Title: It's Elemental, My Dear Snape
Author: cathedral carver
Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Spoilers: AU after Deathly Hallows
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Summary: Everything has been figured out, except how to live. Pay attention – there's a test later.

...

3. Water

"If there is magic on this planet it is contained in water."

...

The world changed overnight.

Even through half-opened eyes he could see the banks and drifts of snow through the thin curtain covering the door. Everything was buried under endless mounds of white.

"Here," she said, leaning close in the early morning light. "Drink."

A cup was pressed against his mouth. He raised his head, curled his cold fingers around her slender wrist and drank.

Rubercuratio racemus.

Warm and sweetly healing, and imbued, it seemed to him, with the very essence of her and her immeasurable bravery (he saw her fingers slip, her legs scrabble, saw the unmistakable panic in her eyes. She was going to fall) it slid over his tongue, down his throat, along his limbs to the very tips of his fingers and toes. It swelled and swam through his veins, eradicating every last vestige of poison.

He wanted to say something, anything, but all his words seemed wretchedly insufficient. He wanted to weep at the hideous inadequacy of his language.

Instead, he closed his eyes and slept.

...

When he awoke again she was in a flurry of movement, bustling here and there, up and down; she was, he realized, packing her bag. She threw handfuls of dirt over the fire, tamped it down with her trainer.

"Come," she said at last, extending a hand. He looked up.

"What?"

She smiled.

"You need some sunlight on your pale little face."

He hid his smirk.

And they were on the move again.

Snape squinted violently, held an arm up over his eyes. He could hear Hermione's breathless little laughs as they emerged from their hut (their hut!) and viewed the new world. Her hands grasped his arm and pulled it gently down.

She couldn't help laughing.

"Look! Look at it all. Oh—"

He opened his eyes.

"Oh—" He breathed. He'd never seen anything like it in all his life, not even in childhood, where the best and happiest memories were meant to reside. Everything was white, whiter than he'd ever seen, and glistening with the brilliance of tiny diamonds. Oh, so beautiful! He felt like crying. Their breath puffed around their mouths, small, translucent clouds. He didn't feel cold, though he knew he should. Impulsively she hugged him, quick, tight, and before he could react, she started walking ahead.

Snow lay thick and heavy on the tree branches overhead. Everything was quiet and still; there was no sound but their breaths and steady steps. Snape pulled his cloak around him tightly and followed her through a landscape of foreign hills and valleys. Snow crunched beneath their shoes. The sky was brilliantly clear, not a cloud in sight. The sun was shining, warming his head, his shoulders.

When she wasn't looking, he grinned, teeth and all.

It felt glorious.

...

"When do we return to the hut?" he asked sometime later. While not tired, exactly, he was unused to the exertion. He could feel the strain in his legs and his breathing was laboured. They were in yet another clearing. The sun was shining. In front of them was a narrow stream, clear and gently burbling.

"We don't," she said, stopping.

"We don't?"

"No. It's no longer needed," she said simply.

Ah.

"There," she said, pointing. "Sit and rest for a moment."

He leaned back against a tree, his cloak over his shoulders and beneath him, protecting him from the layer of snow. He lifted his face to the sunshine. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he felt like this.

He'd never felt like this.

Hermione pulled a handful of roots from her bag, shook the dirt off them.

"I need to wash these," she said. He opened his eyes and watched as she removed her shoes, then her socks, and, grinning at him and biting her lip, walked barefoot in the snow to the edge of the stream. She rolled her jeans legs up until they were almost at her knees.

"Hermione," he said, shifting. "I'm sure you don't need to go right into the—"

She waded into the water.

Snape watched as she stepped gingerly onto the pebbles beneath her feet. Her head was down in concentration and her hair fell across her face, tangled, wild. The stream was narrow and not very deep; in the centre it barely reached the middle of her calf. She stopped there and looked into the distance, towards the dark green stand of trees there, still and silent and slightly foreboding.

Snape couldn't take his eyes off her.

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones—

And he looked at the stream, and the girl standing there, and the bright, clear image was burned forever into his memory: Hermione Granger wading into the icy, flowing water, pant legs rolled, snow gleaming all around her, sun shimmering on her hair; and her face turned towards him, then, and she smiled, brilliant, breathtaking. And he blinked and thought,

I want to stay here.

I want to stay here forever.

...

When she emerged she built a fire, using bark and twigs from the bag, lighting it with her matches. She placed the roots and water in the small cauldron and set it to boil. When it was ready she dipped the cup in and handed it to him.

"Wood betony," she said. "Blood tonic, cardiac for anemia and heart troubles and to treat stomach aches."

"My stomach feels fine," he teased. She cocked an eyebrow.

"Don't argue with your healer," she said and turned away to tend the fire. He sniffed it, grimaced, put the cup down beside him and watched her.

It became apparent rather quickly that she couldn't stop shivering, even when the fire was roaring and she was rubbing her hands above it.

"Come here," he said suddenly and she looked at him quizzically. She didn't move. "Just…come," he said, impatient and rather embarrassed now that he'd started it.

She stood and came before him, arms dangling loosely at her sides. He grasped one hand (so cold), pulled her down to him. She knelt, still frowning.

"What is it?"

"Come here, you stubborn girl," he said irritably, and kept pulling. She ended up beside him, awkward, close beneath his arm, back against the tree.

"Oh," she breathed, in surprise. Then, again, "Oh," in understanding.

"Yes, oh," he said. "You're obviously freezing. I'm trying to help."

He wrapped both arms around her then, pulling his heavy cloak tightly over the two of them. He could feel Hermione's body trembling against his and held her tighter. They sat like that for several minutes, watching the fire dance and flicker in front of them. Then she turned slightly and he felt her hands moving beneath his cloak, tentative against his clothing. When her hand came in contact with his hand she paused, as if considering. Then she slid her hand into his, curled her fingers around his, held on.

Ah.

Impulsively he leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"What was that for?" she teased, looking up into his carefully impassive face.

"Wood betony is also an aphrodisiac," he said, shocked at his audacity and not quite looking at her. "Or, didn't you know?"

"Oh. Is that what this is, then?" Her voice was still teasing but there was something else, something graver, just beneath.

"No," he said, and his voice sounded faraway in his ears. "I didn't drink any."

He leaned down then, into her still upturned face. His lips brushed against hers, light as falling snowflakes. She smiled against his mouth, gently. Her hands moved up (not quite so cold), and found his neck. She pressed her mouth to his cheekbones, his eyelids, his jawline. He closed his eyes, felt her lips moving against his face. He thought he might faint, he might die, he might explode. His mouth found hers again. She tasted like wild mint. He swallowed, audibly, and she laughed and kissed him there, where his throat moved.

"The usual rules…don't apply here," he stated, remembering. Affirming.

"They don't," she said, shaking her head and smiling, and then kissed him hard, harder under the snow, amongst the snow.

...

"We're staying…here?" he said later as she added bark to the fire. It was dark. The stars were out. So many stars.

"Yes," she said. "Is that all right?"

He frowned.

"What?" she said. "Didn't you ever go camping when you were little?"

"No," he said, unwilling to elaborate.

"Oh, we went every summer," she said cheerfully. "I used to chop the firewood. That was my job. I was horrible, but my Dad let me do it, anyway. The axe would bang against my shins. Horrible cuts and bruises, every year. Battle wounds, he used to call them."

"We didn't…do things like that when I was a child."

Something in his voice made her look at him. Even in the firelight and the moonlight his face was drawn, pinched.

"I had…battle wounds of a different sort," he said flatly, staring at the flames.

She stopped then, realizing, finally and fully, the unbearable weight of his words.

And though he was crying, too, when she pressed her cold lips and cheek against his lips and cheek, he felt only the warm sweet wetness of her tears.

"Here," she said in the days that followed, handing him cup after cup after cup. "Drink."

He peered into it. Clear liquid. He took a tentative sip. Cold. Flavourless.

"It tastes like…water."

"It is water." She grinned.

"Just…water?"

"Yes. Just…water."

He looked into her eyes, their liquid brown depths. So beautiful, he thought.

"This is a good sign," he said as he drank. He realized, just then how very thirsty he was.

"It's a very good sign," she agreed. She couldn't stop smiling.

He smiled back.

It was becoming easier.

He kept drinking.

...

The clearing became their new home. She seemed content to stay there and so, he too, became content.

"What is that?" she said one afternoon, pointing. They were sitting together, quite contentedly, by the tree. He followed the line of her finger. A single flower, by his boot, poking its bright yellow head above the snow drifts.

"Is that…Wood Sorel?"

"Oxalis stricta," he said. "Heart-shaped cloverlike leaflets."

"Yes." She said.

He leaned forward, plucked it impulsively, handed it to her.

"Here," he said.

Who are you and what have you done with Severus Snape?

She accepted without a word and stared down at it. When she looked up at him, her smile was tremulous, her eyes wet with tears.

His heart lurched.

Oh, he hadn't expected that.

He hadn't expected to give her the flower.

He hadn't expected her to take it.

He hadn't expected her to cry.

Above all, he hadn't expected to fall in love with her.

He slept beneath the stars.

He'd never seen so many stars.

...

When he awoke in the morning he was alone, for the first time in many days.

She's gathering plants, he told himself for the first hour, as he watched the sun rise.

She's climbing a tree, he told himself for the second and third hours, as he stretched his legs, warmed his fingers.

Maybe I should go look for her, he said the fourth hour.

But where would I look?

For the fifth and sixth hours he fought, with limited success, his rising swelling panic.

Where could she be?

Was she hurt, lying somewhere in the woods alone and in pain?

Or, had she simply tired or him, abandoned him finally?

He paced the clearing, back and forth, until he wore a dirty path in the snow.

Finally, finally! Halfway through the eighth agonizing hour, he spotted her, moving slowly towards him across the great white expanse between their clearing and the stand of trees.

He stood stock still, watching and waiting. When she reached him he saw her face, her brave, beautiful face, pale and drawn, her eyes dim, her steps unsteady; yet none of that registered he realized, until later, later and too late.

"Where have you been?" he asked, staring at her. His voice shook.

"I was…detained," she said, spreading her hands wide, as if in supplication. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

"Silly girl," was all he said, all he could say. She was there, she had returned; she hadn't left him, after all, so he only took her in his arms and held her so tightly she gave little involuntary gasp before she wrapped her arms about him, too, and held on for dear life.

...

She slept that night across his legs, her head cradled uneasily by his hips, one arm thrown carelessly across his knees, one hand entwined in his.

He didn't close his eyes until almost dawn.

An hour later he awoke to a sudden warmth, an unexpected thaw.

He looked up.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The snow above him was melting. It felt like tears on his face. It was raining. She awoke and looked up, too, and smiled wide and brilliant.

When she looked at him her eyes were full of tears.

So many tears.

"It's almost time to go," she murmured.

"Go where?" he said.

"Home."

...

They started walking just after the sun rose.

She walked slowly and so he did, as well.

They followed the stream for a short time, then stopped.

"That way," she said, pointing towards the trees. He followed for 50, 100 feet, before she stopped again.

"Well," she said quietly, looking about. "This is where we part." She gazed up at him.

"Part?" He felt inexplicable sorrow and fear at the thought.

"For awhile," she said. Her hands were tucked into her jean pockets. Her face was pale and drawn. She peered at him. "How do you feel?"

He considered. He felt…good. For the first time in a long while. He studied her face in return. Deep purple shadows hugged the skin beneath her eyes. Her mouth was open as she breathed, shallow and raspy breaths.

"Are you quite all right?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

She nodded. "I'll be fine. But, I do need to go now."

"And…what of me?" He knew the words sounded childish. "What will I do?"

She smiled. "You're going to be just fine, Severus. Don't worry. I'll see you again soon."

He felt a sharp pain as he looked into her face. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he thought of their kiss. He felt suddenly like crying. She threw her arms around him suddenly and hugged him. He, so unused to being touched, hugged her back, his hands meeting at the small of her back and pulling her as close to him and possible. She might have been trembling, but it might have been him, too, so he wasn't sure. When she pulled away, too soon he thought, she extended her hand and he grasped it. Her skin was cool and clammy against his. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to say so many things but no words would come. She smiled once more, then turned and walked away, snow crunching beneath her feet. He watched her retreating form, dark against the brightness of the snow. She was following a path to the woods and he felt a sudden pang of fear for her safety once she entered the stand of trees and disappeared.

He realized his hand still felt moist from her touch and he looked down at it. He blinked at it stupidly. His skin was red. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed once, twice. It was blood. There was blood all over the palm of his hand. He turned his hand this way and that, examining it. There was blood all over his hand, but he wasn't cut.

It wasn't his blood.

His head snapped up, his gaze driving into the trees, at the spot where she'd vanished. He was running before he realized he'd commanded his legs to do so. He felt the icy air enter his lungs, felt the flare of pain in his under-used legs as he pumped. He looked down, saw red drops in the snow…he counted them without thinking. Four…five…six…They grew larger as he dove into the shadows of the woods, head turning back and forth as he searched for her. He opened his mouth to call to her when he saw her. She hadn't, after all, made it very far.

She was slumped against the trunk of a tree, eyes closed.

"Hermione," he breathed, and ran to her. He crouched in front of her still form, his eyes raking her face. Her too pale, too still face. Why hadn't he noticed before? He cursed himself for his blindness.

She heard his voice, opened her eyes.

"Well," she murmured, focusing on him. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"You're…hurt," he said and his voice stuck in his throat. "What's happened? What's wrong? Why didn't you tell me?" He heard himself babbling but he couldn't stop.

What what what what?

His hands pushed frantically at her torso, searching for the source of the blood. He pushed her sweater up, up, up, saw snow white skin, an expanse of stomach, of chest and then—

He cursed. His voice reverberated between the trees.

Blood, blood. So much blood.

And, dear Merlin, two large holes in the side of her. Holes weeping blood steadily into the snow beneath her. A circle of red beneath her body and growing larger.

"What…" he gasped. "Who did this?"

She only shook her head, her eyes closing. She was losing consciousness; he could see that.

Any fool could see that.

He pulled her sweater back down and scooped her up, his arms cradling her shoulders and her bent knees. He ran blindly through the trees, her head bobbing wildly against his chest.

Where was he to go? Where? Where? He realized he had no idea where they were. No idea. She was dying in his arms and he didn't know what to do. He could feel her bloody body, still warm and full of life, blood seeping into his cloak, into his skin as he ran. He could hear his breath, hard and panicked, could hear his feet punching holes into the snow.

She could not die. She could not. He could not allow that. Anything, anything, oh anything but that.

He exited the woods. He was running across a long, white expanse toward nothing but more whiteness. He looked down at her still form, at her blood-soaked clothes, at her hands, small and twisted in the folds of his robes and he let out as gasp that sounded like a sob.

He heard another sound then, one that made him stop short, his feet skidding beneath him, his breaths huffing hard in his ears.

Where were they?

He looked around. Trees, encircling them. The sky, wide and bright, above them. He looked down.

His mouth opened. No sound emerged.

They were on a lake. A frozen lake. He swiped his foot back and forth, moving the snow away, feeling the frozen, rippled surface just beneath.

The sun was warm. Everything was melting.

Dear Merlin.

He closed his eyes. He didn't move.

"Hang on Hermione. Hang on. Hang on hang on hang on. I'll get us out of this—" he murmured, pleaded, and took one step back, just before he heard he heard the sharp report of ice cracking and cracking again, reverberating back and forth across the too wide, white expanse. He stopped dead, frozen with fear. He looked down into Hermione's pale, pale face—

I won't let anything happen to you—

Then he was falling, sharp and sudden, they were both falling, through the ice and into the frozen depths beneath. Water filled his mouth, his nose, he couldn't move, couldn't think, and his only thought was for Hermione. He clutched her to him with arms that could no longer feel anything

I knew a woman I knew a woman I—

He opened his mouth as if to scream, as if to scream for help, but no sound emerged and only water rushed in, water wouldn't stop rushing in, filling his mouth and his lungs and his body, much as the Rubercuratio racemus had so many days earlier.

He tried to hang onto Hermione, but his numb arms no longer cooperated and he felt her slipping away. He tried to scream he tried to yell he tried he tried he tried

It was all darkness, he realized as he twisted and turned and kicked in the glacial depths, and it was all water and it was all bitter cold and it was everywhere.

The trick, he realized, later, much later and much too late, was not to breathe

But he sucked in another huge mouthful and—

...

tbc