A/N: Work has picked up, so I'll be a bit slower in updating, but the next few chapters are all but ready to go! I did write a fair bit ahead and will continue to do so. I'm excited for you to read them!

I noticed I ruffled some feathers with the last chapter! Hopefully this chapter will help smooth them back down. I'll try to get Ch 27 up in a few days to make it up to you ;)


Chapter Twenty-Six

Hermione skipped breakfast the next morning.

Even if she had an appetite, she wouldn't have desired to eat in his company. As it was, she woke with her stomach in knots. Something had happened, something that he wasn't sharing with her, and she could physically feel him pulling away. Did he regret his kindness the other night? His openness? Had she said something that gave him pause? He told her it wasn't anything she had done, but... what else could it be? Surely McGonagall didn't say anything that terrible to him. Her words had never affected him this way before.

No, this had something to do with her, she could feel it- and until he came to her to fix it, she was determined to give him the space he had asked for. She was mortified by the idea that this was something she had caused, and the fact that she couldn't figure it out, couldn't understand why anything she had said or done would make him act this way, just made it that much worse.

She stayed in bed, listening to the sounds of him bustling about in the kitchen. The smell of cooking turned her stomach, and she rolled over, pulling the covers over her nose. Quietly she lay there, the distant clink of his fork washing over her as he ate, until she finally heard him washing up. Shortly after, she could hear his footsteps in the hall. He seemed to pause, briefly, at the foot of the stairs, and she feared he may call to her- or worse, climb the steps. But after a few moments of silence, the footsteps continued, and a door opened and closed. He had entered his lab, and would be there for most of the day.

Exhaling, she threw the covers off of her. Avoidance might not be the best way to deal with this, but it made things easier for now.

She readied herself for the day, sneaking quietly to the living room only to collect the schoolwork she had forgotten in her rush upstairs the day prior. Yesterday, she had spent the remainder of her time sulking, obsessing over what may have been wrong, and only noticed that neither of them had eaten dinner when she was laying in bed going over the day's events for the hundredth time. Today, she was determined to distract herself, to continue on as if nothing had happened. If she couldn't change it, she wasn't going to dwell on it. He could come to her when he was ready.

So much for not dwelling on it, she thought to herself an hour later as she threw the quill onto the desk, dry and useless to her in this mindset. She dropped her forehead to the desk's surface, groaning in frustration; she had gotten only a few paragraphs in on this reading assignment, with no notes to show for it. This is going to be harder than I thought. Not for the first time, she wished she had something else besides schoolwork with which to occupy her mind.

Standing, she moved to the nearby window. Snow had begun to fall that morning, and was still drifting slowly down to cover the ground. She marveled at the planter boxes in the garden, at the spells upon them that did not let in the cold or the snow. She had asked Severus about them once, as he tended to them, and he had told her it was a clever combination of charms Professor Sprout had shown him when he began growing his own ingredients. She wouldn't give him free access to her greenhouses, but she was more than willing to share what she could to help him get started.

The story had humanized him, or rather her early impression of him. Sometimes her memories of him as her professor seemed like an entirely different person. Seeing him through the eyes of a child eager to please and always falling short had stung- it stung for a long time. It was some time in her fifth year before she finally overcame it. In her fifth year, she had realized that there were more important things than hurt feelings and pleasing people that didn't want to be pleased. It was easier to dismiss his coldness in the midst of a war, and she did, but she still didn't see him any differently.

It took the end of the war and his incredible sacrifice to clear her vision, and hearing stories like the one he had shared that day started to change her earliest recollections. She hadn't forgotten how he had made her feel, and she doubted she ever would, but somehow, in light of all that she was learning of him, it didn't bother her anymore.

No, what bothered her now wasn't who he had been. She was more concerned with the man she knew today; the man that was pulling away. Again.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, staring unseeing at the garden below, but eventually she returned to her half-hearted attempts at schoolwork.

By the time the sun began to set, she had managed to finish the assignment, but it was far from her best work. She supposed that under the circumstances, it was the best she had in her. She had the rest of the week before McGonagall came to collect it; it was possible she could revisit it later. With that thought reassuring her, she pushed it aside.

Yawning, she stretched in her seat and allowed her mind to focus on her body once more. She was feeling rather fatigued, there was a dull ache in her temples, and she had developed a slight tremor in her hand that had made the last few minutes of schoolwork difficult to manage. Perhaps she should get a quick nap in before moving on to the next project- if she even felt well enough to begin one. Sighing, she stood and turned towards the bed.

She had only taken a single step when she stumbled, her legs shaking, and almost immediately toppled over. Grabbing the edge of the desk, she held her head in her free hand, willing the room to stop spinning. Black spots flashed at the edges of her vision, and she blinked them away rapidly.

"Oh, I don't feel well," she muttered to herself, carefully sitting back down. Clearly, her body was not ready to be upright yet. Her stomach flopped, and though she hadn't eaten all day, she felt the growing need to vomit. She was faint, lightheaded, and every movement made the feeling instantly worse.

She held her head until the spinning stopped, and carefully made her way to the bed.


Severus shelved the last of the vials and glanced out the window. The sun was setting, his final order was complete, and he was absolutely ravenous.

He had worked straight through lunch, so determined to avoid any awkward confrontation he may happen upon otherwise. He hadn't seen Hermione since she cornered him in the kitchen, and while he would be the first to admit that he had overreacted, he still did not quite know how he wanted to handle the situation.

He spent the entire night trying to figure that out, and the only conclusion he had come up with was to do... nothing. And while that plan didn't sit well with him, he couldn't think of another solution that wouldn't push her from him entirely, and he couldn't bring himself to do that- not yet. Besides, while this revelation shocked him, what exactly did he expect would change? Minerva was right about one thing; he doubted Hermione would say anything, do anything, to alert him to her feelings, and until then, he could act oblivious to her attentions. He could convince her he had no interest in anything other than friendship, despite his failed attempts at convincing himself of the same thing.

His own feelings were inconsequential- he was used to stifling his emotions. He had plenty of practice hiding how he felt, and though apparently the mere mention of her name was enough for his shields to crumble, he would simply need to redouble his efforts. He had only hoped that whatever unrest he had caused would dissipate rather easily.

When she didn't join him for breakfast, however, he knew without a doubt that he had made a right mess of things. The last thing he wanted to do now was make it worse.

Having time to think and reflect didn't change the fact that he had panicked yesterday, and in doing so he had most assuredly offended her. Her tears as she fled from him, after innocently reaching out when she sensed his distress, sent a hot wave of shame through him. He had tried to assure her that she was not to blame, but... why else would he ask for time away from her? She saw right through him, and though it was the last thing he had wanted to do, he had inevitably upset her. Likely she would stay upset until he reached out.

The worst part was, he hadn't the faintest idea how to make it up to her.

He tried, that morning. He had made their usual portions, expecting her to come down at any moment, but when it was clear she would not make an appearance, he had set her plate at her typical spot and placed a warming charm over it. Surely she will come down while I'm in the lab, he had thought to himself then. As he entered the kitchen now, however, at the end of the day, and the plate was still sitting untouched in front of her chair, he knew that she had made it a point to avoid him completely.

Had she even come down here? He touched the plate, the smooth porcelain cool beneath his fingers. The warming charm had long since worn off, and there were no other dishes in the sink or any other signs of her having sought out a meal. Had she eaten at all today?

Guilt sank like a rock in his stomach. This was his home; it was his responsibility to see to her needs while she was here, and he was failing. "Shit," he muttered, snatching the plate from the table and scraping the now-cold food into the bin. If she wasn't eating, was she sleeping? Had he sent her mental recovery back so far, in a single day, that she was right back where she started? "Shit, shit, shit!"

What was he supposed to do about it, though? He couldn't force her to face him; not after he made such a big deal about giving him space. He swore he wouldn't seek her out in her rooms unless he felt it necessary, and he refused to push her boundaries further than he already had by doing so. But, she still needed to eat.

Perhaps she was feeling under the weather. It was possible that this had nothing to do with him. Fat chance of that, he chastized himself, but it was possible. There was a decent chance she would brave his presence for dinner, and if she didn't, well...

Nervous energy filling his chest, he began to cook.


About an hour after she heard Severus preparing dinner, Hermione was surprised by a sudden appearance of a dinner tray appearing on her nightstand. Hand to her chest, she slowly sat up in bed and lit a few candles.

When she had enough light to properly see, she pulled the tray to her lap and studied the contents. A plate, laden with chicken and steamed vegetables, was accompanied by a crisp napkin, a tall glass of water, and a folded up bit of parchment tucked just under the glass. She reached for the last item, unfolding it carefully, and found it to be a note, short and to the point. Her eyes widened as she read.

In the event that you're feeling under the weather, I have prepared a meal that will hopefully be easy on the stomach. I am retiring early tonight, but do not hesitate to reach out to me if the need arises.
-S

Staring at the note, her thoughts raced. "He thinks I'm sick?" She supposed it was a reasonable assumption, though she highly doubted it being the first conclusion he would have jumped to.

No, she would bet her entire Gringotts account that he knew she was avoiding him. What this note was, what he was offering her, was an out; an excuse she could use to explain her absence, when next she braved his presence.

Now I'm even more confused. Yesterday he was avoiding her, wouldn't even look at her. What changed? Did he notice she hadn't been downstairs, that she hadn't eaten? Was this an apology for upsetting her, or was this an act made out of guilt?

Either way, the roaring in her stomach would not allow her to pass up the meal. She began on the vegetables- roasted zucchini and squash- as the thought of meat turned her already upset stomach, but it wasn't long before she tucked in to the chicken breast as well. Everything was lightly seasoned, cooked just right, and the more she ate, the less her head spun. In fact, she began to feel energized, as if she were finally shaking off the fog of sleep. By the time her plate was clean, she felt like a new person.

She studied the tray, deep in thought. Maybe his odd behavior yesterday really did have nothing to do with her. If that were the case, whatever was causing his odd mood had to have been related to the conversation he had with McGonagall. He'd been fine the day before, and had done an incredible job comforting her that night, even going so far as to distract her by answering her invasive personal questions. Questions that-

"Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth, and she cursed herself for being so blind. She was a fool; it was so obvious! She had seen it before, when he had opened up to her more than he had planned.

That story about his father, the reasons he had become a Potions Master- how many people knew these things about him? She couldn't imagine he opened up to very many people. Surely, he was distancing himself from her because he had let himself be far too vulnerable. What must that feel like for someone as private as him to open up about something so personal, something that obviously still wounded him today?

It could also explain why he was wearing his frock coat and robes again. The more covered he was, the more shielded he must feel. It all made so much sense, now, that she felt a tinge of embarrassment for reacting so poorly to it all. She truly had done nothing wrong; he just needed to distance himself momentarily, in order to feel secure.

Of course, she could be wrong about it all, but it made so much sense that she was sure she was right. Relief flowed through her, warming her, relaxing the tension in her chest. She felt like she could breathe again. It wasn't me, she told herself, smiling. It wasn't me.


Though he had planned to stay in his room until morning, a noise from the kitchen dragged him out of bed. There, on the counter next to the sink, was the dinner tray he had sent upstairs, the plate and glass completely empty. He breathed a sigh of relief; she had eaten.

Walking over to the tray, he picked up the plate with the intent to wash the dish when a bit of parchment- much smaller than the note he had left- caught his eye. He picked it up, and couldn't help but smile at the sight of her neat script.

Thank you.
I'll see you at breakfast.
-H

Those seven words, so simple, so concise, were all he needed. He hadn't ruined everything; he had a chance to reverse the damage he had inadvertently caused. He quickly washed the dishes and returned to his room, a weight lifting off of his chest.

In the morning, he forewent his frock coat and robes once again, and began to prepare a batch of cinnamon oatmeal. He was cutting up some fruit to go with it when she joined him, wearing a well fitting sweater and black pants. The sleeves went over her palms, and she clung to the edges, as if holding onto them grounded her. He returned her awkward smile with one of his own.

"Good morning," he greeted, focusing his attention on the cutting board once more. She responded in kind, and he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you." She took her preferred seat, crossing her arms over the tabletop. "How, uhm... how are you?"

"I am well," he replied, setting a hearty bowl in front of her. He sat with a bowl of his own, and they ate without speaking, a strained and discomfiting silence spreading between them. Severus glanced up at her a number of times during the meal, but she had kept her eyes resolutely on her bowl.

Whereas before he had considered not acknowledging the last few days, hoping that by not drawing attention to it they could move on quietly, sitting in her presence and feeling the tension between the two had him clearing his throat. "About... the other day."

Quickly swallowing her spoonful, Hermione shook her head and waved him off. "Please don't apologize. You're well in your right to want to be left alone. I apologize for pushing myself on you."

Surprised, he blinked. "Still," he said when he recovered, "I should have been forthright with you. For that, I do apologize. I did not mean to upset you in any way."

She thought about his words for a moment before responding, stirring her oatmeal absentmindedly. "I was less upset and more worried. I didn't know what was wrong, and- oh, I don't need an explanation!" she said hurriedly, as he had been about to speak. To say what, he wasn't sure; he wasn't about to tell her the truth. "Really, you don't need to explain yourself to me. I was just... well, anyway. It's water under the bridge now. Shall we move past it?"

Hardly believing the ease in which that conversation was resolved, he offered up an awkward half smile. "We shall." They turned back to their bowls, and while they returned to their previous silence, it lacked the stress and tension of before.

The rest of the day was more of the same- he spent the day in his lab, and she spent it however she chose, most likely on schoolwork. He once again worked through lunch, this time to monitor an experimental brew, so once again he was famished and wasted no time preparing dinner. He was pleased to see Hermione join him once again, though he couldn't help but notice her level of distraction. Whereas typically she would engage him in some form of conversation, this evening she remained quiet, focusing on her plate of food or out the window in quiet contemplation. With how delicate things still felt between them, he didn't dare press her for a reason, but he did find himself concerned.

He was just finishing the last of his roast potato when she cleared her throat timidly. "Severus?"

"Yes?" When he looked up, her eyes were averted, staring out the window. She was fiddling with a curl, absentmindedly wrapping it around one thin finger. The act caught and held his attention. He wondered what it would feel like, were he to reach out; to twist it around his own index, to rub it between his thumb. How different would it be to his own? With effort, he pushed the thought out of his head before she continued speaking.

"The other night..." She began, and his breath caught in his chest. "You had said that it was possible to blur memories."

He breathed freely again. For a moment, he was afraid she had changed her mind, that she would ask him about... "I did say that, yes."

"How does that work, exactly?"

Sitting back in his chair, Severus exhaled. "Through a combination of Legilimency, Occlumency, and a re-evaluation of the memory itself."

"Re-evaluation?" She looked away from the window, interested. "What will that do?"

"With any luck, it will change the core emotion that is tied to that memory." He crossed his arms over his chest loosely, tilting his head. "Are you interested in pursuing this?"

She bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. Studying the table's surface, she answered hesitantly, "I think I might like to try it, yes. If you're still willing to help, that is."

"I am," he answered slowly, watching her, studying her for any insecurity. It would be difficult, being so intimately familiar with her most heinous experiences, and he couldn't say he was excited over the prospect. After becoming aware of the feelings they held for each other, after the tension of the last few days, he would be lying if he felt at all confident. But he would be the first to admit that she was in desperate need of his help- and he was willing to give it to her, difficulties be damned.

Tapping his fingers against his bicep, he added, "I must again warn you, though, that it will require giving me access to these memories, and they must be studied thoroughly in order for this to work."

Though worry creased her brow, she nodded. "Yes, I remember." She looked up at him, then, with her eyes flashing in a fierce determination, and added, "I would still like to try it."

They stared at each other then, and he slowly nodded. "How soon would you like to do this?"

"As soon as possible." He narrowed his eyes at her quick answer, and she gave a nervous shrug. "I've been thinking about it all day. Which, of course, has led me to think about the memories in question, and..."

She shrugged again, but he understood well enough. "We can begin after dinner, then, if you'd like. I will give you a choice on which memory to break down first, but it needs to be one with which you hold strong emotions. Your memories are linked by a similar emotional tie, and by blurring the initial link, the others will follow on their own." Standing, he picked up their plates and moved to the sink. "If you change your mind, I will understand. This is not going to be a fun process."

She rose from her seat as well, and from the corner of his eye he watched her shift uncertainly. "Will it help?"

"If done correctly? Without a doubt."

A confident smile spread across her face, though it did not quite mask the worry in her eyes. "Then I won't change my mind."


When Hermione entered the living room a half hour later, it was to find the sofa shoved against the bookcases, the tables absent, and two plush cushions on the floor in the middle of the room. Severus, sitting in his desk chair- the wingback was also noticeably missing- greeted her with a simple nod. "Take a seat," he told her, gesturing to the cushions.

"This is giving me deja vu," she joked as she sat, attempting to calm the nerves that had plagued her for most of the day. He smiled briefly in response, before sitting cross legged across from her.

"As I'm sure you have guessed," he began, the lecturing tone already present, "we will be starting off tonight with a brief bout of meditation. In order for us to move forward, you need to be as open and calm as possible. Once you feel you have reached that point, and are ready for the next step, I will then ask you to feed me the particular memory you have chosen."

"Right," she nodded, absentmindedly chewing on her thumbnail. While pleased the tension between the two of them seemed to have faded, she still felt incredibly vulnerable. She had debated asking to wait another day, but was afraid that the more opportunity she gave herself to postpone this, the less likely she would regain the nerve to face it. Better now, despite their struggles, before she could overthink and hide.

When he didn't say anything else, leaving her to her own thoughts for a considerable amount of time, she glanced up at his face; he was watching her, eyes narrowed in thought. It made her nerves jolt. Could he see how close she was to losing it? "What is it?"

He didn't answer immediately, but looked into the dancing flames in the fireplace before them. "If at any point this is too much, tell me, and we will stop immediately."

Of course he can see how scared I am. I'm practically shaking before him. "I will," she answered quietly, crossing her arms over her midsection.

He looked back at her then. "If I may," he started, before clearing his throat awkwardly. "It might help if I knew what memory we will be working on in advance."

He looked about as uncomfortable as she felt. His eyes kept flitting away from her, focusing instead on the fire or over her shoulder; his brow was creased, and his back was ramrod straight. Was this going to be as invasive as he was making it seem? Hermione swallowed.

"I actually wanted to ask you about that," she said timidly. "I have a few in mind, but one I remember a lot more clearly. The other, though, I feel is..." She took in a steadying breath. "I feel like it's more the root cause of my anxiety."

In truth, she knew which recollection would be better, but she was scared- no, terrified- to relive it. She had put it on the backburner for so long, she wasn't even sure she could relive it. If she weren't convinced in her heart that this was the best option, she would jump at the opportunity to use any other memory.

Severus was rubbing his bottom lip in thought. "When you think of these two events," he asked, "which mutual feeling, if any, do you associate with them?"

Fear, she thought immediately, but knew he was hoping for something more specific than that. "There's a sense of panic, and dread, and..." She closed her eyes, concentrating. "And helplessness."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Let's focus on the helplessness at this time, as I assume it would be the most problematic. Which memory focuses more on that feeling?"

She knew it, even before she walked in the room. She knew she would be reliving this particular memory. A memory she had tried to bury for months; one she had tried to pretend never happened. She couldn't look at him; she focused on her hands in her lap.

"When I was tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange."


Severus blinked. Stared. Forgot to breathe.

She had been tortured. Tortured!

He had heard about the incident, of course, but it was glossed over so easily in the retelling of events that it had never stuck with him. Until this moment he hadn't remembered it happening.

He willed his face into a mask of impassivity. How on earth was he supposed to coach her through this? Even dead, Bellatrix's destruction lives on. Oh, how giddy she would be if only she knew.

Focusing his attention back on the woman in front of him, he watched as she pulled into herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her middle. He had told her this wasn't going to be easy, and it seemed she well understood. He casually thumbed the vial of calming draught he had slipped into his pocket earlier.

"Right," he said, if only to say something at all. "There are three main steps to this procedure. The first, of course, is meditation. The calmer you are, the more you are able to open your mind to me, the better. It will make the next step that much easier.

"When you are ready, we will move onto the initial viewing of the memory via Legilimency. I am going to ask you to feed me the memory as you recall it, and we will watch it play organically. Afterwards, we will discuss it at length."

He paused then, allowing her to absorb the information. He could tell by the way her eyes kept drifting to the hall that she was forcing herself to remain seated, to not flee the room immediately. He couldn't blame her for feeling that way. It wasn't fair, the things she experienced, and he hated that he was going to be a part of her revisiting them.

"The last stage," he continued, "is the most complex. This is when we attempt to blur the memory, by re-entering it with a new perspective. For this step you will be partly occluded, holding back the emotions most strongly tied with this memory, and by doing so you will be able to convince yourself that the emotion you feel instead has always been there. In truth, it probably has been, but simply overshadowed by the feeling that debilitates you now. This step is crucial to your recovery, and may need to be repeated, but I have every confidence that you will succeed in the end."

"I wish I could say I had every confidence in myself," she admitted, plucking at a loose thread on her pants. "I've been holding this in for so long, I'm afraid to let it out again- afraid of what it will do to me. What if it overwhelms me?"

She was trying to hide the slight tremor in her hands by keeping her fingers busy, but he could practically feel her nervous energy pouring off of her in waves. "Hermione," he spoke, putting as much assurance in his words as he could muster, "from what I've seen of your mental fortitudes, you have nothing to fear. I do not doubt your abilities for a moment." In the pause that followed, he stood and moved to the drink cart. "Let us take a moment to find our bearings. A glass of water would do you well, I think, and I admit to be rather parched myself."

When he returned to the middle of the room, he handed her a tumbler of cool, crisp water. "Take a moment to absorb this information, and let me know when you are comfortable enough to begin. I am in no rush." Returning to the cushion in front of her, he sipped on his own glass before setting it to the side and closing his eyes. Though he wasn't required to meditate for this, he felt the need to calm his own nerves. Whatever he was about to see, he knew it would affect him more than he was expecting.

He heard her set the glass down next to his, and shift into a more comfortable meditative position. Without opening his eyes, he asked, "Would you like me to lead you through the meditation, or would you prefer to simply let me know when you're ready?"

She was quiet for a moment, most likely weighing the pros and cons of his offer. "I think I can manage," she said, her voice breathy and soft. "I'll- I'll let you know when I'm ready."

"Take you time," he told her again, and began to calm his own riotous thoughts.