Author's Note:

Hi all, new to the fandom, not new to writing fic :)

Regular readers, before you tar and feather me for entering a new fandom, please read the post I put up on 12/18. It will explain what happened.

New readers, this is an AU in that Snape survived Nagini. Though honestly I've read so much HP fanfic over the last few months, with at least a dozen, distinct, perfectly plausible variations on how he came through that attack (and we never saw his funeral) so it is now canon in my mind that he's still alive. It hurts no one!

Hermione is 20 here, Snape is 39. With my Tumblr post for this story I included an age regression photo someone did showing Alan Rickman at Snape's accurate canon age, late 30s, and it's so perfect and really what solidified me on this ship. Once Hermione is an adult, obviously :) More on that at the end.

The title of the story, 'The Mourning Fields' are a section of the afterlife in Greek mythology.

Lastly, new folks, my Tumblr, if you're interested in following my story posts there: sienna27

"Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever. The message: we are what we chose to be."

- Graham Brown

*/*/*/*

"This can't last. This misery can't last."

- Brief Encounter, The Walking Dead

Myself, Alone

Snape tipped his head back from where he'd been looking up at the ceiling, to look over at the small table next to him by the hearth. His gaze was drawn, as it had been since he'd settled into the sitting room after breakfast, on the stack of parchments lying there. They had all been received over the last several days, and each had been written in the same, instantly recognizable, (to him) hand.

Hermione Granger's.

The first of her notes had been delivered by owl on Tuesday morning. It had been the longest and the most formal, addressed to him by his full name, no title, and simply, "Spinner's End, Midlands," for an address.

His jaw clicked as he wandlessly summoned the half crumpled note in question, and once in hand, began to read over the odd missive. It was the third time he'd done so that morning, though of course nothing had changed therein since the first time he had read it on Tuesday. And yet . . . he let out a heavy sigh . . . here he was reading it again.

Dear Sir,

I will dispense here with the expected social niceties for which I know you have neither patience nor need, and come directly to my point. First though, my sincerest apologies for this correspondence which I am sure you view as a serious intrusion upon both your person, and your valuable personal time. Still, the intrusion truly could not be helped as I have backed myself into a perilous situation, one which has left me desperately in need of your counsel, and there is no exaggeration in my conveying that ONLY your counsel will do. Confidentiality is also of greatest concern here, so would you please allow me an immediate, brief, audience there in your home where we can discuss this matter in proper detail? Yes, I do understand how much I am asking of you, and yet, I am asking it anyway.

With Deepest Regard,

Hermione Jean Granger

That was the first one, again, received on Tuesday. When he did not reply, because really Miss Granger did NOT understand what she was asking of him or she never would have asked it(!), her owl had appeared to him again on Wednesday. That note was shorter, but no less desperate, or mysterious, in tone. It was followed by one similar in need, though with a much shakier, written hand, on Thursday. The one that came on Friday was a near carbon of Thursday's, and then now this morning, Saturday, he had just summoned and was now holding, the most brief, and well, alarming, of them all. There was no salutation here, just "Snape" and "Spinner's End," and two brief sentences written in a barely legible scrawl.

"I HAVE RUN OUT OF TIME! PLEASE, SIR, I BEG YOU TO RESPOND IMMEDIATELY!"

If there had been any enmity behind the words, it definitely would have come through as a Howler. As it was though, clear desperation and oddly enough, blinding grief, were the emotions Snape felt pouring off this page. The words all ran together, and the ink was smeared, due to what he believed to have been teardrops which had dried on the parchment. He was assuming they were teardrops because with the proboscis he had been gifted, and the storied career he had built in the study and brewing of potions, his sense of smell was second to no one. And he was quite sure that when he lifted the parchment to his face, he could detect the faintest of faint whiffs of salinity. Also, as it was unlikely that Miss Granger had written this note while standing in the middle of the North Atlantic, tears were the logical source of the salinity.

This conclusion pained him deeply.

Because he had been staring at those dark spots on the white paper off and on for over an hour, all while he attempted to ignore the rising pangs of guilt in his conscience. This woman writing to him, this woman to whom he harbored no ill will, was literally CRYING on the page as she begged him for help . . . and he still wasn't sure whether or not he was going to give it. Of course in simple black and white, it sounded like he was just being the cruel, miserable, bastard he had once played the part of being. But that was not the reality. There was no cruelty or indifference behind his action.

Or inaction, as the case may be.

Miss Granger's request, really her unexpected, insistent, reappearance in his life, it was simply . . . his lips pursed . . . too much. It had all been too much. For twenty-two years. Too much pain, too much exposure.

Too much of his soul bleeding out between his fingers.

In fact, previous to her efforts in reaching him these last few days, Hermione Granger was probably one of the few people still alive who Snape would have said truly did understand how much had been taken from him already. This, now upended, conclusion had been reached by him subsequent to their last conversation.

That conversation had been at St. Mungo's three days out from the Battle of Hogwarts.

At the time he'd been on his second sleepless night in a private room of the trauma ward being administered anti-venin, muscle relaxants, blood replenishers, and strengthening potions for Nagini's EXTREMELY close to fatal, attack. So when Miss Granger had entered his room, he'd already been feeling weak and irritable with a blinding headache, and spasms in his limbs from the remnants of the venom still creeping through his circulatory system. Which meant that even though that evening he had been freshly pardoned for all of his crimes as a turncoat Death Eater . . . like the Ministry knew even half of what he'd done . . . by the new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, he was still not feeling at all 'charitable' towards his fellow wizard kind. But then that girl, woman, he reminded himself with a wince . . . she'd already been of age at the time of that visit, and so she had to be close to twenty by now . . . had shown up at his bedside. It had been at the literal witching hour, twelve midnight, and she'd been truly, a mess. Her eyes leaking, her hands shaking, her voice quivering.

It had all been very unsettling.

Certainly not how he had become accustomed to seeing her over the many years of their association. It had made him uncomfortable. Which why was for a few moments he'd tried to feign sleep so she would hopefully leave without them actually having to speak. But she hadn't left, and as the minutes had passed, it had become too difficult to ignore her sobbing. The sound, it had . . . he scowled slightly thinking back . . . well, it had done something to him.

Over and over she'd choked out her tears, telling her story, saying how she couldn't believe they had left him alone in the shack, that she knew the boys had been distracted by the memories he'd given to Harry, but that it had never occurred to her that he'd survived Nagini's attack. She'd said that when his voice had fallen away, and his eyes had glazed over, she'd thought that was the end. She hadn't known it was just his body going into shock. Well that, and the stasis charm he'd managed to silently cast right before he'd dropped dead for real.

At the time that had been his little secret though.

But in fact, Miss Granger had claimed to have been quote, "completely devastated," when she'd heard how Hagrid had found him lying there hours later in a pool of blood, his body chilled almost to the bone. And her guilt had been compounded by the later confirmation from the memories in the Pensieve, that he'd been working on their side right up until the end. That as disagreeable as he could be to them in class, she had actually trusted him implicitly on matters of true moral import, since that night he'd gotten between her and Lupin when Lupin had turned into a werewolf. That's when she had realized, when she was still just a child, that he was a good man who would literally lay down his life for them. And she a muggle born too, which was why it had made no sense to her later on when everyone just immediately believed that his true loyalties had been to the Dark Lord all along. So she had strongly suspected that there had been more to what had happened on the Astronomy Tower than what had appeared, but she'd never had the courage to push back against Harry's conviction that he'd killed Dumbledore in cold blood.

She'd said her cowardice on that issue was a point of shame for her.

Of course Snape had been quite shaken by her confession. The idea, the knowledge, that there had been someone out there who had actually still believed the best of him even in those darkest of days, was astounding. But it had been too much to take in when he was already feeling so sick, and in so much pain. So per usual when he was forced to deal with emotions that he'd rather not deal with, he'd gotten angry.

At least at first.

At first he'd wanted to just send her off immediately with his old standard dismissal of a bellow and a sneer. With his throat having been bandaged over though in three layers of magical gauze and two layers of muggle tape, on that night, his bellowing days had still been temporarily on hold.

But also . . . and perhaps, if he was honest with himself, this was really the key point in diminishing his anger . . . both her devastation, and contrition, had seemed quite sincere.

So rather than sending her off into the night with a biting, metaphorical, shove, he'd taken a shallow breath, all that he'd been capable of at the time, and had slowly reached out to catch one of the small hands wringing anxiously together at his side.

He'd squeezed her fingers.

Outside of their collective run-in with the werewolf years earlier, he'd never actually touched her before. Nor had he ever had any desire to do so.

Not until that moment.

It had been an unexpected tendril of empathy stretching out from his side. Because the war had taught him all too well the pain felt in the middle of the night when grief and regret could spiral out of control. His list of regrets had long since become too long to count.

Though it had never stopped him from trying.

Which was why when her ramblings had shorted out at his touch, and her shocked, watery eyes, had snapped up to his, he'd rasped out, "let the guilt go, Miss Granger. Just let it go. Your actions at the time were just. You have no blame here."

And then he'd shoved her hand away, shot her a tired scowl, and tipped his head pointedly towards the door.

"Now go away."

His immediate change in tone had been deliberate . . . his patience for middle of the night company had reached its end . . . and after staring at him in shock for a moment, he remembered quite clearly that Miss Granger had broken out in a wide, toothy, GRIN! It had come with another tear running down her face, and there had been a bit of drip coming out of her nose, but the crazy witch had actually seemed to be HAPPY to be told to get lost!

Her response had been ridiculous!

Because make no mistake, the harsh dismissal had been real! Just because he'd felt some genuine thread of affinity over her guilt, and some appreciation for her longstanding confidence in him, had not meant that he'd wished to be harassed in his sickbed! Absolutely not! And right when he'd been on the verge of repeating his order to leave him in peace . . . she wasn't moving quickly enough for his liking . . . she'd suddenly stood up, and before he'd known what was happening, and had been able to put a stop to it, Miss Granger had shuffled two steps forward, leaned over, and kissed his forehead.

"Be well, sir," had been the whisper as she'd pulled away with a brush of her fingers along his cheek.

He'd been too shocked to even say a word.

And then just as quickly as she'd invaded his personal space, she was gone. With a turn of her heel, she'd popped out of existence. That night was the last time he'd seen her.

Approximately sixteen months earlier.

Over those subsequent weeks his thoughts had occasionally drifted to her, as they had to some of his other former compatriots with the Order. It was just him wondering . . . he rolled his eyes slightly . . . somewhat against his will, how she was doing. How they were all doing.

If it was any better than he was.

Never though, never, would he have actually reached out to any of them. And he'd made no effort to keep track of them in the papers either, though he was still getting both The Prophet and The Quibbler. Though to that end, most everyone, outside of Minerva who had been named Headmaster immediately after the war, seemed to be keeping a low profile these days. There hadn't been an article about any members of The Order (the 'noted war heroes,' a subgroup which appallingly he was considered a part of) except for the "Where Are They Now," briefs compiled by The Daily Prophet for the first anniversary of the Dark Lord's defeat.

That had been about four months ago.

And because there had been SO many participants at the Battle of Hogwarts, rather than doing individual interviews, The Prophet had simply sent out owls to everyone known to be there, with a standardized request to respond to the question, "Where Am I Now" with a parchment of no more than two inches in length. Though his initial inclination had clearly been to Incendio the blasted page, Snape had known that his name in regards to the war effort (triple agent/murderer of the greatest wizard of their time) was a little too high profile for the editorial board to give up that quickly on his response.

Someone would have shown up at his door.

Then there would have been hexing and cursing and bodies to dispose of and he just did not need that kind of trouble in his life. Not again. So he had made a pot of tea, sat down at his kitchen table with parchment under quill, and responded to the, "Where Am I Now" with a very succinct (well within requested guidelines) response of, "Sitting in my kitchen answering insipid questions." That's what he had sent back with his owl. What had ended up being printed under his official Hogwarts staff photo was, "Professor Severus Snape, Order of the Phoenix: Unavailable for comment."

Perfect.

It had caught his attention even at the time though, that where Potter and the Weasleys en masse had all sent in what were clearly dutiful, appropriate, responses to The Prophet's inquiry, Miss Granger's brief had been almost as nebulous as his own. It had read simply, "Miss Hermione Jean Granger, Order of the Phoenix: Traveling."

And the photo that they'd printed above the caption, appeared to have been taken at a muggle airport. A busy one. She'd been giving the reader a formidable look over her shoulder as she had been hurrying away from the camera.

Even at the time it had been curious enough to make an impression.

No news of her, or from her, since then though. But now here she was, emerging out of the ether, sending him letter after letter begging him for "counsel." Such a strange turn of events. Truly, with a veritable Quidditch team's worth of Weasleys at her disposal, a group which could theoretically provide advice from all ranges of age and gender, what sort of 'counsel' could she require that could ONLY come from him?

Again, curious.

His brow twitched.

It was just then that he felt a press against his fireplace wards. When he pulled his wand and muttered the incantation, to his dismay, he found that the woman on his mind was the one on the other side of the floo. With a heavy sigh he dropped his wand into his lap and his head into his hands.

Damn.

Part of him wanted to just let her circle out there in the flames, because bloody hell he did not want to go back to CARING again! All of his suffering had come from giving a damn, and for the last sixteen months he'd been trying like hell to feel nothing for anyone else.

Hence his complete isolation.

But then, as he felt another press against the wards, he realized that the choice to reengage with the people of his world had finally been taken out of his hands.

She was here.

So refusing to allow her entry into his home now, was truly being a bastard simply for bastard's sake. And she hadn't done anything to him deserving of that treatment.

At least not since her first year when she'd set his robes on fire.

So with a weary grunt, Snape flicked his wand, lowered his wards on the floo, and came to his feet, ready to greet this most unwanted of guests.

For a moment though . . . nothing happened. Then he heard a scream, followed immediately by a sob of what sounded like his last name. And just as his eyebrow began to rise up in confusion, and yes, genuine concern, a body suddenly fell over the grate and into his living room.

His eyes widened in absolute horror at the sight before him.

Miss Granger . . . her hair and robes mostly burnt away on her right side, the skin on her face and both arms red and bubbling, even blackened to ash in some places. Her right ear partly melted, and the hand on that side . . . he blanched . . . those fingers had spots burnt down to exposed bone.

It looked like she'd fallen headfirst into a vat of acid.

"Miss Granger!" he gasped in disbelief while rushing forward to steady her . . . he ended up catching the two outside fingers on her left hand, the only place he could see to grasp without touching bone or weeping flesh . . . "good Merlin, what has HAPPENED to you?!"

The only response she was able to muster to his question was to let out sob as she tried to reach for his robes with her other hand. The one with the spots of exposed bone.

Not unsurprisingly, that's when she fell into him with a fresh howl of agony. Still holding the fingers of her other hand, he immediately cast a Mobilicorpus to take her off the carpet.

It was the only way to lift her without causing further pain or injury.

From there, with her now sobbing, "SIR, PLEASE HELP ME!" over and over . . . it sounded like she was in agony, and it was doing nothing for his usually formidable, emotional control . . . he quickly led her body across his small sitting room where he laid her out on her back, lowering her as gently as he could onto the lumpy old sofa. Then, after a split second wave to reset the protection wards on the floo in case someone had actually DONE this to her, he began to run diagnostic spells.

"Wait, these are POTION burns!" He sputtered out in both alarm and confusion, as the results began to read out in front of him. "What in the name of Merlin's beard though were you trying to brew that was so volat . . .?"

As the words fell away from his lips with a gasp, Snape's eyes burned as he suddenly realized that this was why Miss Granger had needed to speak to him, and ONLY to him. She'd needed to brew a potion. One that with no oversight from him, had apparently, quite literally, blown up in her face.

Bloody fucking hell, what had he DONE?!

Feeling warring stabs of guilt and shame and horror at his behavior, behavior which had led to this . . . he winced and dropped his watery gaze away from her body and down to his boots . . . devastation, for a moment he could do nothing. But then he heard another sob from the sofa and immediately blinked the moisture from his eyes as he shook off his internal flagellation. There would be time to hate himself later, and for all eternity if needed. In the present he needed to refocus his efforts, and considerable skills, in fixing this . . . he shook his head . . . MONSTROSITY of a mistake that he had made.

So he took a deep breath, settled his Occulmency shields into place so he could keep a sharp focus, and then began the healing spells.

It took two incantations to remove the remnants of the still sizzling potion splattered on Miss Granger's clothes, hair and skin. Six full incantations of Vulnera Sanentur before her body stopped writhing and the bubbled flesh had smoothed over to raw flesh again. Another fifteen minutes and he'd removed the worst of the char from her skin, reshaped her ear, the corner of her eye, the tip of her nose, and had healed the worst points of exposure on her hands.

At least well enough that the bone beneath was no longer visible.

Still, even with all of that attention, and him at that point with sweat pouring off his brow, the burns themselves were still there, raw and glistening in all their horror. All he'd really done so far was just stop her body from going into shock and dropping dead right there. What was left on her now were, based on the muggle terminology he knew, mostly second degree burns covering all of her visible skin. It was a gruesome sight, and he was sure still an agonizing state of being. Fortunately Miss Granger had passed out from the pain halfway through the second set of his incantations.

Now that he'd brought her to this state though, he felt it was safe enough to leave her alone for a few moments so he could get the supplies he needed to rebuild her missing skin and flesh. So after lowering his Occulmency shields again . . . he didn't want to frighten her with a blank stare . . . he wiped the back of his sleeve across his brow to clear the sweat away, and then reached down with his other hand to loosely take hold of those two pristine fingers again. Vaguely, he wondered just how it was they'd managed to escape any damage at all.

Either way he gave them a squeeze.

"All right, Miss Granger," he said softly when her lashes, (burnt down though they were), flickered open, and her pain filled gaze snapped up to his, "that's as much as I can do with incantations. It's time for me to go get the potions."

It took a second before he was sure that she'd actually processed what he'd just said to her. And that's when her withered lashes fluttered wide open. Her gaze was bloodshot and watery, but still full of so much intelligence as she looked up at him.

"I'm so sorry for being such a bother, sir."

Her words were choked, as though they too came out from the ash. And he found something in his chest tightening at the misery he heard there.

"It is no bother to heal you, witch," he grunted back with a light scowl, "so don't be such a Longbottom."

Noting how the corner of her burnt upper lip quivered at his insult of her former classmate, he found that pain in his chest increasing. He covered over his discomfort with another faint squeeze of her pinky and ring fingers.

"Try to be still," he whispered, "I'll be back as quickly as possible."

As he let go, she gave him a faint nod and curled both of her hands back to her tattered robes, holding them there like loose claws. From the way her limbs were shaking and her eyes were tearing, he could see that she was in unfathomable pain. He made a vow to himself then that he would make this right. Whatever counsel she needed from him, whatever her secrets, whatever she'd done, he would listen. And he would help. His jaw twitched as her burnt lashes fell closed again.

This abomination would not stand.

A/N 2: Couple key points. For purposes here, I'm considering 'canon' to be anything covered in either the books or the movies. I'm sure there are 'purists' who disagree with this approach :) but it's all one big tapestry in my brain, so if it was in one medium or the other, I consider it official. Hence the memory of Snape stepping between Were Lupin and Hermione. For them it happened, and for her reasons articulated here, I can see it logical that Hermione with her intelligence and objectivity (something the boys didn't have) would have felt an immediate trust in Snape from that point, even if he was still a bastard on occasion.

This will not be a Ron bashing tale, but it will become clear that they are not together here for reasons. As it will also become clear just what Hermione was trying to brew when it blew up in her face. And I needed that St. Mungo's visit as a bonding point to make it clear why she would still go to him, even after all that time. They had parted on good terms.

The next chapter is mostly done, and hopefully I can get it up next week. There is an actual plot here beyond romance, Hermione's 'secret,' and it's not a storyline that I came across in all my reading the last few months (not to say it's not out there somewhere, but I think it's fairly unique – fingers crossed) so I'm thinking maybe seven chapters at the outset to wrap everything up. I already wrote the end so at least that's done. Now we just need the middle bits :)

FYI, I do tend to ramble here on these second ANs, but it's generally my writing process. If there were any 'key notes' for the story itself, it would always be covered briefly in the beginning.

It's always difficult starting a new fandom because you lose most of your base reading audience, so I would love to hear from you folks! Hope you're enjoying things so far :)