Chapter Thirty-Three: Blue Hyacinth
It was a balmy day in May, two months after Harry's funeral, when Ron first reached out to Hermione through his Patronus. He had told her that he had something for her, and then had sent his Jack Russell terrier Patronus later to confirm the time with her. Hermione watched it wistfully as she sent her own Patronus back—it was much clearer as a large cat now, though she still didn't know what type—and wondered if she would ever see her otter again. She didn't know how she felt about the change of her Patronus and tried not to think about the way Severus still walked, despite his injuries, prowling and purposeful, as if he was stalking prey instead of making his way to the local pub for a steak pie.
There were a lot of things she didn't know or want to find out in the days following Harry's funeral. Like why there were so many strangers at his funeral when she explicitly told Kingsley to invite Order members only, or why so many strangers came up to her to console her on her loss and told her that they believed in Harry all along, and that if she needed help all she had to do was ask.
Where were you all when we were so alone in supporting Harry during the last year? she wanted to scream. She wanted to scream, and rage, and burn the entire Ministry down, but that wouldn't bring back Harry.
But she still had Ron, even if Ron had been a complete tosser. The idea of losing another friend was more than she could bear. Even if it was Ron.
Her meeting with Ron started well. They met at a small Muggle café not far from where he had been training as an Auror in Diagon Alley, and made nearly pleasant conversation about Ron's Auror training and her recent readings. It continued to go well until he handed her the Resurrection Stone, and told her that Harry wanted to speak to her.
Numb coldness gripped her when he passed the stone to her, and she forgot the rest of their conversation. Something about how his mother was healing, and how Fred was coping without his left hand. That she could speak to Harry again after losing him like that was unthinkable.
Which was how she found herself conversing with Harry Potter, her closest friend since age twelve, sitting in the dusty living room of one Severus Snape and trying hard not to think of how furious Severus was going to be.
"Hermione," the ghostly apparition of Harry breathed out, when he emerged from the ring. Three turns had done it, like Ron had said. Her body stilled and then all her senses became too alert to the fact that her friend was back, and he was a ghost, and she could not give him a hug because she could not touch his body.
"Harry," she said, and then could not get any more words out through the thickness in her throat. Perhaps it was the thick dust of Severus' dark living room, hushed by shelves of books and years of emptiness.
Harry took a long look at her, as if memorising her for the last time.
"You don't look good," Harry finally said, one part cheek and two parts concerned. "Hermione, have you been eating? You were the one who constantly told me to eat, but it's obvious that you haven't been taking care of yourself," he admonished, shaking a ghostly finger.
Hermione hiccuped through her tears, smiling despite herself.
She wanted to tell him how good it was to see him, that she missed him. Seeing Harry again was like a punch to her heart. But what she said instead was, "How could you leave me?"
Harry sighed. "I had to. You know I had to. I was attached to Voldemort's soul. You read the books. You read all the books. There was nothing else that could have been done—"
"But if we had waited I could have found something—"
"—Hermione," Harry said. "Stop. You did everything you could. You read all the books in existence on the subject possible, and then more. We couldn't have won the war without you, but you could not have stopped my death. No one could have."
Hermione shook her head, unconvinced.
Harry squared his jaw, an old sign that he was gearing up for an argument. "You once told me that friendship and bravery were more important than books and cleverness—but Hermione, we wouldn't have won without your books and cleverness. Just because you did not win the war by killing Death Eaters or by bringing back the dead, it doesn't mean that your research was all for nothing." Harry stopped for a moment, and took a breath. Hermione felt like she needed to look away.
Harry continued on, slower than before. "You had the thankless task of supporting us and finding us our way. I couldn't have taken Voldemort down without you. The war would not have been won without you. Friendship and bravery are important, but you're brilliant, Hermione, and don't you forget that."
Hermione pressed her lips together, and tried to ignore the tears welling in her eyes. She was so tired of crying. It was unfair that Harry would be so kind in death.
"Git," she laughed wetly. "You died and then became wise and I miss you so much, every day, and now you're here but you'll never really be here again and just how am I supposed to go on without you? You've been there almost every day of my life since I was twelve." She could not help but begin to cry in earnest.
Harry reached out as if to touch her shoulder, but his hand passed right through her with a ghostly chill. "Hey. Hey there. You're Hermione Granger. You'll be sad about my awesome self going to the great beyond without you, but you'll still be the unstoppable Hermione Granger, and who knows what you can get done now that you're not trying to stop me from dying at every turn?"
"That's not funny!" Hermione burst out, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe from how tightly her lungs burned.
Harry watched her in alarm and ran his hand through his hair, which defied gravity even in death. "I'm sorry—you're right, that was insensitive of me, but at least you've got proof that this is really me right? I'm so sorry Hermione. Just—please don't be sad. I'm really doing OK here, and I don't want you to be sad for me. Or feel guilty. And if you miss me know that I'll be missing you too, but please don't be sad anymore. It hurts to see you like this."
Her lips trembled. "I'll try. I'll try Harry, but it's so hard."
"Hey, hey, it's okay. You can lean on other people too, you know? I've ah…been watching you sometimes. Not in a creepy way! But we can see some things in death. And you have people who want you to be happy. I want you to be happy. Please be happy Hermione."
Hermione nodded. She sat down on the sofa, exhausted.
"Will I see you again?" she asked.
"You don't need to see me again for me to always be here with you," Harry said gently.
And then Severus Snape came back home.
It was agonising, waiting for Severus to speak with Lily after Hermione's conversation with Harry.
Hermione had seen Severus' memories that he gave Harry because Kingsley had been kind enough to ask her if they were appropriate to be seen for Severus' trial. She knew Severus would have been mortified, but the memories had been an important part of his defence, so she had let them view the memories. She had also taken Kingsley to Severus' room of memories in Hogwarts, which had been keyed to her sometime before the end of the war.
She tried not to read into the fact that Severus had given her access to his private quarters at Hogwarts, but she could not help but read into his memories of Lily. It had been one thing to understand that they were close friends as children, it had been another to see Severus adore Lily in his youth and fall apart over her death after as an adult.
She wondered how difficult Severus was finding it now to see Lily after so much time apart, and how much it must be hurting him. It hurt to think that he would surely be speaking to Lily more now that he had the Resurrection Stone.
After aeons, when Hermione had gone through all of the stages of grief except acceptance, the door to Severus' drawing room finally opened.
"We are destroying this stone as soon as possible," was the first thing that came out of his mouth.
Hermione felt as if she had missed a step walking down the stairs. She actually took a step back, and felt the sofa behind her back. "What? Why?" she asked, struck dumb.
"Why? Because this is a dangerous object that wizards have killed for, and this stone brings nothing but misery and destruction with it wherever it goes. Because the dead are meant to go on, and the living must as well," he said, sounding more and more frustrated with each word. "Because it's a trap, like all the Hallows are, to make you want death. And because you'll never be able to move past Potter with this ring around, and he wouldn't have wanted that for you."
She carefully studied his face for signs of devastation from his conversation with Lily, but Severus mostly looked annoyed and livid.
"But Harry's not here anymore so what does it matter?" Hermione blurted out.
Severus flinched, and then squared his shoulders. "What does it matter? What does your happiness matter? How can you even ask—" Severus stopped, and clenched his jaw.
"You know what? Fine. Keep the stone. For now. But we are destroying it the moment it gives us any kind of trouble," he ground out, and then swept himself stiffly from the room, leaving Hermione wondering what had gone so wrong.
The day of Severus' trial dawned bright and early on a clear day in early June. He tried not to let any of his trepidation show on his face; Hermione was nervous enough for the both of them, and he didn't know if her anxiety was a welcome change from the grey grief she had been in. They had been existing in a strangely wordless relationship since she had been given the accursed ring, and it made Severus wonder how many more of the Dark Lord's trinkets would continue to haunt him in his life to remind him of his worst mistakes.
The Ministry was as stifling as it ever had been before the war, though the air about the place was noticeably lighter than when it had been under control of the Death Eaters.
Severus felt all of twenty-one again, spirit freshly wounded from the first war, facing trial for being a Death Eater by a government desperate to put the war behind them, only this time the details of his past and motivations had been splashed across The Prophet for the past several weeks, and the public was more torn about him than ever before. Some thought he was a romantic hero, and some thought he was someone who would lie about his own name if it meant he could walk free.
Severus himself didn't know where the truth was anymore with regards to his motivations to the war, and he didn't care either. He just wanted it all to be over.
He tightly braced himself during his entire trial, and answered the way Mr Hunter had coached him to do so prior to the trial. He produced his Patronus when asked for proof that he could make one even as a Death Eater, at which point he was almost certain that Ronald Weasley had audibly said "bloody hell" in the audience, a sentiment he himself felt like echoing because that particular panther was not his Patronus. But it had come out from the end of his wand. He had no more time to muse on why Weasley would find his Patronus so noteworthy before they went into closing statements. After an eternity that passed in the blink of an eye he found himself acquitted of all charges except for the illegal assisted suicide of one Albus Dumbledore, for which he was sentenced to one year's worth of uncompensated potions brewing for St Mungo's, and a permanent ban from becoming a Healer. Which was just as well; he was a Potions Master and a Dark spell inventor; he didn't want to be a Healer. The very notion of bedside manner gave him hives.
It was just as unbelievable being acquitted of almost all of his crimes of being a Death Eater a second time that Severus found himself walking the halls of the Ministry stunned, as a free man again. So it was understandable why when he was distracted by the excited squeal and embrace of one Hermione Granger that he didn't see the Death Eater lurking in the crowd with a clear line of sight to him, and shoot her straight in the back with a cutting hex.
It was like the war had never ended; instantly Severus found himself launching several hexes of his own back, an immobilising charm, and a shield charm on the crowd. It was difficult to duel with Hermione tightly clutched in his arm but it was also freeing to finally duel in the open as himself, with no more pretence as to what side he was on.
Finally, after losing patience and just casting a Stunner that caught several by-standers as well, he managed to take down his assailant.
Aurors had finally arrived on the scene and began treating bystanders who had been caught with stray curses, but one look at Hermione had Severus' blood drain from his face.
There was something gravely wrong about Hermione; she had merely been hit by a mild slicing hex and at most should have had a few cuts that should have stopped bleeding but she was bleeding profusely and her left hand, which was clutching something tightly, was turning grey.
He nudged her hand open with his wand and cursed. It was the ring, and it was Dumbledore's curse all over again, and he had invented a counter-curse but he needed assistance from a Transfiguration master now.
He needed someone who could help him transfer the curse from her body to an object that could take the curse, which had to have the ability to wither and die, and for that, he needed Minerva.
He clutched Hermione as he flew out of the Atrium at the Ministry, not bothering to stop for the Aurors—they could arrest him later if they wanted, but Hermione needed him now and no one knew this curse like he did—and Apparated himself home the moment he left the Atrium.
He cast his Patronus, still shocked by the appearance of the panther.
"Minerva, Severus Snape lives at the last house of the row at Spinner's End, and Miss Granger needs you right now," he said, giving her the Secret Kept location and all of his desperation at once in his plea.
He watched the large cat streak away, something deeply protective in its stance, and tried not to think too hard about what the Patronus change meant for himself.
Severus busied himself with treating Hermione in the meantime, giving her a Draught of Living Death to slow the spread of the curse, and braced himself for Minerva's arrival.
His Floo exploded in a rush of green sparks not minutes later. Minerva emerged from his Floo looking like she had aged a decade since he last saw her.
She took one look at the scene in front of her, and her nostrils flared. "You don't owl, you don't Floo, I have to find out about your trial from the bloody press and now I find Miss Granger bleeding out in your well-lived-in sitting room. Explain yourself!"
"Death Eaters!" Severus blurted out desperately, feeling all of eleven again. "Rogue Death Eaters—it's a curse, and she has Albus' ring from last year—don't look at me like that, it was not my idea! I need a specific sort of object Transfigured so that I can extract the curse. You can swear at me later, but please—it is very specific and you know my Transfiguration has never been the best."
Minerva narrowed her eyes at Severus, and sniffed. "Very well, we are having words later." Then she rolled up her sleeves, and began to work on Transfiguring Severus' armchair into something golem-like that they would be able to affix Hermione's curse on.
Severus tried not to hover as she worked, and also tried to keep his heart in his ribcage. It was terrifying, the thought that Hermione could die—that she had just been walking around, holding his heart, that his heart had been wandering around outside of his ribcage and that at any moment she could die, just like Lily. Even though the war was over. But wars had a habit of never really ending, with all of the hatred and pain festering under the cover of a society that was too traumatised to really address the issue, just waiting for the next incendiary young man to light the matches to the flames to resurge again.
Severus tried not to think about how devastated he would be if Hermione had died or been hit with a faster-acting curse, and tried not to remember the conversations he'd had with Dumbledore after the first war. Fucking Albus Dumbledore and his habit of leaving cursed things for other people, apparently.
Minerva had Transfigured as perfect a receptacle as they were going to get for the curse to affix to, complete with a beating heart and realistic skin. He tried to hold back the memories as he affixed the curse to the golem bit by bit–
"You will love again, Severus, and it will be every bit as painful, if not more, than what you are feeling right now," Dumbledore said, looking down at him as he lay prone on the ground.
"Is this supposed to help?" Severus coughed bitterly, ignoring how he reeked of Firewhiskey.
—Severus focused on pressing the curse into the fake veins pumping fake blood in the golem that was blood attached to a heart but at least it wasn't Hermione's blood or Hermione's heart—
"How can you say I will love again when it is so fucking awful?" Severus asked, voice choked.
"You will love again because to live is to love, and you will love again and again, because to choose otherwise is not living at all and I can see how much you want to live," Dumbledore said placidly from his seat on his armchair,
—the same armchair that was now a golem, that Severus needed out of his house fast before it started to boil and writhe because even fake golem bodies felt fake pain and had fake blood that could fake boil in the gruesome end to a gruesome curse that he had at least saved Dumbledore from even though his soul was still fucking ripped—
"How is loving working out for you now?" Severus whispered to Dumbledore's grave, the day after Hermione visited Potter's grave. Because he knew that Dumbledore had loved Harry in the end, as if he was his own grandchild, but still sent him to his death, and had died with a broken heart. Perhaps Albus' soul was torn just like his.
But Dumbledore would have had something frustratingly even and balanced and calm to say about all of the painful things in life, and how they contributed to the beauty in life, even as he faced his own death.
Albus Dumbledore, Severus decided, as he watched the fake golem seize up in its fake death throes, was a fucking wanker because he was so frequently right.
He had been holding back on acting on his feelings to Hermione because he truly did not think that he could escape from being sent to Azkaban a second time, and because she was still mired in her grief for Potter. She was young–even by wizarding standards–and had her whole life in front of her.
But it could not be denied that the rip in his soul that always hurt at the thought of Dumbledore no longer hurt–and that sometimes, late at night, when he held Hermione, he could feel something in himself reach for her, and something in herself reach back.
What was that, if not love?
Living was a kind of lunacy, he thought, after finishing a harrowing conversation with Minerva where she bullied him into writing and visiting frequently and possibly mentoring some of the older students in Potions and DADA again, after he told her on no uncertain terms would he ever return as Headmaster again. Severus shivered as he watched Hermione sleep fitfully on his sofa, and wondered if he would be overstepping to put her in his bed.
Living was a kind of lunacy, because no matter how hard he denied it and tried not to feel it he was in love with Hermione Granger. He would be completely devastated and unable to go on without her presence in his life, and yet he was contemplating inviting her more firmly into his life so that if she went away at a later date then she could devastate him all the more then.
Severus tried not to think about his actions too much as he settled himself gingerly behind Hermione on the sofa. He held her close, as he did every night, and tried to pretend that he wasn't on a path that was going in only one direction.
But those were his only two options, weren't they? Push her away or keep her closer, close enough that if he was very lucky she would never leave, even though there was always a chance that she would. Severus never considered himself much of a fortunate man, but he had survived the war where so many had not, as a free man as well. He did think of himself as an intelligent man, and he knew without a doubt that pushing her away would only cause him long-lasting pain. So the best he could do was hope that she never left.
Severus Snape always had a tricky relationship with hope, in that he never had much of it to begin with, but he could feel a little bit of hope now. He thought of his Patronus, and how he had seen something vague and not entirely clear but quite possibly a large cat emerge as a Patronus from Hermione's wand over the past several weeks and thought that yes, he could do it. He could try to hope for Hermione Granger.
He had been an idiot before his trial, too mired in indecision and fears about losing her, but he could see clearly now that it didn't matter if he made his feelings clear or not—he might lose her anyway. And that was unthinkable. He would not allow it.
So the choice was made. He would have to find some way to convince her to stay.
The only difficulty was how he was going to woo a woman who already lived with him, wore his cloak, and had the other half of his mirror. What was he going to do, give her more flowers? No, he needed to be more obvious, and more Gryffindorish (here, he shuddered, but he was dealing with a Gryffindor, and a very Gryffindorish one at that). He might even have to use his words from his mouth.
Severus cringed, and held onto Hermione a little tighter to soothe himself. It felt like an absolutely terrible idea. His mouth had been useful for nothing but telling lies for the last two decades; it did not feel like a particularly helpful option.
But he knew that they could not go on like this, living together in a strange semblance of a committed romantic relationship without speaking to each other. He hated that he could find many words for people he hated, and people he lied to, but when it came to telling the truth, all of his words deserted him.
Perhaps he could start with a small positive truth. That was what he often did when inventing new potions or spells–start with a small change, and then build upon it, if it worked well.
He shuddered as he tried to think of little positive truths to tell. Perhaps it was best if he started with the people who did not matter, in case things did not turn out well.
Yes, he thought, settling down. Perhaps that was best.
