"S--Severus?" he heard her say softly, her voice quavering. "Where are you?"
"Here," he said softly, but feeling unable to move, unable to comprehend what had just happened. All the careful years of self-preservation, of diligence and training, had been somehow tossed away in an instant. It wrenched his heart almost beyond bearing, though, that his mistake would not only cost him--it would now cost Hermione as well.
He had let Dumbledore down as well. True, the old man had angered him now and again, let him down in turn, or favored his beloved Gryffindors at all costs. The old wound of the Shrieking Shack still rankled at times. He had his faults. After all, Albus Dumbledore had been born human just like the rest and thus was subject to humanity's failings and petty stupidities. When it had really been crucial, though, Dumbledore had been there to help. The old wizard had saved him from Azkaban, trusted him years ago to spy, to help the fight against Voldemort. For a moment he was glad that Dumbledore wasn't alive to see this.
He still wasn't certain what had happened. All he knew was that when Lucius and Wormtail had begun mocking the lack of fight Dumbledore had put up, mocking the old man who had been the only person on Earth to care for him when he was all but unlovable, that grief and rage had swelled within him to an intensity he hadn't felt since Aislinn had been killed. That had resulted in his turn to Dumbledore so many years before. The next thing he knew, he was in human form on the ground and at wandpoint, and that Hermione in typical Gryffindor foolishness, had tried to save him and been captured as well, even as he shouted for her to run.
His cheeks burned hot in shame, and then he felt her searching hand gently touch his shoulder. "It's cold," she murmured near his ear.
He sighed. "I've no cloak to offer you, I'm afraid, so please forgive my lack of gentlemanly manners."
"Just let me…" She slipped under his arm and curled up close, putting her arms around him. "Why aren't they killing us here and now?" she said quietly, he feeling her warm breath against his neck, and unconsciously holding her closer. Perhaps he didn't deserve it after what he had just done, but the solid reality of another person's presence was a comfort he couldn't deny himself right at the moment.
"Because he'll want to call a full meeting of the Death Eaters tomorrow night to have us made example of. And he wants us to have the time to die a thousand deaths in our minds before he actually does it," he said bluntly, figuring he owed her nothing less than the honest truth. They would die tomorrow at dusk. Any other hurts paled beside that simple and hard fact.
"Oh." She sighed quietly. "I see." She shifted slightly.
"I'm sorry," he found himself saying, his voice cracking painfully. The floodgates of emotion seemed to still be open. Poor little use trying to regain his composure right now--the Death Eaters wouldn't care how he acted during this night, and Hermione had seen him at his worst before. "This is all my fault, Hermione…"
"Severus," her voice gentle, "it happens. People make mistakes."
"Not like this," he said through clenched teeth.
"For God's sake," she said a bit more harshly in answer, "you can mourn him. Why do you feel you can't?"
"Because it brings on this!" he cried. "Twenty years of work brought down because I lost control for a moment." He added after a moment into the silence, very softly, "Because I've killed you along with myself."
"I could have left you. I chose not to. Give me the dignity of that--I chose it."
"Very well, we both made mistakes tonight," he smiled humorlessly.
"It's done," she said, reaching down and taking his hand in hers. "All we can do is…wait. And die well," she said softly.
"Very Gryffindor of you." He resorted to sarcasm for a moment as armor.
"I'd hardly expect you to die on your knees."
"I won't," he said frankly. "I won't give them that satisfaction." Some part of him was glad that she wasn't saying confidently that Potter would save them, that Aurors would save them, any wild and false hope just to have one. If she had started believing such things, he might have himself. It was a far better thing to face reality.
He was aware of how cold her hand was, and that she was shivering in the February cold seeping in through the stones of the dungeon. Carefully he pushed her back for a moment, unbuttoning his robes, and drawing them around her when she settled back against his chest. "Does that help?"
"Yes. Don't regret it, though. Think of all we did, the lives we saved…and I'd rather die tomorrow than live two hundred years as boring, bookish Hermione Granger. We aren't dying for nothing." She tugged on the edge of his robe for a second. "You're lucky you wear these robes so loose, you know. I set you on fire first year--if you wore them close-fitting you'd have been burned yourself."
He recalled the Quidditch match where he had saved Potter from Quirrell's curse, and how his robes had suddenly caught fire. He had always wondered who had done it. He realized that she was admitting things she'd never admit without knowing they'd be carried to the grave, and talking as much to hear her own voice and not go mad in the silence and darkness as for any real conversation.
"We thought it was you trying to kill Harry. So I used an Incendio. They weren't your favorite robes, were they?" She let out a forced laugh, unable to hide the nervous quiver in it.
"No, Hermione, they were not," he said wearily. "Do you think perhaps…that we should try to sleep? There's poor little point in staying awake all night worrying. Nothing will change," he said reasonably, certain he could say such things around her and not have her dissolve into hysterics.
Something in him--perhaps the black and cold heart everybody thought he had--seemed to break for a moment. For a life he'd never have with her, a life he had been beginning to dream possible, once he was fairly certain she did indeed feel something for him. Visions of a simple life, and of love. He sighed softly at that. Some things are just never meant to be.
He was aware of her muttering, "Not sleep just yet," and her hands at the collar of his shirt, fumbling to unbutton it.
"What do you think…" he protested, finding her hand in the dark and staying it.
She cleared her throat a bit nervously. "You and I both know what they do to--to female captives. I'm not naïve enough to think they won't do the same to me. I'd prefer that I had…well, that I had something else to think of," her voice trailed off for a moment, "while enduring the other. So, would you, please…"
Part of him wanted to laugh, and part could have cried. A woman wanted him. And it was circumstances even beyond shabby. It was the farthest from the comforts and care she deserved for such a thing as it could be. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was speechless.
"Don't you dare say I'll regret it," she said with an almost-nervous laugh. "There's no time for me to regret it." He wondered for a moment if she truly wanted him, or just wanted the comfort of any man right now. It's a fine distinction not worth making. After all, as she says, you won't live to regret it. "Won't you say something? Even 'Oh, get to hell?' or the like?"
"I…" He still was at a loss for words, dumbfounded by the very idea.
"After all, you've done this before…although I admit the setting leaves something to be desired, but what difference am I from any other?" she said, making an obvious effort to be calm and convincing.
"No, I haven't," he said brusquely.
"What?"
"I wouldn't use force for it like my fellow Death Eaters, and…Hermione, who would have willingly had this?" He gestured vehemently at himself, realizing stupidly that she couldn't see it. She seemed to catch the point of the matter anyhow.
He heard a faint but decisive murmur of, "I will," her hand coming up to caress his cheek. The more he considered, he found any will or words to refuse her fading rapidly. He was almost shocked at the sheer nerve she was showing in the face of obvious degradation and death. But he shouldn't have been. He'd always known she was courageous, and almost reckless. Perhaps there was something to be said for a Gryffindor's courage. "You asked if I care for you. I think you know by now that I do."
"You know, I'd have married you, if you'd have had me," he said, shocked that he admitted it. "I wanted to tell you, but…"I lost my courage. I thought that I had no right to love you and leave you to grieve if I were to be killed.
"I'd have accepted, Severus, even if it was only to be for a short time. It is a short time," she went on. "But we could still," she carefully found his hand again. "Suppose it would make this not sin," she said with dark humor. "If you'll have me?" He brushed his fingertips over her cheek, her hair, in reply, regrets again flooding his mind. Still, there was something to be said for the comfort of this, if only till tomorrow night: the assurance that they would not die alone.
Though he couldn't see her, a calm came over him as he cleared his throat and spoke the words binding them together for what few hours were left of their lives. No one there to marry them, but God would understand. "I, Severus Alexander Snape, do take thee, Hermione…" he faltered, realizing stupidly that he didn't know her middle name. So much in the way of the trivial, sweet little things he'd never have the chance to discover.
"Marie. After Marie Curie. My parents were very scientifically inclined." With that, he nodded to himself and tightened his grip on her hand, steadying his voice.
"Hermione Marie Granger, to be my wife. With all my possessions I thee endow, with my body I thee worship," his breath caught slightly at that, "in well or ill, riches or poverty, until…until our life shall be done." He barely spoke the last words, tinged with sorrow.
She spoke with great deliberation then. "I, Hermione Marie Granger, do take thee, Severus Alexander Snape," her voice scarcely louder than the beating of his own heart in his ears, but still he heard every word as she spoke the ancient vows, fixing them in his heart and mind, until she too reached the almost bitterly ironic final words. "Until our life shall be done."
A moment's silence, and he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it where her wedding ring should have rested. Then blindly, he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, a little embarrassed at his ineptness due to darkness and inexperience. But none of that mattered right now. She was his wife, and she loved him: two things that he had never dared dream.
All thoughts of grief and guilt slowly faded; all realization of pending death fled. It was still there, but its hurt for the moment was petty and its menace featureless. All he was left with was the reality of Hermione in his arms, even if it would be for the last time. His mind was still rather sternly telling him that all of this was insane and foolish.
Deep inside, though, was the same calm that he faced his coming death with, certain that this was right. It wasn't how he would have had it, but it was infinitely better than the alternative. He didn't think he'd escape such tortures either. And she needed it. To hell with pretense…he needed this too. He was only a man with fears and desires, after all, despite years of trying to hide it. The very idea flooded him with relief, and he kissed her again with a little more confidence, wishing that the night could last far into eternity.