke turned purple and drifted lazily from the surface of the gently simmering potion. Stage one finished, he stepped away from the cauldron, frowning as he saw the absence of ingredients required for the next stage.

"You didn't intend for me to continue, did you?"

Hermione smiled, shaking her head lightly.

"No. I was rather hoping you'd remember by the end of the first stage."

"Well, I believe fortune favours us tonight," he said, tapping his fingers gently against the table top. "Do you want me to clear up?"

He looked tired, dark circles shadowing the tender skin beneath his eyes. Recall seemed to have been an exhausting experience.

"No. I'll do it. You look like you're about to collapse."

"When are you going to phone the Ministry?"

"Tomorrow evening. You could do with a day to rest before the project begins."

Severus hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly. "This hasn't changed anything, you know. I still can't remember who I am, only what I can do."

"I'm sure it will come back. But this is a start, isn't it? I mean, if you can remember this, then the other things will be sure to follow. The dam has been broken, Severus."

Severus said nothing. His gaze was cynical.

"Go. Rest." Hermione ushered him from the room, a smile still upon her lips.

Severus wasn't in the bedroom when Hermione went to check. The lights were out, but the bed was still made, the sheets still in pristine condition. She'd sent him down over two hours ago. His absence was puzzling.

Backing out of the room, Hermione made her way down the darkened hall, her eyes wide, trying to catch any glimpse of light.

A faint shaft of yellow shone from under the door of the office. Had she not been looking for it, she would have missed it, thinking the room unoccupied. Palms flat against the wooden panelling, she gently pushed open the door. It creaked, but the figure inside seemed not to notice.

In the dim light, she could just about make out Severus. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, his greasy hair pulled from its bindings. Books of all shapes and sizes lay before him, opened at random. The sleeves of his robes were bunched up around his elbows, baring his forearms. Even in the gloom, Hermione could make out the dark scar on his pale flesh. The Dark Mark.

"Severus?" she said, his name barely a whisper.

He didn't look up. His thin fingers traced the mark on his arm with a morbid fascination.

Hermione moved closer, her footsteps light upon the floorboards. She repeated his name. Again, he remained silent and unmoving. In the silence, she could hear the sound of his breathing, the raspy gasps as his slowly dying lungs filled with air. She fancied she could hear his heart, too, beating in time with her own. That she could hear the rush of blood through his veins and arteries, each cycle struck from the tally that showed how many he had left. Death comes upon all, but others too soon.

She was so caught up in the sound of his body, she started when he spoke.

"Do you think me wicked, Hermione?"

The words were soft, but they echoed through the room as though magnified by the darkness. His eyes remained fixed upon the mark, his face showing no trace of emotion.

Edging closer, she saw the tears that glistened upon his cheeks. Tiny rivers of crystal that marked his skin, marked his sorrow. Panic sliced through her. What had he discovered? There were so many secrets, and she'd told him so many white lies.

"Why do you ask?"

He didn't say anything. Instead, he pushed a book towards her, its greying dust jacket hissing as it slid across the floor.

Hermione bent down, squinting in the darkness as she struggled to read the fine type.

Hogwarts: A History.

She stepped back in horror, unable to smother the gasp that escaped her throat. He knew.

"Severus, please. It's not what it looks like."

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. They swirled with anger and unshed tears.

"What isn't? The fact that I'm a murderer? Or the fact that I have evil carved into my arm?"

Hermione flinched at the venom in his voice. She felt twelve years old again, fearful as if she were sitting, once more, in his classroom for the day's lesson.

"It's not like that. You switched sides. You fought for us."

His eyes narrowed. "Us? And I bet you were a precious Order Member. Tell me, is it just a matter of circumstance, or did you always intend to keep from me the fact that I killed your leader? Do you revel in knowing you're my better?"

"It was for your own good. Would you have really wanted to know that, if you had the choice? Everyone deserves a second chance, Severus."

"Did you ever give me one? You told me yourself you hated me. That you loathed me."

"I hated you once when the wound was still fresh," she lied. "But everything changed. After the war, Harry showed me your memories. I knew then that you did it for a reason. You're not a cold-blooded monster, Severus. Dumbledore was dying, and Draco didn't deserve to be damned. You saved two lives that night, even though you might not think it."

"And this?" He pointed to his arm. The mark was scratched and bleeding, as though he had tried to tear it from his skin. "Can you forgive me for this?"

"It was a mistake. You were young and foolish."

"How do you know that? It could have been just what I wanted, all that blood and destruction. You know, even sitting here thinking about it, that offer of power appeals to me. Power is a most potent drug, and with this, I could have had it all. No doubt I would have done anything to get it: steal, rape, murder."

Hermione shuddered as his eyes bored into hers, something nasty lurking in their dark depths. For the first time, she got a glimpse of him, the real him. The him from long ago. It made her want to bolt for the door.

But then he blinked, and it was gone. Replaced by a sadness she couldn't imagine.

"Perhaps I am a monster, Hermione," he said, his voice raspy. "Perhaps I deserved to die."

"No."

"Then why do you back away, like a frightened animal in a cage?"

Hermione flushed. She made a conscious effort to halt her retreat, holding her ground.

"I'm not scared of you."

Another lie, but this time they both knew it.

"You're terrified. I can see it in your eyes, your posture. But I suppose I have no right to blame you. Murderers can't make for the easiest of company."

She shuffled forward, sinking down onto her knees so that their heads were level. Not a gesture of submission, but one of equality.

"Severus," she said, cupping his cheek. "Don't. You're human. Humans commit sins. But you repented, and that's what matters. That's what counts. You tried to make things right again, which has all the marks of an angel, if you ask me."

"You are the angel," he said, his eyes wide.

Hermione gave a humourless laugh. "You wouldn't say that if you knew me. My wings broke long ago."

"It doesn't matter."

All conversation halted as Severus moved closer, pressing his lips to hers.

His lips felt almost unbearably hot. They hovered over her own, unmoving, simply touching. Soft and human, they pressed against her so lightly she could barely feel it. It was almost as if he were afraid, like a little boy taking something he knew he couldn't have.

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut, but he pulled away. Her cheek felt cold as his hand dropped and loss coursed through her. The same as before, as every time he touched her, only stronger.

"You feel like an angel, Hermione," he said, his breath whispering across her face. "Like you'll disappear if I so much as blink."

Hermione could hear the tremor in his voice, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. And it gave her a perverse sort of pleasure, knowing she'd managed to shake him. To make the great black bat of a man feel something other than hate or regret. To make him feel his own fear.

She didn't open her eyes but meshed back into the kiss, pressing her lips against his – hard. With a trembling hand, she drew him close. Close enough to feel the tracks of his tears, wet and cold, upon her face. Their touch remained chaste, little more than the press of sensitive skin against sensitive skin, both barely breathing.

"Are you afraid?" she whispered against his lips.

A hand slid across her breast, its fingers trembling. She leant into the touch, heat infusing her skin through the flimsy robe. His thumb brushed over her nipple, the palm of his hand gently cupping the sensitive underside.

"Yes," he breathed.

Hermione met him in an open-mouthed kiss, her tongue tracing the delicate seam of his lips until they opened. They were chapped, but it didn't matter. It was just another sign of a body falling to waste, something she couldn't heal.

She shivered as Severus increased the pressure on her breast, his palm rubbing across the swell with the rhythm of their tongues. He tasted faintly of mint and something... else. She couldn't quite identify it, but it was bitter, almost metallic, and it slid down her throat with an uncomfortable ease. Something addictive, certainly, for she felt as though she couldn't live without it now. As though the world would crumble the moment her lips left his.

His tongue flicked over her teeth and up to the roof of her mouth. Slick with spit and the taste that screamed 'Severus', it explored every ridge and hollow, as though he were committing the contours of her mouth to memory. She moaned as he hit a sensitive spot, the sound swelling up from her lungs before she could stop it.

They broke away, gasping. The sound of his breathing was harsh in her ears, raspy from excitement. She opened her eyes, meeting his dark gaze. His eyes were almost black, their depths as fiery as ever.

The hand on her breast stopped moving, tightening slightly. She lifted it gently, threading her fingers through his and pulling them close. Pressing her lips to his knuckles, she flicked her tongue over the light webbing of flesh between his fingers, watching as he shuddered.

She smiled, rising to her feet, pulling his hand up with her. He followed suit, standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. His hair had fallen across his face in a curtain of inky black, obscuring his sharp features, the tiredness that lurked in the skin around his eyes. Hermione was almost afraid to brush it back, as though doing so would change the man beneath.

"Come on," she said, leading him towards the bedroom with quiet, confident steps. Her hand let go of his as she opened the door, falling alone and cold to her side.

The bedroom was dark, only the tiniest shaft of moonlight slicing though the curtains. It painted the world silvery grey, making it seem beautifully austere. As though to do anything but admire would be sinful. But Hermione cared little for virtue.

She felt him press close to her, the warmth of his body enveloping her back. His arms wrapped around her front, pulling her into his embrace. She could feel the slight movement of his hips as he drew her close. It was tempting to turn and take him there, but she found she couldn't move, as she was trapped in his tight hold.

His lips lavished the skin of her neck with kisses, the sharp nick of teeth providing a painful contrast to the soft sensations his mouth created. Tipping her head back to expose more of her throat, she looked up at the ceiling, tracing the swirling lines of silver-tinted plaster. His hand slid between the opening of her robe and under her shirt, caressing the curve of her stomach. She shivered, feeling it slide just underneath her navel, the edge of it tracing the waistline of her trousers. He was teasing her, his fingers occasionally dipping beneath the heavy layer of cotton to stroke the soft skin below. Heat flooded her lower abdomen.

"Severus..."

He brushed his mouth over her jaw bone.

"Hush," he whispered. "Just let me touch you."

Hermione arched her back as his hands slid up her front, over her breasts and to her collarbone. Tracing his fingers across the bones of her chest, he pushed off her robes, watching through dark eyes as they pooled upon the floor in a lake of red. The shirt beneath was rough and worn. Just like her.

With a surgeon's precision, Severus began to open her shirt, slipping the buttons from their holes in a single, skilful movement. His fingertips brushed against her bare skin, leaving trails of white-hot fire in their wake. Her back arched, pushing her breasts forward into the cold air, her nipples tightening. He didn't touch them but went for the clasps on her trousers, unhooking them and letting them slide off her hips. Clad in nothing but a pair of red knickers, she stood before him, shivering.

Severus smoothed his hands up her thighs and over her stomach, rubbing her skin gently. Hermione groaned, his touch too light to do anything but tease. She felt as if her skin were on fire, burning away where he touched her, leaving her aching. Her hair, pressed against her back by his chest, was stuck to her skin with sweat, the moisture making the curls even more untameable. When Severus turned her head, she could feel it slithering across her flesh.

His face was flushed, his eyes dark. Hermione felt a little thrill go through her at the sight. He was alive.

"Kiss me," she breathed, her mouth dry. She swallowed, watching emotions play over his face. Lust, passion, anger, bewilderment. He hesitated, and it was telling. "Don't you want this?"

"I want to feel. I want to know what it's like to be alive." The words seemed difficult, as though he'd forced them from his tongue.

"But this? Do you want this?"

"I want you."

Hermione turned in his arms, pressing him close. Chest to chest, hip to hip, lips to lips. Her hands worked on the front of his robes, pulling them apart as she sought the skin underneath. The black material fell to the floor like dripping ink, running from his shoulders in a liquid-like flow. His shirt followed, leaving him bare save for a pair of black trousers.

He was pale. Not unlike the corpse he'd been not so long ago, lying upon her table with cold limbs and dead eyes. Only his skin was hot, burning her, and his eyes flickered. Her hand came to rest upon his sternum, feeling each beat of his fragile heart, the rush of blood through his arteries and veins. Alive. Barely.

His ribs, clearly defined, created moonlit shadows across his torso. He was too thin, and Hermione felt a shred of pity as she traced the bones of his hips. Jutting out at a sharp angle, they seemed to stretch the greying skin far more than they should. A skeleton made of matchsticks and old leather and so very fragile. She was afraid that her touch would send him crumbling into dust.

She watched as the muscles in his face contorted, as his eyes fluttered shut, his lashes becoming inky stains upon his cheeks. It wasn't beautiful, but it was enough. And Hermione felt a sharp twist in her abdomen, her body mimicking the pleasure she could see in his.

Hermione pressed her mouth to his chest. Familiar tastes, familiar smells. Only not quite. The skin, the sweat; it was just like the other men she'd taken, used, and yet like no other. Her lips tingled as they touched him, telling her body he was something new. Something alien.

Her fingers fumbled upon the buttons as she struggled to remove his trousers. Severus pushed his hips forward, his hands coming down to help. Together they created just enough slack, and her hands slid over his arse, over the soft skin, pushing the dark material to the floor. He was bare beneath.

Seconds, minutes after, she felt his hand clasp around hers. His skin felt searing. A thrill ran through her. She looked up, her eyes meeting his.

"I love you, Hermione."

Her stomach lurched. She didn't pull back but rested her head against his chest, blocking his view of her face.

Please don't do this to me. Please don't make me hurt you.

Want, she could deal with. But love? She'd given up on that long ago, and it had been washed from her life like the dirt on her skin, flowing down the drain with the bloody bathwater. Love brought images of horror and guilt. Of him, lying broken upon the tiles.

"Shhhh," she whispered, pushing him back against the bed.

She avoided his dark eyes, scared he'd see the truth. He kissed her, his tongue delving deep into her mouth, searching for answers she wouldn't give him. His face held a pinched, pained sort of expression as he tried to hold back. But his eyes were dark, shining with something other than lust. Their skin was slick with sweat, and the heat was almost unbearable. Hermione felt as though she was about to fall apart. To shatter into a million pieces.

She felt no guilt as she welcomed him into her arms, though she would later. Even this was another lie. His love had red hair, not brown, and was long dead. Tonight, Lily, he is mine, she thought, revelling in her sense of power as her legs wrapped around his narrow waist.

Their mouths never broke contact.

Tired and sated, they collapsed. Severus' eyes were closed, and his face flushed with colour. Hermione crawled closer to him resting her head upon his rapidly moving chest. She was asleep within moments. She didn't hear his whispered reply.

"Sweet dreams, Miss Granger."