Bright of Day
As Minerva opened the door, her eyes softened into a look of tenderness. Hermione must have looked very bad, to have so strict and harsh a woman pity her. Ah, yes, pity: the last thing in the world she wanted, and yet here, now, it moved her heart. She dissolved into a puddle of tears as soon as the older woman asked her how she was, and had to be led to the divan.
"My dear girl," Minerva muttered, comfortingly. "It was traumatic, I am sure, whatever has happened, but it is over now. Stiff upper lip ."
Hermione shook her head, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands and the hems of her robes. "Severus -"
She couldn't betray him now. What she knew, what she longed to tell, was not her story to pass on. Yet sputtering on the divan before the warm fire, Hermione couldn't help but allow that promise to fade away in her need to be comforted.
"You're fine now, and so is Severus. It's all over."
"But he thought I was her," Hermione whispered, as if afraid he might hear.
The older witch placed a hand on Hermione's, nodding as if that was all she needed to say. "This is not some prophetic revelation, or symbolic exchange."
"But it is," she insisted. "That's just what it is."
Minerva paused, eying the girl suspiciously. Hermione felt as if she were being evaluated by her only friend, making it hard not to cry. "And just why do you care what Severus thinks of you?"
At his name, Hermione winced: she knew damn well why it matter what he thought. He had trusted her calculations, had helped her along, and faced the consequences with her: he had made her an equal, even given her control for the first time in years upon years. It mattered that he recognize her ability, and that she was not a dead woman. That she was Hermione, and that he . like her. And more than that.
Minerva nodded at Hermione's lack of response. "Perhaps this will help to focus your thoughts, Hermione." She flipped through a few back issues of the Prophet in a wicker basket beside the divan. One seemed to suit her, and she ran her eyes over the front page. "This is this morning's edition, Hermione. 'It seems that the former Mrs. Harry Potter has gone missing with her new lover, Severus Snape, a fellow professor at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Rita Skeeter, the astounding and gorgeous reporter .'" Minerva left off, her eyes skimming down several lines. "Ah. 'Managed to gain an interview with Mr. Potter outside his London home.'"
"Sat outside his London home, more like," Hermione said, letting herself laugh a bit.
"When told just hours ago about the disappearance, Potter told this reporter, 'Hermione will be just fine, especially if she's with Snape. He may be terrifying, but he knows what he's doing, and so does she,' Potter claimed, showing much more confidence in his ex-wife than this reporter.'"
Minerva handed Hermione the paper, which featured a snapshot of Harry walking away from Skeeter's camera. She smiled again, and felt much better for it.
Severus was alone in his office. As usual.
The day outside was a clear glare, despite the cooling autumn, and the shouts of children on the pitch penetrated the murky darkness of his office, hidden in the icy dungeon. He had poured through volume after volume of the Hogwarts year books, memoirs of his days as a student that had sat, lonely and untouched, for years upon years beside his frequently referenced texts on Potions, the Dark Arts collection he had accumulated in his youth, and a rather newer assortment of books on the defense therefrom.
He had tortured himself in the days of his recovery with the pictures of Lily, scrutinizing every minute detail that separated her from Hermione. It had been difficult, painstaking work, ironing out the differences both in the books and in his mind. They were both Muggle-born Gryffindors, and both had once proudly worn the name of Potter like a prefect's badge. They were even beautiful, auburn-haired, and brilliant, glowing examples of everything a witch ought to be.
"They were both perfect," he told the crackling fire. He sipped the coffee, pathetic brew, and tried to return himself to his task.
But Hermione had rejected that name, and reverted to the name she had been born with, that Muggle name her father had given her from his father, and his before him. She had made mistakes that even she admitted, where Lily had died for them, and no one but Severus had seen. And what was more, Hermione's genius was with Potions - his own passion - not to mention mundane chemistry. And though she had chosen poorly the first time or two, she accepted him now, even seemed to like him. And she had betrayed him.
He had no idea what to think about his past and present student.
It was easy to let every emotion he had cultivated in those three decades take him over once more: the regret, and the anger. Yet another emotion seemed to overtake him instead, something much akin to what he had felt for Lily, but much matured and colored, changed and new.
"Is it possible?" he asked the fire, willing it to respond. It flickered up, as if to mutely answer the whispered query.
And he thought of how she had gotten them out of the half-realm, using every lesson he had ever taught her. She was not just a fellow human, not just a student, nor colleague: she was an equal now . and it was possible.
He sighed and leaned back in his wing backed chair by the fire, letting his coffee scald his fingertips, enjoying the burning. A Muggle-born Gryffindor, a woman who should hardly be worthy of him, had always been destined to win his heart. His problem had been in assuming he knew which one.
He contented himself with his coffee now, though. "It's insane," he told the cup. "A teasing blight, best forgotten." And he let it cool in his hand, ignoring the table there at his elbow.
She had waited for days to see Severus in the Great Hall. Madame Pomfrey hadn't allowed him any visitors, and now he was in his rooms recovering. He couldn't stay there forever, she reminded herself, and came faithfully if tardily to every meal.
At long last, nearly three days after the incident, as she referred to it, Severus Snape was at dinner. At first, the sight of him stung, like alcohol rubbed into a wound, and she recoiled, telling herself that she wasn't really ready to talk to him.
But there was much to tell him: 3:6:1, for example.
So she took a seat beside him, and asked him how he was. It took him a moment to respond, as if he were gathering his patience. "Well enough, professor."
Distance.
She tried again. "I think I figured it out."
"What's that, professor?"
"The ratio. It's 3:6:1. Oh, and you have to see this." She pulled the front page of that edition of the Prophet and read. "It seems that the former Mrs. Harry Potter has gone missing with her new lover, Severus Snape.' Isn't that ridiculous, Severus?" She tried a laugh to lighten his dark mood.
"Utterly," he replied, darkly. He didn't look up from his dinner. "You figured out a compromise between the two extremes, I see. It was not my intention to upset you in that half-realm. I assure you, I am quite recovered now, professor."
An uncomfortable quiet fell as he returned his full attention to his plate. Her attempts had failed: miserable, and stinging, Hermione ate in silence.
A loud knock sounded on Hermione's office door. With a wave of her hand, she opened it. A young redhead was there, dressed in the green and silver of Slytherin: Ellinor Haverflash.
"Yes?" Hermione said, trying to hide her shock.
The girl looked uncomfortable, a bit. "I hope I'm not bothering you, professor."
"Of course not. What can I do for you?" The girl had a Potions book in her hand, bookmarked. She opened it, and pointed to a page from their assigned reading for the weekend. Hermione must have looked shocked, standing in the doorway.
"I don't bite, professor," Ellinor said. "I was just testing you in class. Calm down." Hermione was shocked. She managed an uneasy smile: Slytherins made her nervous of late, even immature, untried Slytherins, and Miss Haverflash was anything but.
A few tense minutes passed, as Hermione explained chapter two of Magical Drafts and Potions, volume five, chapter four: Concerning Mandrake. It was one of her favorite topics, but somehow she simply couldn't let herself enjoy it until the brief lesson was nearly over. She sent Ellinor back to her common room, but the redhead paused.
"We weren't always what we are now. I know you've read about us, and I know you know Professor Snape. You know we were once noble, we Slytherins, and we purebloods." The girl was very honest, and strikingly serious.
"What makes you tell me this?" Hermione asked, trying to sound natural.
Ellinor smiled. "I may be a student, but I'm not stupid. You spend a lot of time together. You must not hate us or fear us all."
Hermione smiled now, too. "I suppose you're right. A few bad examples don't ruin the lesson." Ellinor nodded sharply and succinctly, then swished away. Maybe it was a Slytherin thing .
Hermione returned to her desk chair and A Guide to Medieval Sorcery, her latest free-reading book about the world before Voldemort. She had just begun a new chapter when another sudden knock jolted her. "Come in, Miss Haverflash," she called.
"I think I'd best not," replied a male voice. Her heart began to pound: she knew that voice, all too well. She had lived with that voice since was eleven years old. If ever there was a voice she recognized, and a voice she had not expected to hear again, it was this. Her hands were shaking: she set down the book on the side table and drew her wand, though for the life of her she had no idea why.
"Harry?" she exclaimed with trembling voice. Her fingers gripped the wand so tightly it too began to tremble: there as terror in her as she crossed the room and opened the door. "Good Lord."
"Hi, Hermione." Harry Potter was on the other side, his messy dark hair in his eyes and a smooth chin such as she had not seen in several years. His blue eyes glinted softly in the failing light of the corridor, and she was without words. "You never came to London last weekend. I got worried."
"You were worried?" she managed, hardly recognizing her own speech.
"Until that Rita Skeeter cow camped out in front of the building, and then I was frightened." He smiled that winning smile of his, the one that made her and every other woman in the wizarding world love him. He was still in his Cannons uniform: he must have been on his way to a game. "And I - I got to thinking, Hermione. I really messed up the last ten years of our lives. And I - I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" she repeated, hearing herself how stupid she sounded. "No, Harry. I'm the one who should be sorry. I was the one who had an affair with your best friend."
He chuckled softly. "Let's just call it even then." Several awkward moments passed, in which all Hermione could think was how much she wanted to hold him one last time. "Oh, and I wanted to tell you before you heard it on the news or read it in the Prophet. I, um, Ginny and I ."
"Weasley?" Hermione sputtered, like an idiot. Was it possible that he and Ginny ...? "Then you and Ron ."
"We patched things up, right after we heard you'd gone missing." He smiled again, this time sadly. "We were all really worried about you. How are you doing?"
"Well enough. Recovering, thanks."
Harry looked uncomfortable, like he had run out of nice things to say. "I brought this for you, then." He handed her a slip of paper. "So I guess I'll get going. I'm glad you're all right," he said, putting out his hand for hers: it was warm and rough, just as she remembered.
"Good luck in the game tonight, Harry," she whispered, and with a twitch of his cheek, he left her standing there.
She opened the folded parchment: at last, her finalized divorce papers, hand delivered, and sealed from Minister Weasley himself.
Slowly, Hermione was rebuilding herself. Piece by piece, step by step, she was regaining her comfort with her last name, and slowly she was getting used to being herself again. There was no Harry in her life anymore, and no Ron either, though it helped to know that they had not been damaged, that they lived still. She was Professor Granger now, not Mrs. Potter, and in a very real way that alone was enough of a baseboard to work on.
She had been thinking much about the war, too, and how it had utterly changed everything about their world. Yes, their world: the wizarding world, for little had been altered in the Muggle world of her parents, and everything had changed here. Though not so much as she sometimes thought, for the Ministry still remained, without the constant vigil against Dark Magic, and Hogwarts still remained, with its mysteries and ancient history.
She read much about this ancient history now, for the world she lived in now was more like the one that had existed long before her birth, and the continuity of this, more than anything, made her and her divorce feel happily insignificant. She carried the paper in the pocket of her robes, just where she had put it when Harry had given it to her those few days ago. It meant even more of a change in her life than the war had, for it meant personal change, and not that of the entire world. She could feel it even now, the corners of the paper poking her through her heavier, early winter robes.
"I understand your divorce has gone through at last, professor," said a sinister voice behind her. Hermione turned to look at him: Severus was walking directly behind her in the corridor. She wondered how long he had been there, waiting for a moment to penetrate her thoughts. Perhaps he had heard her talking to herself and was taking advantage of a pause in her conversation, so well timed was the comment.
"Yes," she replied, stopping her feet. "Only just - two days ago."
He nodded. 'If I might," he began, stopping now to consider his next words. "Take a turn with you, professor. I would like to speak with you."
"What more can you say than you have already said?" she snapped before she could stop herself. "You have made your feelings toward me abundantly clear."
That seemed to give him real pause: there was a flicker of some emotion she could not identify in his black eyes. "Have I?" he asked, with deadly softness.
She let him hang for a beat before responding. "You do not trust me, and want nothing to do with me. I might say I feel the same."
"Do you," he said, now not so much as meeting her eyes. "Then I will disturb you no further."
But he did not move.
She should have been annoyed, but it was clear that he really wanted to speak with her. "What is it, Severus?" The sound of his name seemed to rile him from that reverie, and he glanced back up at her.
"I had thought it appropriate, perhaps," A hesitation on the final consonant. "To celebrate such a moment."
Was he mocking her? She longed for his respect, and, weak as still she was, that thought was a blow. His face was emotionless, yet his black eyes glittered in earnest, and so she set aside the first nasty comment that came to mind. Hermione took a step forward, toward him.
"What did Voldemort offer you?" she asked, barely over a whisper, unsure why she had just asked that. She knew the answer. He showed no surprise, but met her tone with his own.
"Everything I ever desired, professor. And when it was denied me, I abandoned him." His upper lip twitched into a sneer. "Miss Granger, my life is inconsequential: your predicament and mine are quite different."
Oh, but Hermione Granger had ever been too quick for most people. "And what is your predicament?"
Caught on a technicality. Severus considered walking away then, but he was already too far involved.
"Severus?" Oh, he hated that name. He winced.
"You know damn well," he snarled, like a creature from the Dark Forest. She withdrew from him, childlike, and the rage passed. "I have, you must understand, a temper," he muttered, by way of explanation. "I do, however, reissue my invitation. A celebration, with decent coffee."
He could hardly have kept from observing her preference for coffee over tea, and how she wrinkled her nose when she finally drank of it here. He drew from his pocket a phial, and handed it to her.
"What is it?" she murmured, taking it from him.
"What do you think?" he replied, more gently that she had heard him since their first meeting, in this very passageway. She passed it back to him, still afraid of his 'temper,' as he had called it, and he smiled, a dark smile that suited him in a peculiar way. "3:6:1, you said, I believe?"
"A compromise was the only option," she said.
The smile passed from his mouth, and he looked away. "Forgive me, professor."
She straightened herself, feeling much more comfortable suddenly. "For what, Severus? And I thought we agreed on what to call me."
"Hermione," he said, the thin smile returning. He sprinkled the power over them, letting it become blue as it fluttered through the air. "Sevilla."
At la Taza y Pluma in Seville, Severus sat directly opposite Hermione, each enjoying their coffee in a comfortable silence. He asked for the bill, but she snatched it from his hands, as she had done what felt like months ago.
"I'm an independent woman now, but of course you haven't heard. I heard back from the Ministry, even without my being in London." As the words slid, against her will, from proud to revealing, she looked away: she had no idea why it felt comfortable to tell him any of this. "I have my salary here . er, at Hogwarts . and what I saved up before . well, before. And I get, ah, ten thousand Galleons from Harry every year. I didn't want it," she said quickly, sensing the look stealing across his face without needing to see it. "But he insisted. He said . He insisted."
Severus decided not to ask what she had been about to say.
"I guess I can set it aside for . for any kids I might have, someday." She checked the wistfulness in her tone, making it harder and harder to look up, still unsure as to whence all these words were coming, her cheeks growing hotter by the moment. "You know, for them to go to . Hogwarts . and for college. That's a good thing for them to do, you know . college."
"For you too," he said. He hadn't spoken in a long time, she realized.
"For me too."
They were again silent. Severus dared to gaze at her, now that her face was downturned, and he let himself consider the weight of what she had just revealed to him. There was no smile on her pretty face, just thought and worry. He wished he could have done something, anything, to remove that bit of worry.
"Did you go to college?" she asked, that wistful tone back.
The contortion of the corner of his mouth again, the creases around his eyes, the lift of an eyebrow: he was smiling. "At Toledo. I considered going back for a while ."
"Why didn't you?"
"I'm more . important at Hogwarts. Important to my House, important to Dumbledore, important to ." he cut off suddenly, realizing what he had been about to say. He took a nervous sip of his coffee, forgetting to taste it.
"Important to me," she filled in for him, entirely of her own accord. "Because you are, Severus."
Oh, he hated that name, wished she hadn't had to use it for a confession like that . a confession .
He met her eyes, beautiful brown like the sand on the beach below them. A confession: could it really be considered so? Her words, so simple, echoed in his mind. He would treasure them forever, no matter what they meant. To anyone else they would have been normal conversation between friends, but even that title was too far a stretch for him to take in. Could it be that he meant more to her than even the unimaginable friendship? Could she have meant her words as the confession he prayed, in just that instant, that they be?
All this passed in a moment. Hermione looked back down at the raspberry cappuccino.
"So much silence," he said, leaning into that consonant, turning it into a hiss, a plea for more. He could hardly stand where he was allowing his mind to wander . could hardly bear the implications . the beauty of the moment, of her words, even if they meant nothing to her .
"Because you haven't said anything," Hermione whispered, though even that trembled a bit. She was waiting for him, he realized.
He would have dearly loved to have swept down to the floor at her feet and tell her everything he had ever felt for her, every wishful thought he had ever had, to confess everything to her and beg her forgiveness, even acceptance, to confess and find himself worthy of one such as her. He wanted to weep, to strip away the black robes he wore like a shroud, and tell her everything.
Yet Severus Snape had ever been a subtle man, and he reached one hand across the table and found hers. He pressed it, only slightly, and she looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "Hermione ." His voice came out hoarse, like the man he was, desperate for the water that she was to him. "Hermione, I ."
The words stopped. She was looking at him, innocent and perfect. She understood, he knew, just as he had understood, and he could feel the hope in her eyes reflected in his own. With a fluid motion, Hermione left her hard backed chair and swept around the table, into his lap. She pressed a kiss into him - when had he ever been kissed, much less like that? - filling him again with the sweetness of her scent. For a long moment he could barely register her action, his flooded senses beyond understanding, and then he returned it, slowly becoming aware that this was real, that she, Hermione, was here, in his arms that he almost forgot to put around her. And Severus could taste tears, though who knew if they were hers or his.
The nights are long without you, most beloved, And wither I away in the cold light Of dying wand and ancient spell above. The evening's morning waits, a teasing blight, That kills me with its broken promises And whispered words of adoration dear .
As Minerva opened the door, her eyes softened into a look of tenderness. Hermione must have looked very bad, to have so strict and harsh a woman pity her. Ah, yes, pity: the last thing in the world she wanted, and yet here, now, it moved her heart. She dissolved into a puddle of tears as soon as the older woman asked her how she was, and had to be led to the divan.
"My dear girl," Minerva muttered, comfortingly. "It was traumatic, I am sure, whatever has happened, but it is over now. Stiff upper lip ."
Hermione shook her head, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands and the hems of her robes. "Severus -"
She couldn't betray him now. What she knew, what she longed to tell, was not her story to pass on. Yet sputtering on the divan before the warm fire, Hermione couldn't help but allow that promise to fade away in her need to be comforted.
"You're fine now, and so is Severus. It's all over."
"But he thought I was her," Hermione whispered, as if afraid he might hear.
The older witch placed a hand on Hermione's, nodding as if that was all she needed to say. "This is not some prophetic revelation, or symbolic exchange."
"But it is," she insisted. "That's just what it is."
Minerva paused, eying the girl suspiciously. Hermione felt as if she were being evaluated by her only friend, making it hard not to cry. "And just why do you care what Severus thinks of you?"
At his name, Hermione winced: she knew damn well why it matter what he thought. He had trusted her calculations, had helped her along, and faced the consequences with her: he had made her an equal, even given her control for the first time in years upon years. It mattered that he recognize her ability, and that she was not a dead woman. That she was Hermione, and that he . like her. And more than that.
Minerva nodded at Hermione's lack of response. "Perhaps this will help to focus your thoughts, Hermione." She flipped through a few back issues of the Prophet in a wicker basket beside the divan. One seemed to suit her, and she ran her eyes over the front page. "This is this morning's edition, Hermione. 'It seems that the former Mrs. Harry Potter has gone missing with her new lover, Severus Snape, a fellow professor at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Rita Skeeter, the astounding and gorgeous reporter .'" Minerva left off, her eyes skimming down several lines. "Ah. 'Managed to gain an interview with Mr. Potter outside his London home.'"
"Sat outside his London home, more like," Hermione said, letting herself laugh a bit.
"When told just hours ago about the disappearance, Potter told this reporter, 'Hermione will be just fine, especially if she's with Snape. He may be terrifying, but he knows what he's doing, and so does she,' Potter claimed, showing much more confidence in his ex-wife than this reporter.'"
Minerva handed Hermione the paper, which featured a snapshot of Harry walking away from Skeeter's camera. She smiled again, and felt much better for it.
Severus was alone in his office. As usual.
The day outside was a clear glare, despite the cooling autumn, and the shouts of children on the pitch penetrated the murky darkness of his office, hidden in the icy dungeon. He had poured through volume after volume of the Hogwarts year books, memoirs of his days as a student that had sat, lonely and untouched, for years upon years beside his frequently referenced texts on Potions, the Dark Arts collection he had accumulated in his youth, and a rather newer assortment of books on the defense therefrom.
He had tortured himself in the days of his recovery with the pictures of Lily, scrutinizing every minute detail that separated her from Hermione. It had been difficult, painstaking work, ironing out the differences both in the books and in his mind. They were both Muggle-born Gryffindors, and both had once proudly worn the name of Potter like a prefect's badge. They were even beautiful, auburn-haired, and brilliant, glowing examples of everything a witch ought to be.
"They were both perfect," he told the crackling fire. He sipped the coffee, pathetic brew, and tried to return himself to his task.
But Hermione had rejected that name, and reverted to the name she had been born with, that Muggle name her father had given her from his father, and his before him. She had made mistakes that even she admitted, where Lily had died for them, and no one but Severus had seen. And what was more, Hermione's genius was with Potions - his own passion - not to mention mundane chemistry. And though she had chosen poorly the first time or two, she accepted him now, even seemed to like him. And she had betrayed him.
He had no idea what to think about his past and present student.
It was easy to let every emotion he had cultivated in those three decades take him over once more: the regret, and the anger. Yet another emotion seemed to overtake him instead, something much akin to what he had felt for Lily, but much matured and colored, changed and new.
"Is it possible?" he asked the fire, willing it to respond. It flickered up, as if to mutely answer the whispered query.
And he thought of how she had gotten them out of the half-realm, using every lesson he had ever taught her. She was not just a fellow human, not just a student, nor colleague: she was an equal now . and it was possible.
He sighed and leaned back in his wing backed chair by the fire, letting his coffee scald his fingertips, enjoying the burning. A Muggle-born Gryffindor, a woman who should hardly be worthy of him, had always been destined to win his heart. His problem had been in assuming he knew which one.
He contented himself with his coffee now, though. "It's insane," he told the cup. "A teasing blight, best forgotten." And he let it cool in his hand, ignoring the table there at his elbow.
She had waited for days to see Severus in the Great Hall. Madame Pomfrey hadn't allowed him any visitors, and now he was in his rooms recovering. He couldn't stay there forever, she reminded herself, and came faithfully if tardily to every meal.
At long last, nearly three days after the incident, as she referred to it, Severus Snape was at dinner. At first, the sight of him stung, like alcohol rubbed into a wound, and she recoiled, telling herself that she wasn't really ready to talk to him.
But there was much to tell him: 3:6:1, for example.
So she took a seat beside him, and asked him how he was. It took him a moment to respond, as if he were gathering his patience. "Well enough, professor."
Distance.
She tried again. "I think I figured it out."
"What's that, professor?"
"The ratio. It's 3:6:1. Oh, and you have to see this." She pulled the front page of that edition of the Prophet and read. "It seems that the former Mrs. Harry Potter has gone missing with her new lover, Severus Snape.' Isn't that ridiculous, Severus?" She tried a laugh to lighten his dark mood.
"Utterly," he replied, darkly. He didn't look up from his dinner. "You figured out a compromise between the two extremes, I see. It was not my intention to upset you in that half-realm. I assure you, I am quite recovered now, professor."
An uncomfortable quiet fell as he returned his full attention to his plate. Her attempts had failed: miserable, and stinging, Hermione ate in silence.
A loud knock sounded on Hermione's office door. With a wave of her hand, she opened it. A young redhead was there, dressed in the green and silver of Slytherin: Ellinor Haverflash.
"Yes?" Hermione said, trying to hide her shock.
The girl looked uncomfortable, a bit. "I hope I'm not bothering you, professor."
"Of course not. What can I do for you?" The girl had a Potions book in her hand, bookmarked. She opened it, and pointed to a page from their assigned reading for the weekend. Hermione must have looked shocked, standing in the doorway.
"I don't bite, professor," Ellinor said. "I was just testing you in class. Calm down." Hermione was shocked. She managed an uneasy smile: Slytherins made her nervous of late, even immature, untried Slytherins, and Miss Haverflash was anything but.
A few tense minutes passed, as Hermione explained chapter two of Magical Drafts and Potions, volume five, chapter four: Concerning Mandrake. It was one of her favorite topics, but somehow she simply couldn't let herself enjoy it until the brief lesson was nearly over. She sent Ellinor back to her common room, but the redhead paused.
"We weren't always what we are now. I know you've read about us, and I know you know Professor Snape. You know we were once noble, we Slytherins, and we purebloods." The girl was very honest, and strikingly serious.
"What makes you tell me this?" Hermione asked, trying to sound natural.
Ellinor smiled. "I may be a student, but I'm not stupid. You spend a lot of time together. You must not hate us or fear us all."
Hermione smiled now, too. "I suppose you're right. A few bad examples don't ruin the lesson." Ellinor nodded sharply and succinctly, then swished away. Maybe it was a Slytherin thing .
Hermione returned to her desk chair and A Guide to Medieval Sorcery, her latest free-reading book about the world before Voldemort. She had just begun a new chapter when another sudden knock jolted her. "Come in, Miss Haverflash," she called.
"I think I'd best not," replied a male voice. Her heart began to pound: she knew that voice, all too well. She had lived with that voice since was eleven years old. If ever there was a voice she recognized, and a voice she had not expected to hear again, it was this. Her hands were shaking: she set down the book on the side table and drew her wand, though for the life of her she had no idea why.
"Harry?" she exclaimed with trembling voice. Her fingers gripped the wand so tightly it too began to tremble: there as terror in her as she crossed the room and opened the door. "Good Lord."
"Hi, Hermione." Harry Potter was on the other side, his messy dark hair in his eyes and a smooth chin such as she had not seen in several years. His blue eyes glinted softly in the failing light of the corridor, and she was without words. "You never came to London last weekend. I got worried."
"You were worried?" she managed, hardly recognizing her own speech.
"Until that Rita Skeeter cow camped out in front of the building, and then I was frightened." He smiled that winning smile of his, the one that made her and every other woman in the wizarding world love him. He was still in his Cannons uniform: he must have been on his way to a game. "And I - I got to thinking, Hermione. I really messed up the last ten years of our lives. And I - I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" she repeated, hearing herself how stupid she sounded. "No, Harry. I'm the one who should be sorry. I was the one who had an affair with your best friend."
He chuckled softly. "Let's just call it even then." Several awkward moments passed, in which all Hermione could think was how much she wanted to hold him one last time. "Oh, and I wanted to tell you before you heard it on the news or read it in the Prophet. I, um, Ginny and I ."
"Weasley?" Hermione sputtered, like an idiot. Was it possible that he and Ginny ...? "Then you and Ron ."
"We patched things up, right after we heard you'd gone missing." He smiled again, this time sadly. "We were all really worried about you. How are you doing?"
"Well enough. Recovering, thanks."
Harry looked uncomfortable, like he had run out of nice things to say. "I brought this for you, then." He handed her a slip of paper. "So I guess I'll get going. I'm glad you're all right," he said, putting out his hand for hers: it was warm and rough, just as she remembered.
"Good luck in the game tonight, Harry," she whispered, and with a twitch of his cheek, he left her standing there.
She opened the folded parchment: at last, her finalized divorce papers, hand delivered, and sealed from Minister Weasley himself.
Slowly, Hermione was rebuilding herself. Piece by piece, step by step, she was regaining her comfort with her last name, and slowly she was getting used to being herself again. There was no Harry in her life anymore, and no Ron either, though it helped to know that they had not been damaged, that they lived still. She was Professor Granger now, not Mrs. Potter, and in a very real way that alone was enough of a baseboard to work on.
She had been thinking much about the war, too, and how it had utterly changed everything about their world. Yes, their world: the wizarding world, for little had been altered in the Muggle world of her parents, and everything had changed here. Though not so much as she sometimes thought, for the Ministry still remained, without the constant vigil against Dark Magic, and Hogwarts still remained, with its mysteries and ancient history.
She read much about this ancient history now, for the world she lived in now was more like the one that had existed long before her birth, and the continuity of this, more than anything, made her and her divorce feel happily insignificant. She carried the paper in the pocket of her robes, just where she had put it when Harry had given it to her those few days ago. It meant even more of a change in her life than the war had, for it meant personal change, and not that of the entire world. She could feel it even now, the corners of the paper poking her through her heavier, early winter robes.
"I understand your divorce has gone through at last, professor," said a sinister voice behind her. Hermione turned to look at him: Severus was walking directly behind her in the corridor. She wondered how long he had been there, waiting for a moment to penetrate her thoughts. Perhaps he had heard her talking to herself and was taking advantage of a pause in her conversation, so well timed was the comment.
"Yes," she replied, stopping her feet. "Only just - two days ago."
He nodded. 'If I might," he began, stopping now to consider his next words. "Take a turn with you, professor. I would like to speak with you."
"What more can you say than you have already said?" she snapped before she could stop herself. "You have made your feelings toward me abundantly clear."
That seemed to give him real pause: there was a flicker of some emotion she could not identify in his black eyes. "Have I?" he asked, with deadly softness.
She let him hang for a beat before responding. "You do not trust me, and want nothing to do with me. I might say I feel the same."
"Do you," he said, now not so much as meeting her eyes. "Then I will disturb you no further."
But he did not move.
She should have been annoyed, but it was clear that he really wanted to speak with her. "What is it, Severus?" The sound of his name seemed to rile him from that reverie, and he glanced back up at her.
"I had thought it appropriate, perhaps," A hesitation on the final consonant. "To celebrate such a moment."
Was he mocking her? She longed for his respect, and, weak as still she was, that thought was a blow. His face was emotionless, yet his black eyes glittered in earnest, and so she set aside the first nasty comment that came to mind. Hermione took a step forward, toward him.
"What did Voldemort offer you?" she asked, barely over a whisper, unsure why she had just asked that. She knew the answer. He showed no surprise, but met her tone with his own.
"Everything I ever desired, professor. And when it was denied me, I abandoned him." His upper lip twitched into a sneer. "Miss Granger, my life is inconsequential: your predicament and mine are quite different."
Oh, but Hermione Granger had ever been too quick for most people. "And what is your predicament?"
Caught on a technicality. Severus considered walking away then, but he was already too far involved.
"Severus?" Oh, he hated that name. He winced.
"You know damn well," he snarled, like a creature from the Dark Forest. She withdrew from him, childlike, and the rage passed. "I have, you must understand, a temper," he muttered, by way of explanation. "I do, however, reissue my invitation. A celebration, with decent coffee."
He could hardly have kept from observing her preference for coffee over tea, and how she wrinkled her nose when she finally drank of it here. He drew from his pocket a phial, and handed it to her.
"What is it?" she murmured, taking it from him.
"What do you think?" he replied, more gently that she had heard him since their first meeting, in this very passageway. She passed it back to him, still afraid of his 'temper,' as he had called it, and he smiled, a dark smile that suited him in a peculiar way. "3:6:1, you said, I believe?"
"A compromise was the only option," she said.
The smile passed from his mouth, and he looked away. "Forgive me, professor."
She straightened herself, feeling much more comfortable suddenly. "For what, Severus? And I thought we agreed on what to call me."
"Hermione," he said, the thin smile returning. He sprinkled the power over them, letting it become blue as it fluttered through the air. "Sevilla."
At la Taza y Pluma in Seville, Severus sat directly opposite Hermione, each enjoying their coffee in a comfortable silence. He asked for the bill, but she snatched it from his hands, as she had done what felt like months ago.
"I'm an independent woman now, but of course you haven't heard. I heard back from the Ministry, even without my being in London." As the words slid, against her will, from proud to revealing, she looked away: she had no idea why it felt comfortable to tell him any of this. "I have my salary here . er, at Hogwarts . and what I saved up before . well, before. And I get, ah, ten thousand Galleons from Harry every year. I didn't want it," she said quickly, sensing the look stealing across his face without needing to see it. "But he insisted. He said . He insisted."
Severus decided not to ask what she had been about to say.
"I guess I can set it aside for . for any kids I might have, someday." She checked the wistfulness in her tone, making it harder and harder to look up, still unsure as to whence all these words were coming, her cheeks growing hotter by the moment. "You know, for them to go to . Hogwarts . and for college. That's a good thing for them to do, you know . college."
"For you too," he said. He hadn't spoken in a long time, she realized.
"For me too."
They were again silent. Severus dared to gaze at her, now that her face was downturned, and he let himself consider the weight of what she had just revealed to him. There was no smile on her pretty face, just thought and worry. He wished he could have done something, anything, to remove that bit of worry.
"Did you go to college?" she asked, that wistful tone back.
The contortion of the corner of his mouth again, the creases around his eyes, the lift of an eyebrow: he was smiling. "At Toledo. I considered going back for a while ."
"Why didn't you?"
"I'm more . important at Hogwarts. Important to my House, important to Dumbledore, important to ." he cut off suddenly, realizing what he had been about to say. He took a nervous sip of his coffee, forgetting to taste it.
"Important to me," she filled in for him, entirely of her own accord. "Because you are, Severus."
Oh, he hated that name, wished she hadn't had to use it for a confession like that . a confession .
He met her eyes, beautiful brown like the sand on the beach below them. A confession: could it really be considered so? Her words, so simple, echoed in his mind. He would treasure them forever, no matter what they meant. To anyone else they would have been normal conversation between friends, but even that title was too far a stretch for him to take in. Could it be that he meant more to her than even the unimaginable friendship? Could she have meant her words as the confession he prayed, in just that instant, that they be?
All this passed in a moment. Hermione looked back down at the raspberry cappuccino.
"So much silence," he said, leaning into that consonant, turning it into a hiss, a plea for more. He could hardly stand where he was allowing his mind to wander . could hardly bear the implications . the beauty of the moment, of her words, even if they meant nothing to her .
"Because you haven't said anything," Hermione whispered, though even that trembled a bit. She was waiting for him, he realized.
He would have dearly loved to have swept down to the floor at her feet and tell her everything he had ever felt for her, every wishful thought he had ever had, to confess everything to her and beg her forgiveness, even acceptance, to confess and find himself worthy of one such as her. He wanted to weep, to strip away the black robes he wore like a shroud, and tell her everything.
Yet Severus Snape had ever been a subtle man, and he reached one hand across the table and found hers. He pressed it, only slightly, and she looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "Hermione ." His voice came out hoarse, like the man he was, desperate for the water that she was to him. "Hermione, I ."
The words stopped. She was looking at him, innocent and perfect. She understood, he knew, just as he had understood, and he could feel the hope in her eyes reflected in his own. With a fluid motion, Hermione left her hard backed chair and swept around the table, into his lap. She pressed a kiss into him - when had he ever been kissed, much less like that? - filling him again with the sweetness of her scent. For a long moment he could barely register her action, his flooded senses beyond understanding, and then he returned it, slowly becoming aware that this was real, that she, Hermione, was here, in his arms that he almost forgot to put around her. And Severus could taste tears, though who knew if they were hers or his.
The nights are long without you, most beloved, And wither I away in the cold light Of dying wand and ancient spell above. The evening's morning waits, a teasing blight, That kills me with its broken promises And whispered words of adoration dear .