Seasons Change

Chapter One.

For the fifth time, Severus Snape re-read the scroll of parchment, a grim expression on his face. As a reply, it was plainly inadequate. Disgusted, he set it aside, and reached instead for his firewhiskey. He sipped it slowly and thoughtfully. Perhaps the burn would help him to focus.

He'd received Hermione's letter earlier that day. Though they'd not corresponded since his retirement, he'd recognized her penmanship at first glance. After all, she had been his colleague for almost 20 years. And though they'd maintained a purely professional relationship, beneath the surface had bloomed a rather deep mutual respect.

At length, the image he'd had of her overeager hand waiving desperately in the air faded, to be replaced by a picture of confident competence. She'd been the only colleague with whom he'd enjoyed occasional social conversation, and he'd been, he suspected, the only peer with whom she'd shared her more esoteric ideas. They'd become, somehow, over the long course of their acquaintance, if not strictly friends, then at least a close facsimile thereof.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he could not bring himself to answer her missive. What words could he employ that would convey the fierce sadness it had brought him? Not that he'd cared for Ronald Weasley, the mindless prat. But she had. And she'd fought like a banshee to save him.

He did not consider himself to be a compassionate man, and yet, he could imagine how simply devastating the entire experience would be for her. She did not deserve such pain. Almost unwillingly, he found himself wishing that Ronald Weasley had lived a far longer life.

Sighing, he vanished his lengthy reply and summoned another parchment. He closed his eyes, thinking of the woman he'd come to know, picturing her intelligent eyes before him. Perhaps simple words would be best. Severus Snape raised his quill.

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

The past eight months had been endless. When the immediate tasks of the funeral were over, the children had returned to their own families, friends had returned to their own lives, and time had slowed to a crawl. A painful, endless crawl. After what seemed like years of fighting there was suddenly no nursing to be done, no elusive cure to find, no spirits to keep high.

Keep busy, they'd said. And she had. She'd continued her work, of course, hoping someday to find the cure that would save others like him. But the work had lost its urgency, just as the world around her had lost its color. She could keep herself as busy as an auror at a revel, and it wouldn't change the fact that Ronald was dead, gone on without her, to whatever was beyond the blasted King's Cross station.

Hermione shook her head at herself. Gods, she was pathetic. Wallowing around in her vat of self-pity. But, damn it, she really missed him. Not the cranky, petulant childishness to which his illness had reduced him, although she'd take that version of him if it were offered to her. But rather, she missed the goofy companion of her childhood, the surprising generosity of their early marriage, the deep companionship of their remaining years. She missed her friend. She missed her husband. She'd been counting on their having a lifetime together, and now, quite obviously, that was not to be.

Of late, what seemed to be bothering her most was that she missed the sex. That was, she supposed, progress of a sort. After all, she hadn't minded her involuntary celibacy at first. Nothing like crying 20 hours a day to kill the sex drive. But over the last month, that part of her seemed to be returning to life. She found the whole thing rather…inconvenient.

She'd done her best to take care of the problem herself. But while bringing herself to orgasm took the edge off her desires, it did nothing to address her skin-hunger. She craved human contact, flesh on flesh, the smell of man on her skin. She wanted, just for a moment, to feel that alive again.

Though she was no longer so nubile as she'd been, Hermione knew she'd have no problem picking up a Wizard for the evening. Men were easy that way. Add to that the fact that she was still revered as a hero, and was well known to be a widow, and hardly a week passed that some younger wizard didn't make his availability abundantly clear.

Hermione reached out, retrieved the parchment from her desk. She read it for the hundredth time. Was it wrong of her to want a little affection with her sex? Was it selfish to want to slake her thirst in arms she trusted? To want to wake up with someone who wouldn't begrudge her a fault or two?

She stared at the spidery crawl of words. Of all the condolences she'd received, it was this one she'd kept like a talisman. It wasn't pretty. It didn't smell like flowers, or play a dirge, or project an image of Ronald. It was as austere as its writer, but that made it somehow deeper than the others. It said only this:

Hermione,

I find, somehow, that I have no words for you. If you have need of me, know that I am at your disposal.

Severus

Hermione laughed; the sound echoed strangely through her empty home. Oh, she had need of him, alright. But how would her old friend handle her interpretation of his offer?

Hermione Weasley, heroine of Voldemort's last battle was in no way a coward. How would Snape react? It was high time that she find out.

End Chapter One

AN: Hello everyone! Welcome to the new story. After a brief foray into GW/HG , I'm back on home territory. I've been spending a lot of time recently contemplating the seasons of life, and how love plays out in different stages…and so I've chosen to make Hermione the mother of grown children, which makes Severus…older than that. We know that wizards age at a slower rate than muggles, so I'll allow each of you to set their physical age-equivalency however you wish. Just because I find myself gravitating to gray hair these days, no reason you have to!

Cheers!

Theolyln