A/N: Greetings my dear ones. I have been away with a group of writer friends, many of whose names you would know. One of the things we did for one another was presentations on different topics. Mine was on using music in your writing process. I used this story and songs from this story's playlist to illustrate my points.

I have missed you and missed sharing my story with you. I will step out of the way now, and allow our heroine and her hero to communicate their story to you. I hope you'll tell me your thoughts when you finish reading!

Transcendent Quality of Remembrance

Chapter 21

I want to see you clearly
Come closer than this
But all I remember
Are the dreams in the mist

These Dreams

25 April, 1998

The fall of the Dark Lord filled all of Hogwarts with jubilation, but Severus was scarcely aware of it, huddled as he was over Hermione's unmoving form in the private room he had demanded and been granted in the hospital wing.

'Did you see the curse he used on her?' Poppy Pomfrey asked him, her analytical spells trilling along Hermione's body like bouncing silver balls.

'It's Dolohov's speciality—if there's a name for it, I've never known of it. It's meant to cause internal injuries; purple flame shoots from the wand-tip.'

Pomfrey tutted and looked grave. 'That's the same description her friends gave of the spell that injured her before—when she ran off to London to fight in the Department of Mysteries, just as if we don't have Magical Law Enforcement to take care of such things!'

'It is the same spell,' Severus muttered, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 'The same caster, the same spell …'

Pomfrey turned to him and curved a hand about his wrist. 'You look very ill yourself, Severus. Professor Vector told me you were being held prisoner, and I can see they starved you. You must take care of yourself, or I'll have both of you on my hands.' Her manner was scolding, but her tone was gentle. 'We'll have a Healer in from St Mungo's to see Granger. She woke up last time—there's no reason to believe she won't do it again.'

And the matron bustled away as her domain was inundated with wounded from the battle.

26 April, 1998

The Healer was a harried looking older wizard whose name Severus heard and promptly forgot.

'No telling if or when she'll wake up,' the Healer stated baldly. 'I'll have Matron continue with the potions that worked last time, and we'll hope for the best, shall we?'

The bumbling fool had no idea how close he came to being hexed for his trouble.

Severus looked down at his wife, her paper white face seeming too thin on the hospital pillow. He touched her hair with the tips of his fingers, then bent so his lips were close to her ear. 'Never mind him, little tempest—you listen to me. There's unfinished homework in your school bag, and classes will resume any day now. Do you want points taken for incomplete lessons? You'd best wake up and get on with your school work.'

But she remained perfectly still, locked in the dreamless sleep of oblivion.

27 April, 1998

'Severus, you have to sleep,' Septima Vector insisted. 'You're as ill as she is! What possible use will you be to her if you end up in the next bed?'

He sat at the bedside, holding Hermione's small, frail hand enveloped in his own. She had not stirred since he'd brought her here, but she would. She had to. Otherwise, he did not know what he would do.

'Severus, are you listening to me?'

'No, Tima. Go away.'

He bowed his head, his stubbled cheek pressed for a moment to a delicate, blue-veined wrist.

Vector tried again. 'I'll sit with her, I promise you. I won't leave her alone for an instant. If there's any change, I'll send a house-elf for you at once.'

Severus stopped responding to Vector, and eventually, she left.

28 April, 1998

The headmaster was more forceful.

'You will go to your rooms, eat, drink, wash yourself, and sleep,' he said, standing at the door and holding it open for Severus to pass through. 'I will stay with Hermione until you return—in no less than eight hours, Severus.'

Severus walked through the night-quiet hospital ward, his exhausted, incurious gaze travelling from patient to patient. Many of the injured, including Potter and Weasley, had been evacuated to St Mungo's, but those whose conditions could not be improved by hospital care remained behind

Here was Alastor Moody, slowly recovering from the combined skills of the Lestrange brothers, and beside him lay Remus Lupin, the many slashes and gouges from his duel with Death Eaters being slowly mended by the frequent application of Dr Ubbly's Oblivious Unction.

In the last bed near the door was Dolores Umbridge, whom Dumbledore had removed from Firenze's classroom with a tender civility usually reserved for senile mavens of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Her position as headmistress had been revoked in Dumbledore's favour, and as soon as her voice returned, she would be removing to London once again, to spread her particular brand of cheerful misery amongst her Ministry cohorts.

Severus marched out of the hospital wing to his—their—rooms, where he fell into his bed, appointing a house-elf to wake him at first light.

Hermione floated in a neverland of serenity, in dreams of silent, somnolent safety.

29 April, 1998

Rested, nourished, showered, shaved, dressed, at last, in his own clothes, Severus sat with Hermione, trying to quell the slowly rising dread within. Was it time to face reality? What if she never awakened again?

Her colour had worsened, the pasty white leeching into an alarming grey, and her being in some way seemed farther from him than it had ever done before. He'd brought her book—the one she carried everywhere, Transcendent Quality of Remembrance—to her hospital room, and he'd read to her for a while, but she'd not made any response. The gift he'd brought for her—a trifle he'd had tucked away for a rainy day—sat forlornly on her bedside table, unacknowledged and unloved.

She wasn't breaking his heart—that had been done long ago—but she was frightening him in a way the Dark Lord had never done. After all, what could the Dark Lord do to him? Humiliation, pain, torture, death—these things had an end to their misery, even if that end was the cessation of his life. But this waiting for Hermione to awaken from her second dose of Dolohov's unique, deadly curse was draining him of perseverance and slowly crushing his spirit—because the loss of Hermione would never end. If she were lost to him, the aching void would follow him into the afterlife, unceasing wretchedness for all eternity.

Such pathetic, self-indulgent rumination stirred his ire. Summoning dregs of defiance from the depths of his foundering courage, he moved from his chair.

'Someone's lollygagging,' he said, stretching out at Hermione's side and gathering her against him. 'You've been sleeping long enough, little tempest. It's time for you to come back to me.'

He pressed a kiss to her temple, her impossible hair tickling his nose. Momentary annoyance segued swiftly to wretched longing, and the salt of his tears traced damp trails down her cheek.

'Wake up, little tempest, my love.'

She had been in the same position for a long time, and she desperately needed to move—but she was weak—so weak. Still, she could turn her head a millimetre or two, and this she did, breathing deeply of sandalwood and musk. A smile curved her lips, and a feeling of marrow-deep happiness and contentment pervaded her mind.

Elsewhere in her psyche, other things, long dormant, stirred to remembrance.

When tapping came at the door, heralding a visitor, Severus woke and bolted from the bed as if he were a student caught in an indiscretion. He scarcely had time to straighten his robes before Remus Lupin's ugly mug peered around the lintel.

'Hello, Severus—how is she? Up to a visitor?'

Severus glared icily.

'She's unconscious, Lupin, and unlikely to be aware of your … condescension.'

Lupin seemed determined to ignore Severus, for he entered the room and took Hermione's hand, giving it a pat.

'Poor girl,' he murmured. 'Get better quickly, Hermione.'

Severus paced to the wall and stood with his back to Lupin, every nerve straining to cast a hex at the werewolf.

'Let her know I came to visit, won't you, Severus?'

He replied without turning. 'I will deliver your touching message post-haste, should she waken.'

When he heard the door close, Severus returned to the bedside and bent to straighten Hermione's covers, so that when she turned her face and opened her eyes, they were nose to nose.

He stilled, wondering for a moment if he were imagining her wakefulness. Seeing her big, brown eyes open was like having light shine through the fog of these last days of interminable waiting.

She blinked, as if she were trying to clear her vision. After a moment, her dry lips parted and she croaked, 'Severus.'

It was the first time she'd spoken his given name since their wedding weekend.

Unable to translate his immense relief into words, he replied simply, 'Hermione.'

'So thirsty,' she whispered.

Severus reached for the jug Pomfrey had placed on Hermione's bedside table, replenishing it each day, though Hermione had not been awake to partake of its contents. The very sight of the fresh jugs had become painful for him, heralding another day in which Hermione had not awakened. Now he dug into the crushed ice with a spoon and brought it to her lips.

She took the ice between her lips and let it melt. Each time her lips parted again, he spooned more ice into her mouth. Pomfrey had warned him not to give her water when she first woke.

She was thin and weak, but she was herself, fully present behind her tired eyes, and he was weak as well with the gladness of it.

After several spoons of ice slivers, Hermione swallowed and said, 'Harry? And Ron?'

'Are bedevilling the staff at St Mungo's and set to be released tomorrow,' he assured her, pleased now that he had listened to the headmaster's rambling. 'None of the members of Dumbledore's Army died.'

She closed her eyes, her relief evident. After a moment she asked, 'And You Know Who?'

He had flinched so persistently at her attempted use of the Dark Lord's name that she had learnt not to say it to him—though now, he might learn to say it himself without wincing.

'Gone for good,' he assured her

She looked down at herself, then back at him. 'What happened to me?'

He temporised. 'What do you remember?'

'The dungeon and Slytherins—nakedness—and then Dolohov.' She shuddered, and without thinking, he placed a calming hand on her arm.

'Dolohov cursed you with the same spell he used in the Department of Mysteries,' he said quietly. 'But just as when it happened then, you're going to be fine.'

She slowly glanced about the small room, her gaze lighting on his gift, and he knew a bitter regret that he'd brought it here, making such a fool of himself.

'My Little Pony!' she said wonderingly. 'Is it a unicorn?' She reached for it, and he placed it in her hand. 'Where did it come from?'

Merlin's beard—how stupid could he be? She had confided in him about the toy after she'd taken the Lethe Elixir—she had no memory of telling him about it. How could he possibly defend his knowledge?

But she did not question him further; even something so minimal as holding the toy tired her, and she allowed it to fall to the bed. Her eyes fluttered, as if she were fighting off sleep. He didn't want to tire her, but he was afraid for her to sleep before Pomfrey examined her.

He had turned from her to fetch the matron when he heard her voice again, barely audible, and had to turn back.

'You spoke to me so sweetly,' she murmured, with a heartrending curve of her lips.

Desperate to distract her, he flung the door open. 'I'll tell Madam Pomfrey you're awake,' he said and walked away from her.

She recovered slowly, but surely, from that time on. Severus could no longer spend every waking moment at her bedside—how could he possibly explain such behaviour?—so he threw his energies into helping Dumbledore and the other teachers repair enough battle damage to recommence classes, and he resumed his teaching schedule, visiting his wife every morning and every evening to see how she did. More often than not, he stumbled over Potter and Weasley in her room, or some other contingent of DA members, which was, he knew, precisely how it ought to be.

After ten full days, Hermione chafed to be released from the hospital wing, but Madam Pomfrey was a dragon when it came to patient compliance

'Not until you're taking no more than three potions per day,' she informed Hermione. 'Until then, you're stuck with me.'

So Hermione alternated between sitting in a chair and lying in her bed. She revised relentlessly for her NEWTs, forcing Harry and Ron to search out any books she wanted from the library. She kept up with her school assignments. (Why did she have such an anxiety about unfinished homework in her school bag? She'd searched through it thoroughly, and she was sure no such incomplete assignment existed.) And of course, she helped the boys with their essays

9 May, 1998

Snape stood barely within the door, as if the merest provocation would cause him to leave—as if he could not quite commit to entering her hospital room completely. He was always this way when he visited, although Parvati and Ginny had told her how he had carried her out of the dungeons, how he had refused to leave her bedside when she was unconscious. Why was he so aloof now?

She studied him curiously as he loomed in the doorway in his voluminous teaching robes. During the two weeks of her hospital stay, his face had begun to fill out a bit, and his eyes were not shadowed as they had been

'I've been meaning to ask you,' she began, averting her eyes to study the unicorn pony figure in her hands. 'When I was waking up, you talked to me … told me it was time to … come back to you.'

Now he regarded her with raised brows, his manner polite but distant. 'It sounds very much like a dream, to me,' he said quietly.

She remembered as if it were yesterday his response when she had asked him, before their wedding, if he thought he could ever be attracted to her. Don't be ridiculous!

And even with that embarrassing memory ringing in her mind, she could not prevent herself from asking the next question.

'And … the My Little Pony? Did you give it to me?'

He sighed and responded in a way that implied she was really wasting his time. 'Have you asked your friend Lupin these questions? Perhaps he's been whispering to you and bringing childish playthings to divert you.'

She swallowed her embarrassment and said in a small voice, 'I thought it was you.'

He cleared his throat. 'If you've no requests for me tonight, then I shall leave you to your revision.'

He exited the room in a swirl of black robes, leaving Hermione with her thoughts.

11 May, 1998

On Monday, when Severus made his morning visit to his wife's sick room, Madam Pomfrey informed them that Hermione was to be discharged that afternoon.

'I've got classes all afternoon, followed by a staff meeting,' Severus informed the matron with some asperity. 'I can take her now, or I can do so this evening.'

'Not before I've completed her final examination, Severus,' Poppy answered tartly.

Hermione spoke up quietly. 'Harry and Ron can help me gather my things and make sure I arrive safely in your rooms, sir.'

It was obvious that she heard her mistake immediately—your rooms, instead of our rooms—for the flush in her cheeks broadcast her awareness. Even so, it riled Severus. She made him ridiculous when she behaved as if he were her teacher rather than her husband.

And how do you behave towards her, Snivellus? his less-than-kind inner voice asked, but he ignored it.

'Do as you like,' he snapped and swept out of the hospital wing to attend breakfast.

They were a merry party departing the hospital wing that afternoon. Two house-elves had happily transported Hermione's collection of get-well gifts and cards, along with her books, to her dungeon quarters, so all Harry and Ron had to do was walk with her down the steps. She felt a little weak, still, and not perfectly steady on her feet, but she was very relieved to escape the sickroom.

'… and now there are reporters from the Daily Prophet hanging around the school, covering the reconstruction and repair work,' Ron explained.

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, and you're always happy to give them a new interview with forgotten details about the battle,' he said dryly.

Ron grinned. 'I can't help it if the press loves me,' he replied.

They reached the entrance hall, where two older wizards were milling about; one carried a camera, the other a Quick Quotes Quill.

'Look, it's Hermione Granger!' the photographer said and immediately began taking pictures.

Hermione had not exactly primped for a photography shoot. 'Don't do that,' she protested, turning her face away.

'But people want to know how you're doing, Hermione!' the reporter said excitedly. 'How does it feel to survive the Victory Over Voldemort?'

Ron scowled. 'She doesn't want to talk to you right now, all right, mate? Wait until we've got her settled in, and I'll give you something for tomorrow's edition.'

But the reporter ignored Ron in favour of Harry Potter's other best friend, with whom he had not yet spoken. 'Let's sit down in the Great Hall for a chat,' he suggested. 'You're looking a wee bit peaky, Hermione.'

To be honest, her head was swimming a bit, and she desperately wanted to sit down.

'I'd like for you to leave me alone,' she said crossly, and giving a tug to Harry's sleeve, she set them in motion, crossing the entrance hall to reach the dungeon staircase.

'The public is dying to hear from you, Hermione!' the reporter coaxed, following closely behind her. 'How you married your professor to remain at Harry's side! How you single-handedly fought the Death Eaters in the dungeon!'

The photographer hurried around the trio and blocked the dungeon staircase, his camera clicking repeatedly, taking pictures of the three war heroes.

A shot of red light streaked from overhead, slamming the photographer onto his back, his camera falling from his hands and clattering to the floor.

'Hey!' the reported cried, spinning around to see who the attacker was. 'You can't do—' But he stopped talking when he saw who it was.

'Move your friend's body out of my way,' a silky voice commanded, and Hermione had never felt such relief at hearing her husband's voice.

Snape scooped her from between Harry and Ron, with one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, and she wrapped her arms about his neck.

'Did you forget how to use your wands?' the professor demanded, glaring at the boys. 'If you two dunderheads can't do any better than this taking care of my wife, we can dispense with your company.'

Hermione turned her face into her husband's robes to hide her smile. It was nice, when she wasn't feeling well, to have someone step up and speak for her.

The professor began to walk, and as he went, he spoke to the men from the newspaper.

'If you ever harass my wife again, you'll answer to me,' he said icily.

'S-sorry, Professor Snape,' the reporter said, and Hermione could only surmise that he had moved the Stunned photographer out of the way, for Snape was carrying her down the stairs in the next instant.

Hermione revelled in the strength of his arms, in the solidity of his bulk betwixt her and the bothersome newspapermen, and she was moved to speak.

'Thank you for rescuing me from the reporters,' she said, darting a sidewise glance up at his face.

He met her eyes, a rare instance of intimacy between them. Hermione tried to categorize his expression, but she was stumped, for though she identified a touch of surprise, the strongest component seemed just beyond reach of her understanding.

'That is what I'm here for,' he informed her, his voice a rumble to the ear pressed to his chest, a silken caress to the other. 'You may always count on me to shield you.'

With a murmur of thanks, Hermione clung to her husband, feeling safe, and in spite of past indications to the contrary, somehow cherished by him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of his distinctive scent.

And that was the first night Severus Snape entered her dreams, a faceless figure fraught with unutterable passion, fragrant of sandalwood and musk.

A/N: Today's song is These Dreams by Heart. The very soul of the song fits this story, but one set of lyrics particularly resonate for Severus:

In a wood full of princes
Freedom is a kiss
But the prince hides his face
From dreams in the mist

You may view it on YouTube.