J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit.

Severus VI

There is not enough firewhiskey in the world.

I prayed I wouldn't remember every detail; that I would remember just enough to know what I had done. No such luck. The pounding in my head doesn't prevent me from recalling every cry, every drop of blood and every horrible thing I said. Not to mention the texture of her skin and the softness of her body under mine, a warped and poisoned twist on my fantasies.

Let it have worked, I pray. Let her hate me, let her leave. Let me kill Voldemort alone-somehow, let her be safe.

I realize the rhythmic pounding I hear is not just in my head when I hear Hermione's voice. I get to my feet carefully and approach the door, numb with dread.

"Severus, it's hours past dawn! Get your arse over here and open this door! I'm hungry and I need a fucking cup of tea!"

I fumble with my wand and manage to remove the warding spells. The door swings inward, and I force myself to look at the woman I love. She looks back at me, silent, pale skin and shadowed eyes attesting to her sleepless night. I search her face for hate and fear and see neither. That means nothing, I reassure myself. She's a master actress; I should know.

"I'll make some tea," I rasp out, breaking the silence I can't stand any more. She follows me into the kitchen without a word. As I put the kettle on, she quietly assembles some sandwiches on a plate and carries them into the parlor. When I come in with the tea, she's curled in her usual chair finishing the first one. Taking the cup from the tray, she sips at it and sighs in relief. I sit down in my chair and drink my tea too quickly, not minding the pain of the too-hot liquid on my tongue.

What will be the first words she speaks? I'm leaving? How could you? What are we going to do now?

Instead, she sets her teacup down and proclaims, "You really do love me."

"What?!"

"Come on, Severus. Do you think I don't know what last night did to you? How much it cost you to hurt me like that? How badly you want to die this morning? You must be truly desperate to protect me. To save me, you'd sacrifice your own soul. Don't deny it."

I fumble for words. "This isn't how I thought this morning would go, Hermione. I did what I did to make you reject the Consensi, not to convince you how much I love you!"

She folds her legs under her and leans forward in her chair, her brown eyes seeking mine. "I thought you were done underestimating me, Severus."

"I was not underestimating you, Hermione! But-"

"But you thought you could bypass my strengths; target the innocent virgin and send her running."

My hands clench in frustration. "Yes. That's what I tried to do. I would have used anything I could." I meet her gaze with rising determination. "I'm not done, either! Right now, I'm thinking about how I can do better next time, and whether I can stand to try! Can you say honestly that you weren't terrified? Don't you think I know terror when I see it?"

The answer shines in her eyes. "Severus, come here." Confused, I obey her, kneeling in front of her chair. She leans down to me and gathers me into her arms, the arms I thought would never willingly hold me again. When our bodies are adjusted against each other, she turns her head and whispers into my ear the least likely thing I could imagine: "I'm sorry, Severus."

Her arms tighten around me, cutting off any reply. "I'm sorry I pushed you so hard and made you this desperate. I should have been gentler; we should have talked about it more calmly. I should have understood how horrifying it is for you. I shouldn't have made you feel that you would have to obey me. You owe me, and I've been dominating you because of it and because I'm so driven to kill him. But I never meant to treat you as if your soul's expendable."

My control collapses, and I'm sobbing in her arms as I did when she was under the Benevolus. But for the first time, I feel her body shuddering against mine and her sobs join my own. Our tears slide down our cheeks and mix between the flesh of our necks, and I've never felt anything like it. She whispers to me again and again, confessing that yes, she was scared and yes, it hurt but no, she didn't hate me. I whisper apologies to her, one after the other, telling her how I'd rather die than harm her, how beautiful and brave she is.

I am a wizard; one of the most powerful in the world. I've felt and studied magic all of my life. But I never knew there could be something more powerful and mysterious until this moment.

It seems to wrap us in its tendrils and pull all divisions away. She is weeping as much for me as for herself, and I am doing the same, and all guilt is flowing away with it. Even the guilt for the Benevolus dissolves under the onslaught of sheer wholeness we are feeling (for the beyond-magic tells me she feels the same.) It had all been a part of the tapestry that created this joining. It was, eternally, without regret or judgment.

Since I never thought this feeling was possible, I don't know what I expected afterwards. I suppose, in a story, we'd kiss and declare our love and the lights would fade out romantically. It isn't anything like that. When the crying ends, we are exhausted, and I grope to my feet, lifting her and carrying her to the bed. Without a word, we arrange ourselves in our usual sleeping position and drift off.

We take two days to adjust to the new state of affairs. They're the happiest-and strangest-of my life. Waking that first morning, we smile at each other and get up, doing one thing at a time with an odd sense of presence. One or the other of us laughs at random moments. Or cries. At one point, I sit and cry over Lily for no apparent reason as Hermione holds me. At other points, she cries in my arms, processing the terror and pain my memories and my recent actions caused. We talk of our betrayal by Dumbledore.

We don't talk about what's happened between us. There's no need. Sometimes we just sit and read by the fire.

My desire for Hermione makes itself known in my gaze at times. There's no urgency in it, but no shame either. It's perfectly all right, now, for me to think about how wonderful it would feel to kiss and touch her. I see flickers of answering desire, at times, and also nervousness, and that is all right too.

It's not until breakfast on the third day that we turn our thoughts back to Voldemort. Hermione is the first to bring it up, but I'm ready when she says, "Severus, I think the Consensi may still be our best bet."

I meet her gaze calmly, with none of the panic I had felt before. "I honestly don't know, Hermione."

"Neither do I," she replies, smiling. "At least we're on the same page, then. But I'd like to talk about possibilities."

"The plan is a good one, Hermione, we both know that, at least in terms of getting the Dark Lord to drink a potion. There are two main problems: can you and I pull off the ritual believably, and can we find a way to live through the aftermath if the potion works?"

Her eyes twinkle. "We haven't talked about that second one at all yet."

"And you know why."

She reaches past the teapot to squeeze my hand. "Yes. It's a weird feeling. I'm not afraid to die, but now I don't especially want to either."

She doesn't need to ask me if I feel the same way or not. This bizarre rapport between us makes it obvious. Still clasping her hand, I drink the dregs of my tea and square my shoulders. "Well, let's take one thing at a time. Is there a way for us to pull off the ritual? I feel stronger, but I'm still not certain I have what it takes to rape and torture you." She winces at the blunt words, and I caress her fingers in silent apology.

"Severus, I think the sexual aspect is the most difficult for you. If we do this, you need to be clear that if I'm a willing participant it's not rape, no matter what we pretend. The other night was the last time you will ever violate me. You know that in your heart. Whatever we do is going to be done together. Trust in that, please."

"I'm trying, Hermione. I do believe you. I do-but I remember, and I can't touch you without remembering. How could we ever..."

She rises from her chair and steps over to me, taking my face in her hands. "The same way we would do all of this, Severus. Together, one step at a time." She sits down on my lap, and I go still as I feel her warmth. Holding my eyes with hers, she pulls open the button at the top of her robe and slips it down to bare her breasts, oh gods, she's so beautiful. "Touch me, Severus," she says, her voice soft but not seductive. "Just lay your hand on my skin for a minute, and look at me, and see that I'm not afraid."

So I obey Hermione once again, no longer out of guilt but out of trust. I sit in that chair, with the teacups and the slanting light, and my hand rests on the soft skin over her beating heart.

Thus begins the final four days of our drive to kill Voldemort's body. The decision made, our minds shift into accelerated thinking and the two of us mesh our intellectual talents as never before. Our collaboration is like nothing I could have imagined with any colleague; the whole is much, much greater than the sum of the parts.

By unspoken agreement, our days are largely devoted to the technical aspects of our plan. The final touches to the encapsulation of the potion get done, and we turn our attention to ways of increasing the realism of the torture while decreasing the actual harm done to Hermione. We augment painkilling spells (I really must leave notes for St. Mungo's in case we don't survive) and come up with a combination of potions and Muggle special effects to give the impression she is bleeding more than she is. Muggle technology also provides Hermione with cheek pouches to hold and release Blood-Replenishing potion. Agony and risk can't be eliminated, but we do what we can.

During the nights, we work on the sexual aspect of the ritual, preparing both of us for what we will have to do. Although Hermione must remain a virgin, we get her familiar with most other types of contact-one step at a time, as she said. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy parts of it. But when we progress to playacting the brutal way I'll have to treat her-and the fear and resistance she will need to show-any real pleasure departs. I hate the tiny, dark place in me that is capable of some response to this, but Hermione knows it from my memories and doesn't allow me to fall into judging myself.

Her courage never falters, so mine seldom does. Her pain will be mine, and her strength is our mutual strength.

The night of the ritual comes as it must, and as Hermione and I leave the house my only regret is being unable to spend more time with her. She's dressed in Muggle clothing, a bit torn as if from a struggle, and her face is dirty and tearstained. Her wand is concealed under my robes (I'm known for keeping them on) in the hopes that I'll be able to get it to her when the time comes.

We've written our letters-me to McGonagall and the Order, Hermione to her parents and Potter and her other friends-and cached them with time-delayed delivery spells. Potter has been told to hunt down all of the Horcruxes and destroy them; hopefully he will listen and not waste time trying to track down the Dark Lord's remnant wherever it might hide.

We pass the boundaries of my wards, and I turn to Hermione with no idea what to say. She looks up at me in the dim light, silent as well. We are ready.

It occurs to me that I should tell her I love her as the last thing I say in private, but as I open my lips she stops me with a quick kiss. "Don't bother, Severus. We both know it. Besides, we really need a new word for whatever this is, don't we?"

My features break into an incongrous smile. "Yes, definitely. We shall have to develop one someday, when we're not inventing potions and spells."

She meets my smile with one of her own, both of us knowing how unlikely it is that we'll have the opportunity.

I gather myself. I will be strong for her; I will. "It's time," I say, and wrench myself into the dark place. Sneering at my beloved, I tangle my fingers painfully in her curls and drag her down to her knees as I Apparate.