The battle was over. The side of the light had won.

Won? What did we win?

Freedom.

She mentally snorted. But at what cost?

Rows and rows of bodies, some whole, most of them not, lay there, motionless.

But it was better than the alternative.

How would we ever know?

There was no answer to that, but Hermione knew, intellectually, that this was a better outcome.

The Dead cannot be bothered with such trivialities.

And there were so very many of them.

Young, old, and the barely blossomed. Too few of the covered bundles were tall enough to reach her shoulders, or above them.

Too many of them she knew had given their lives so she could sit here and brood, and dishonour their sacrifice.

Sacrifice.

She knew one person who had given far more than they all had.

And he was currently alone, even in death. The golden galleon had fallen silent.

Hermione traced the outline of the galleon, through the cloth. It was cold.

Just like his lips, now.

A single tear made it's way down her cheek, and Hermione furiously scrubbed at it. Not now.

She glanced up, to see Harry sitting across from her, leaning against the wall in this corridor, a little removed from the entrance hall.

Harry.

He had finally fulfilled his destiny. He had felled the greatest symbol of evil this side of the world, and he had died and been reborn in the process.

The Boy Who Lived Twice.

Thrice, technically, but only she and Ron knew the whole story.

And of course, the Headmaster.

The headmaster always knew everything, be it in life or in death, or after it.

Ron.

Hermione knew the kind of anguish he was in. He was mourning with his family. Harry and Hermione had left quietly, not wanting to intrude. They would have time to comfort their friend later, when he would need it more.

Friend? Hermione didn't want to pursue that line of thought. Unconsciously, she traced her lips.

It had been on an impulse. She had wanted to kiss him on the cheek, he had turned suddenly, and Hermione had found herself in a position she had least expected.

She wanted to undo it, she wanted to remove the taste of Ron from her mouth, and try and remember the feel of His lips before that.

Cool, nearly cold, and unresponsive.

Shut up, she wanted to scream, but all that came out was a tiny whimper. Harry looked up and noticed her discomfort.

"We have to bring him home," she said quietly, and Harry didn't seem to understand at first.

Hermione knew the exact moment when it struck him. A mixture of sorrow, anguish, anger and hope(?) flitted across his face, before it took on that familiar look of determination.

Harry nodded silently, and rose, offering his hand, helping her up. Hermione didn't let go, and he didn't seem to mind, only drawing her in to a sideways hug.

"What about Ron?" he asked, and Hermione shook her head.

"He's where he needs to be right now."

"And you?"

"I will be, soon," Hermione didn't raise her head to look at him. She didn't want to answer, and Harry would understand soon anyway.

She would deal with it later.

The trek to the shack was silent, with each step heavier than the next. Hermione's mind was spinning with questions and the occasional hope. Should they have informed the teachers? Should they have called any of them? Would Ron Understand? Would Harry understand, or would the small process she had to do be marred by his temper tantrum?

She felt ashamed at the last though; Harry had been nothing but supportive of her, in the most part, but she was afraid that her goodbyes would ruin the fragile companionship they seemed to have built, from shared grief, relief and a sense of freedom.

Freedom. There was that word again.

The whomping willow had been frozen. It was a small relief that they didn't have to dodge thrashing limbs to get to the knot, but that relief lasted only a short while.

Panic seized Hermione.

It was supposed that none of the Death Eaters knew of this tunnel, but she supposed someone would have found out eventually. This meant that the possibility of someone having found Severus was very real.

She sprinted forward, ignoring Harry's startled call, and kept going till she reached the outermost limbs. Here, her steps faltered, and reality of what she was about to do set it with rapidity, literally stealing the breath from her lungs.

Severus was gone. He was dead, and now she wasn't even sure if she could do what she came here to do.

Tears streaming down her face, Hermione continued on into the tunnel, uncaring of the roots that tore into her skin, or the many times she stumbled over a wayward rock. It was imperative that she see for herself.

And at last, she burst through the open door at the other end, and looked around frantically, her untameable hair whipping her face and neck, till her eyes rested on his form.

She tried to calm her thumping heart. He was still here.

But dead, a small voice reminded her.

Slowly, she made her way to Severus, still lying there in a pool of congealed blood. Her heart was wrenched from her chest to see the look of utter peace on his features, as if he were finally resting.

He was, and Hermione couldn't keep quiet anymore.

Choking on her words, half sobbing half talking, Hermione babbled, while she busied herself cleaning the blood, knitting the wound, brushing the hair from his face.

"I thought you'd been taken," she said between sobs, "I wanted to say goodbye, although I did before, I just wanted to see you one last time."

Harry watched her from the entrance, and knew that this was more than just respect for a fallen hero, former professor, or even mentor. The words sat heavy in his mind, but they were there, nonetheless, refusing to be ignored, and struggling to be accepted.

She had loved him.

He had been too absorbed in his own world to notice that his best friend was in love with the very man he had wanted to kill on sight, just a few hours ago. He flinched at the many times he had abused the man in front of her, the triumphant look he had flashed her when he had watched Snape die, and yet, Hermione had not said a word.

She must have either stopped trusting Snape, which was ridiculous seeing her just now, or she must have been playing along.

His knees faltered. She had known the whole plan, and Snape had trusted her with it. The conclusion was incontrovertible, and Harry was trying very hard not to gape or yell in frustration, or both.

Harry watched as his best friend cleaned Snape's wounds, knitted the ripped flesh, and babbled incoherently, as if he were only sleeping or even awake and listening.

She was very close to falling apart, Harry realised, and he would be damned if he let her do it alone.

Slowly, he approached her; afraid she might crumble at the slightest touch, and kneeled beside her. She startled, and her hands stilled for a second, before they resumed their ministrations, adjusting Snape's robes. She was preparing him, for… something. Like they did for funerals.

She closed her eyes, and stretched out her hands, palms up, as if receiving something, and Harry was close to panicking for his friend's sanity at this moment.

But a moment later, robes of the deepest forest green, with beautiful, yet subtle, silver embroidery, appeared draped over them. Harry was stunned, and simply watched Hermione.

"It's a spell he taught me, in case we ever needed an urgent change of clothes for anything," she murmured, running her hands appreciatively over the material, "the difference between this and transfiguration, is that this spell is permanent. The robes won't disappear if the caster were to," here she swallowed, "to die… or if anyone were to finite it."

Harry nodded in awe, and touched the material. It was soft and smooth, and clearly of the finest material. "Where does it come from?"

"The robes?" she shrugged at his nod, "they come from wherever the spell can find them. It takes more power from the caster; the further away it is found, or searched."

"I'm assuming these came from Diagon Alley," Harry stared at her amazed, "but that's…"

"I know," she replied quietly, "but he deserves to be dressed well, Harry."

"Yes, he does."

They didn't say anything more for a few minutes, and Hermione cast another spell to replace the robes on Snape's body with the newly found – or borrowed – robes. Harry looked around and moved to the crates in the corner, that they had used as cover earlier.

He coloured at the thought; they had actually hid behind crates, which were the only defence between the Dark Lord and themselves. How utterly naïve they were.

Shaking those thoughts out of his head, he pointed his wand at one crate on the floor, and concentrated, watching as the box changed and morphed into it's new form.

"Harry, it's…" Hermione breathed behind him, "… probably exactly what he would have wanted."

Harry blushed and turned around to find Hermione staring at him with tears fresh in her eyes. "I'm pants at transfiguration, 'Mione," he shrugged, "but I hope it's enough."

Hermione launched herself onto him, and nearly knocked them both off balance. "Thank you," she sobbed into his shoulder, and Harry clung onto her, grateful that he could help Hermione in some way.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, and then Harry gently pushed Hermione away, and reminded them both of the task at hand.

Together, they both carefully levitated Snape's body into the gleaming black coffin that Harry had conjured. It had no marking on the body, and simple white satin padding inside.

"The Dursleys had taken me to a neighbour's funeral once," he spoke, "only because the neighbours had seen me around, unfortunately," he gave her a wry grin, which she returned.

"It's strange," she murmured, running her hands along the rim of the coffin, experimentally closing the bottom half of the lid, "I'd never thought I'd be the one doing this, right now."

Harry said nothing, and Hermione seemed to have reached the end of her words. He followed suit when she moved to one end and levitated the makeshift casket off of the ground. He cast a shield over the floating casket and became the second pallbearer.

No words were exchanged as they made their way up to the castle, where no doubt, people would have noticed their absence, if not already have sent out a search party.

Then again, people could be too consumed by their own grief, to notice. Whatever the case, Hermione was sure they would be impossible to miss with the large coffin floating between them. A hysterical laugh bubbled up within her throat, and the coffin faltered in front of her; Harry didn't seem to notice, and she quickly composed herself, and followed.

She knew that it had not sunk in yet, and she was particularly relieved for it; she could continue her delusion for a little while longer. There would be mourning, later on, when there would be too few people to notice and question. She would not have his death and sacrifice marred by wagging tongues that had little else to do.

Taking a deep breath, Harry helped her levitate the coffin up the front stairs, and suddenly halted. Hermione looked at him questioningly, but he only shook his head and deviated their path towards the dungeons.

Hermione understood; it was too risky to assume that everyone would have realised the true story, or even been able to forgive his actions of last spring. She sighed, and the sound seemed loud in the silence of the dungeons.

Slowly, they made their way down the numerous stairs and turns that seemed ingrained in them, six years given to learning the shortest routes, the trick stairs, and the easiest paths.

Too long it seemed to take them, but eventually, they reached the Potions' classroom. They were both sweating from the long trek, and the combined magic. Gently, she lowered the casket while Harry unlocked the door.

A moment's rest, and they were off again, moving the casket into the classroom, where they set it to rest on the teacher's table.

"We can't leave it here," Harry commented, reflecting her thoughts out loud, "Do you know if his personal chambers are still here?"

She nodded; Severus had confirmed the same the last time they had met. His chambers had locked themselves up and resisted entry end of sixth year, when he had fled, and he had restored the wards; the strongest he knew.

Hermione was sure that Voldemort would have been hard pressed to break them, if not unable. She only hoped that she was keyed in somehow, or it would mean blasting a hole through the wall, and it was not a good time to do that.

Leaving Harry in the classroom, as guard, she walked out into the corridor, and moved in the direction to Severus' chambers. Approaching the wall where she expected the door to be, she trailed her fingers lightly along the coarse wall, willing the door to open.

Almost hesitantly, a door shimmered into existence, and Hermione's heart danced a little. He had keyed her into the wards! Although how he managed that without her knowledge, was a different matter, altogether. The only thing that mattered is that he had given her control of his most personal belongings. If he had given her access, he had trusted her enough to use her discretion.

Murmuring his name, she placed her hand on the door, and it emanated a low thrum, startling her. Willing herself to be calm, and remembering his last set of enchantments of a similar nature, she allowed all of her sincerity to flow through to the forefront of her mind. A moment later, the thrumming stopped and Hermione was half afraid that the door would vanish, but it swung it noiselessly.

Releasing a breath Hermione didn't realise she had been holding, she stepped into the darkened chamber, her footsteps hesitant. The door swung closed behind her, and she felt a momentary sense of fear, before the torches flared to life, bathing the room in a soft glow.

Knowing she had little time, she resisted her impulse to explore Severus' sanctum-sanctorum, and sent out a patronus to Harry, giving him directions to reach the entrance to Severus' chambers.

Hermione fidgeted, and moved a little around the chambers, trying very hard not to enter his bedroom, which was a little ways off in a corridor that ran from what she presumed was the sitting room. She was nearly overcome by the temptation, when Harry's stag burst into the living room.

"A little help here, Hermione, it does look odd waiting out here with a floating coffin, you know?"

Despite herself, Hermione smiled, and the door swung open, admitting a sweating Harry. He wobbled a little but managed to not bump the casket anywhere, before setting it down in front of the fire place. Wiping his brow on his already grimy sleeve, he straightened and looked around.

"So this is where the bat lived eh?"

"Harry!"

He grinned sheepishly, "sorry 'Mione, old habits and all that, y'know? Have you been here before?"

She shook her head sadly, "no, this was always off-limits; it's very sweet of him to key me into the wards though."

He grimaced, "sweet is not a word I'd use for him, but yeah, it was pretty cool."

She mock glared at him and he came to stand beside her, "'Mione, don't hex me if I ask you this, but it's true, isn't it?"

She sighed warily, "what is?"

"You and him, you were… together?"

She swallowed, not sure if it was wise to answer straight off, "Why do you ask that?"

He shrugged, "it's just how I see it, since we've come to carry out this… thing," he put an arm around her shoulders, "I don't claim I'd understand it, if it were, but I promise I'll try."

"Only hours ago you wanted to kill him in the most painful way possible."

He winced at the utter chill in her voice, she was right though, "that was before I realised that he was on our side all along."

She pushed away from him and knelt by the box, trying not to cry, "So it's just that then, 'Oops! Sorry!' and everything will be undone? All the things you said, all the things you've done?"

"Come on Hermione… I'm really sorry I was that way, but you'd be too, if he'd have killed someone you think of as family!"

"We all liked Dumbledore, Harry," she said softly, "And Sirius was not his fault, you know. It's not right that you use him as a scapegoat for your anger."

She didn't have to turn around to know he was fuming, but it was high time someone told him things as it were, "whatever he did, he did for you, you know."

An uneasy silence that hung over them, and Hermione couldn't bear it too long; she opened the lid of the casket, slowly and reluctantly. She needed to see him, one last time, before it became public; she knew that she wouldn't have this privacy then.

Harry seemed to understand this, because she heard his retreating footfalls and the quiet opening and closing of the door to the corridor. No one would enter unless she chose it, and this meant that she had all the time she wanted.

She raised her eyes from Severus' chest to his face, and cried afresh at the sight. His pallor had turned a tad grey, but apart from that, he looked, well, like he was asleep. No frown to mar his features, or sneer to twist his lips. He was uncommonly handsome to her eyes when he was at peace, and the forest green really was the perfect colour for him.

Gently, she ran her fingers over his eyes, his forehead, his beaky nose, and that proud and arrogant chin. The warmth had left him, but the preservation spell she had cast was good enough. Hermione felt stubble that he had not bothered to shave off the night before; she left it that way. She ran her fingers down his cheek bones and pulled the collar away, to reveal the scars. With trembling digits, she felt for a pulse, and fervently hoped that she would find one.

She was disappointed of course. No life registered under her exploring hands. She leaned forward and laid her head on his chest, listening for anything, anything at all that could bring him back to her.

Her tears soaked into the soft silken material of the robes, and she nuzzled the fabric, relishing momentarily the feel of it on her cheek. At length, she sat back and re-cast every single diagnostic spell she knew, frantically looking for a sign, but as she approached the end of her arsenal, the reality sank in.

He was never coming back.

The truth hit her like a ton of bricks, and she had to use the floor as support. The room spun about her, and time slowed. Had she really been so foolish to think that it would be all happy endings?

She sank her face into his midriff and sobbed, uncaring if she was ruining the robes, uncaring if her voice echoed around the chambers as she damned the war, the gods, Dumbledore, herself, Voldemort, and Severus most of all.

"Damn you, you stubborn man! Couldn't you have lived? Why the hell did you have to get mixed up in this whole bloody mess?" She pounded his chest, and sank into a weeping heap beside the coffin. It was all so unfair! Couldn't she have died too? Anything would be better than this feeling in her chest, as if it were ripped open and being filled with burning coals.

Hermione longed to claw her heart out of her chest, if it stopped the pain; it was too much to bear. She would welcome the very arms of death if it meant this misery would leave her be.

She begged that he come back to her, but no amount of pleading or promising made even a finger move, or part his lips. Finally, having spent what energy remained, on fruitless wishes and screams, Hermione fell asleep on Severus' carpet, oblivious to the world.