Forgive me for my uncharacteristic absence! Blame me catching my husband's man flu. Sniffle. I know we've all missed Lavender and Poppy; more from them in chapter 11. Anything you recognise belongs to JK, as per usual. I don't think there are any direct quotes in here considering my memory for proper canon is shot to shite but I might've stumbled on the correct words in a miracle. A bit of poetry to start with instead of music today. Let me introduce you to my favourite poet.

Chapter 10

It surprised me
as I sat on my suitcase
waiting for the train of days
I forgot the days
I traveled with you
to the land of wonder

Nizar Qabbani

1997

With his head cradled in his hands, Severus flinched when the door to his office slammed shut. He had tried yet again to speak to the boy, but Draco would have none of it. Seething with frustration and inconvenient teenage hormones, there had not even been time for Severus to get a word in before Draco scowled and mumbled something unintelligible while fleeing the room.

He was out of time. He knew it, somewhere deep within his heart; soon, he would need to do the task that he was bound to do. There was no choice in it at all, yet every inch of him save for his ever present blank mask was repulsed by the deed his wand must perform. Severus was no seer, he had no gift of foresight, but he could feel the atmosphere changing. Whereas in the months before he had been constantly teetering on the brink of madness, sure that if the Avada didn't destroy his soul, the damn waiting would. Now, he wished more than anything that he could return to those days. Even the very day that he took the Unbreakable Vow that niggled in the back of his mind, an ever present reminder; even that day was easier to deal with than this precipice.

The nights were long. Initially, he had waited for Hermione to finish studying at the library, staying in the office until she returned and bid him goodnight to be safely in her room until morning. Last week, he had made a decision for her, for the first time in their marriage. He'd told her that she was to return to his office immediately following the evening meal, that he would tutor her and lend her books if need be, but that she was not to be out in the corridors. Of course she had seen through his cover, and he'd ended up sitting next to her on the couch, unnerved by her proximity as she leant against his side and voiced her fears that something was coming.

She was right.

But she hadn't known that that something was him.

"Severus?"

Startled, he looked up to see Hermione in the doorway that Draco had just stormed out of. She had a stack of books in her arms and that beaded bag that really was ridiculous but looked just right on his wife as she stood staring at him, concern for him all over her face. He could recognise it now, could see that she did care about him though such a young woman of innocence, of goodness, would never come to know just how her presence now felt like sun warming his too pale face.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he said instantly. "Yes. And you?" The sarcastic drawl of 'never better' had been on the tip of his tongue, but it tasted too stale to use on her.

She closed the door firmly then walked into the room, setting her bag and books down on the end of his desk before coming around to where he was seated. Perching against the edge, she folded her arms and looked down at him. He leaned back, wanting to see her better but unsure of how to receive her now, like this, so close and real.

"I saw Draco," she articulated slowly, watching his reaction. Having expected the unvoiced question, he merely inclined his head. Hermione let out a breath. "He didn't seem… well. To say that he looked unhappy is beyond stupid; he looked as if he had the world on his shoulders. Like you, in a way, but he couldn't keep holding it up."

He nodded again, aware of the small flick of pride he'd noticed when his wife had referred to the methodical way he shouldered his responsibilities. "A kind observation." And it was, really. She was too kind, too forgiving, especially to the youngest Malfoy prat.

Perhaps not. She would never forgive him, after all.

A quick smile spread her lips momentarily, but they tightened again in concern. "You look tired."

His first reaction was to sneer and turn away, his usual practice upon receiving comments about his appearance. But she placed a light hand on his arm, the unfamiliar touch jerking him back to her.

"I didn't mean it like that," she explained quickly. "I just… well, I've been… ah. Have you been sleeping at all?"

"No," he replied unthinkingly, honestly. She'd drawn it out of him as easily as she'd lulled him into accepting the continued hold she kept on his forearm.

As if unconsciously, her thumb began moving in slow circles over the sleeve of his coat; there was still another layer of a grey button up shirt beneath it, yet he felt it as if she was branding his bare skin. It was his left arm, and whether she knew it or not, Hermione was attempting to soothe him over the blackened mark of ink that no woman had touched in almost twenty years. Unbidden, his head tipped back against the chair and he closed his eyes, his tense fists relaxing on top of the desk. He thought that he should stop this, this… whatever it was, but in the silence of the room, he could no more bring himself to order her away than he could admit what he was truly going to do.

"Severus?"

He hummed and kept his eyes closed as he waited. She was still so close… with every shift of her body, the smell of her hair and skin washed over him. There was nothing even remotely sexual about their tableau; it was peace. He was at peace.

For now.

"What do you want to do? When all of this is over, I mean?"

He pretended to think about it, taking his time. And then words came rushing out anyway. "I want to get away from here. I'm tired of this castle, of these… obligations."

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Oh. Do you mean…?"

"No, no. You're not an obligation, Hermione. Not anymore." That was certainly true. He didn't know what she was, but she was no requirement, no box to be ticked. Now, she was only his… companion, of sorts.

"Well… good. You're not to me, either."

There was a hint of a smile on his lips when he said, "And what do you wish to do, wife?"

A rustle of clothing indicated her slow shrug. "Save the world, one research project at a time. But I'll probably be a pen pusher."

He barked out a laugh before he could rein it in, and he opened his eyes to see her grinning shyly down at him. His lids fluttered shut again when she picked up his hand and laid it in her lap, flipping it to run her fingers over his wrist and palm.

"That would be a crime," he remarked. "You'd be wasted with the bureaucrats. You're too good for them. For any of them." And for me.

"I'm going to write that down," she said between throaty breaths of laughter. "It might just be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Thank you."

"You're thanking me for acknowledging your true worth? Hm. Stranger things have happened, I suppose."

"They have indeed. Us, for example." Her hand paused in its strokes on his skin as she no doubt gestured between them. He let out the breath he hated himself for holding when she returned to his palm. "This is strange, don't you think?"

"Obviously," he drawled, chuckling under his breath when she giggled.

"But we're good together, you and I," she continued, making him freeze. "I've seen some of the other girls – no better than a lapdog to some pureblood bastard. I mean, there are some men who are doing what you've done for me, but I've been doing some listening, and-"

"Listening?" he commented, unable to help himself. "My, my, has Madam Snape been eavesdropping?"

A haughty sniff filled the air. "If you must call it that. Then yes, yes I have. Trust you to make it so I don't end up giving you another compliment. I know that's what you're doing, you know. Making me keep my distance."

His eyes flew open and they stared at each other for a long moment. The office suddenly seemed too small, the ceiling too low, the walls closing in much too fast as she threaded her fingers through his, until she was holding his hand. He looked down at their hands, noticing that his own fingers had clamped down on hers with a fierce grip – how had that happened?

He didn't exactly know who had bent down and who had pushed their body up, but when the fire in the office flared a bright green to signal an incoming Floo call, Hermione's startled eyes were much closer than they had been before. Nodding his head awkwardly in a gruff farewell, he stood abruptly and jerked his free hand to the door to her tower. She took the hint, and her fingers slid out from his hold before she hurried away.

He flexed his fingers, feeling her absence keenly.

…

The wards that protected Hogwarts were strong, filled with ancient magic that thrummed to the touch. To a less exacting wizard, the change that night would have gone unnoticed but as it were, Severus tensed the moment he felt a strange sinking, almost groaning sense in the stone that surrounded him. Like a ship slowly beginning its descent to icy cold waters underneath, it was a slipping feeling – the signal that black hearts were slithering their way into the castle.

"Death Eaters! Death Eaters in the castle, Severus!"

Flitwick burst into the room and it took Severus a mere moment to stand and hurl the stunning spell through the air. There was no time for the older wizard to even register the movement – he thanked the gods for small graces; at least he didn't have to look down to see a frozen expression of shock and disgust.

It could have been much worse, for with the door open, he heard the approaching anxious voice of his wife – fuck all Hermione, I told you to stay inside at night! – along with the smooth, dream-like voice of Luna Lovegood. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts so he looked calm and in control, not like the nervous, shit scared wreck that he was, he wiped both hands over his face.

When they fell to his sides, his face was a careful mask of nothingness.

"Severus!" Hermione's voice was shrill, urgent. "Severus, there are Death Ea- Oh!"

The two girls skidded into the room, stopping when they caught sight of Flitwick on the floor. "He fainted," Severus barked. "Stay with him until he wakes."

"Of c-course!" Her agreement came swiftly and she jumped over the body of his colleague to reach him. The disrespectful action might have angered him a long time ago, but it felt like a knife sliding into his chest when she grabbed his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the Lovegood girl turned away to look at the wall behind her.

"Be careful, Severus, please!" Hermione begged, clutching onto his coat. He looked down at her fearful brown eyes and found himself nodding woodenly. "I'll come to you as soon as he's awake. I know I can't do much but – I'll f-fight with you, Severus. Wait for me! Don't do anything – don't–" She cut herself off, then blew out a breath. Before his gaze, she transformed into the lioness that he realised he cared for – very, very much. Too late now.

"You'll be safe," she said firmly, pulling with a strength he hadn't known she had until their faces were inches apart. "You will be safe."

Oh, gods.

That he should come to care for her now, at the end… Before this night is over, she will despise me. I will disgust her.

A lost cause, indeed.

He swallowed thickly and let his eyes roam over her face, drinking her in.

He was out of time.

The lie came quickly. "I will be safe," he echoed, a traitorous hand reaching up to cup her cheek as he turned her head down to press his lips to her forehead. It was easier to do it when he didn't have to look at her face. Turning her words around, he muttered, "Be safe, wife." One more firm press of his mouth to the top of her head was farewell enough – I will never see her again - and he turned and strode out of the room, ignoring her shocked cries of indignation when a wave of his wand slammed the door and locked her in.

…

2001

A storm was brewing outside of the thin old walls of the cottage. It was to be the first night he had ever spent under its roof, and already it was not proving to be particularly pleasant.

His wand had repaired any holes and tears that he could see, and a general spell directed at the entire roof had sealed it off against the water that no doubt would've come in like a flood without the added protection. Hermione had been right; it was an older home, and there were some things that magic could not fix. Thus he lay in the single bed that he'd extended so his feet wouldn't hang off the end, and stared at the ceiling.

Not one to surround himself with unnecessary pomp, the bedroom was almost bare save for a wardrobe he'd brought in from his quarters in the castle. The bed was shoved up against the wall, just under the window. It had become a habit of his to lay his head where he could see the stars – a reminder that he was free, after all of the madness of the war. And so it wasn't so much the location that he found difficult, for a night outside of Hogwarts was always welcome these days, but he just could not sleep.

He'd spoken with his wife while they ate a dinner that was so delicious that it should've been illegal. Molly had worked her magic on their stomachs until Hermione was talking freely, if shyly (for Lavender had already hinted at it being months before his wife regained her sharp, bossy and all around endearing tones). He'd found himself responding to her almost like he had when they were first married, when they'd shared those first tentative nights by the fire with a teapot between them. She told him of her venture into Hogsmeade, how she'd sorted an owl and a little grey cat to join them after the Hogwarts elf that was due tomorrow morning was done with making the house more like a home than a construction site.

It was his first instinct to snort and shake his head in bemusement at the idea of a little tiny kitten roaming around his house, rubbing its cheek on his legs, probably making him trip his way up the stairs. But there was something on her face as he considered the idea, something that looked remarkably like hesitant hope, and he'd ended up nodding and hiding behind a curtain of hair so she wouldn't see his red hot cheeks. Just one day with her alone and already he was turning into a man that fed off of her pleasure, but when she looked at him as if he hung the moon, what was he to do?

It was rather nice, he decided.

As the rain began to fall heavier on the old, worn cottage, Severus pictured her face when he stood and bid her goodnight. Less used to hiding her emotions after the years of flashing between them with the speed of a wild fire, Hermione had looked at him with a wistful expression when he'd dithered for a bit in an attempt to work out whether he should kiss her cheek. He didn't, and instead painted himself the fool by offering her an idiotic half wave before leaving the room quickly, mortified.

He had so many questions! And not just for her – oh no, Hermione was not the only one who held the answers he sought. Half of his confusion was directed at himself. Why was he reacting to her like this? Like she was the flint and he the steel? After being so careful during her hospitalisation, sitting with her now made his attraction to her permeate the air around them. It surrounded him, threatened to engulf him and control him. And unlike his other hated Masters, he did not even attempt to fight it. It was so easy to slip into the haze of watching her mouth as he waited for her delectable pink tongue to swipe over her lips to moisten them, the way she always did after she made a particularly long winded point. And her hands! They waved around in the air, the fingers pointing in all different directions as she described everything from the weather on her walk into the village to the way the little kitten sniffed at her fingers before butting its head on her bended knee.

He didn't want to feel this way, but he reveled in it. Desiring her was such a change from tip-toeing around her that he clutched onto it, savoured it.

But what would it give him?

Nothing, he supposed. She'd mentioned while biting a nail – a new habit – that she wanted to throw herself into something. Not her NEWTs, not yet, as somehow she still kept the irrational fear that she wasn't ready for them. He knew that she could pass them even now, but refrained from saying so; this was about Hermione, about building her back up again. If she wanted to start reading again and ignore the world for a little while, then so be it.

He already had an idea on how he might entertain her intellectually. It'd just take one conversation with Neville, and they'd finally have a research assistant. Who better to assist with curing the Longbottoms than the woman who had suffered alongside them? It was a harder job than any other he had done – Frank and Alice had lived so long under their clouds, that bringing them out was like pulling teeth with tentacles that dug into gums of stone.

Still, it was an idea. Patience might see it bear fruit, and he could give her this, at least.

And if she is working with you, then she might not want to leave you…

There was that, too.

The storm whipped around the house, and he was glad for once of his habit of not falling asleep until late. He enjoyed storms – enjoyed their tumultuousness, found comfort in the roaring background noise of rain and the ends of tree branches sliding along the window panes.

Though suddenly, he was all too aware of remembering that his wife did not.

Hermione's scream cut through the night, jolting him out of his pensive mood. He was out of bed before he even registered the movement, cursing his lack of clothing then tugging on the pants he'd discarded at the foot of the bed frame hours before.

Wrenching open the door, Severus stumbled down the short hallway, past their shared bathroom and to her door. Intending to raise his fist and knock, he disregarded the idea when he heard her whimpers and opened the door slowly so as not to frighten her.

"Hermione?" he called as he entered, taking in the wide bed in the middle of the room, the lilac rug on the floor that was in shadows, and the white dresser and desk in the corner. She was a dark figure huddled in the middle of the bed, rocking with arms around her knees.

"Hermione," he said softly again, unsure of himself but advancing to her all the same. "Hermione…"

She looked up and gave a soft little gasp of surprise, and then her lower lip trembled.

He was so very lost.

Crossing the rest of the distance in two strides, he sat beside her on the bed and pulled his weeping wife into his arms. "It's all right," he said, his voice close to a croon as he rocked her, feeling the salty tears on the bare skin of his chest. "It's all right. I'm here-" Will she find comfort in that? –"I'm here. Don't cry, wife. Don't cry."

At the use of her title that he'd used innocently in the beginning, but then came to use as an endearment that tugged on his heart, she twisted until she was astride his lap, her arms thrown around him and her face finding a place in the crook of his neck. Still she shook, whimpering and saying nonsensical things that he couldn't understand.

He held her for many minutes that he didn't bother to count, rocking and whispering things that he hoped would soothe. This was easy, this comforting – but it felt different now. Now she would not throw a book at him and force him out of the door – he hoped, at least – and now, she would remember.

He didn't care.

"Don't cry, sweetheart."

When the tears eventually stilled, she stayed curled up in his arms, and it was only then that he was completely aware of holding her in his lap, her buttocks just inches away from his crotch, her hands moving on the skin of his back. She was dragging her fingernails softly, creeping them up and down his spine. He drew in a ragged breath and focused her quiet sniffs.

"All right?"

"Yes," she mumbled. He almost missed the whisper that followed. "I'm sorry."

"Why? Don't be sorry, wife," he said immediately, finally allowing his hands to hold her firmly to him, one on her hair and one on her lower back. "Don't be sorry. Please."

"I woke you."

He could hear the smile in his voice when he replied, "I was awake." But it left when he continued with, "Did you have a dream?"

It was hard to concentrate on anything at all when he looked down to see the creamy expanse of flesh exposed by her white cotton night gown. Severus purposefully slowed his breaths, tearing his gaze away from her thighs.

"I couldn't remember," she said simply. "There was nothing at all. Not even you."

The horror of it shocked him into silence. It was hard for him to even imagine the years of being trapped within her mind.

He could remember the first time he'd visited Frank and Alice with Poppy on a grey afternoon, many years ago. Seeing their blank, sometimes happy faces was unsettling – he could remember them a few years above him, moving through the school with a natural affinity for each other, something he'd only seen again with Molly and Arthur. Now they were mere shapes that hovered around the room, though he could recall Alice giving him the tag from a bag of tea.

Hermione had spent less time under the nerve destroying curse, and therefore her moments of comprehension were far greater than any true smile that might've come from Frank's face, only to be gone in the blink of an eye. Still… Severus had spent many nights wondering whether it would be more terrifying to be able to understand for minutes at a time, day after day, what was happening – a constant blackness would surely have been more friendlier on her soul? But that came from the thoughts of a ruthless man, and he still retained many aspects of that man that he had been, the one that had lived through two wars.

She sighed and rested her chin on his shoulder, the innocent move making her hips shift and with sudden clarity, he knew what it was to feel the heat between his wife's thighs for the first time, even covered with the thin cotton barrier that formed her underwear. He was enjoying the embrace – oh, he was – but everything was still so new, so unexplained.

With regret, he eased her body off of his lap until he was seated with his back against the white headboard. He held out an encouraging arm, and she gave him that smile again, that wistful, almost sad smile, before placing her head on his chest.

As time ticked on, he thought she'd fallen asleep but a little chuckle came out of her mouth. "I always thought you slept in nightshirts."

He snorted and raised his eyebrows into the darkness. Just as he was about to make some remark about her assuming he was fifty years older than he actually was, something else entirely slipped out. "You thought about my sleeping attire?"

It was her turn to flush – he could feel her blush from the cheek that was on his chest. The warmth it created within him was indescribable.

"Shall we sleep?" she mumbled much later, still lying half over him. He made to leave the bed but she pulled him back down, settling back on his skin with an arm thrown over his waist. There was no room to decline the unspoken offer. Did he even want to?

"Goodnight, Severus." Her breath tickled the black hairs on his chest, and he suppressed a shiver of pleasure. The short, curly strands of her hair spread around her head, covering his upper body in chestnut silk.

No, he did not want to decline.

Not at all.

"Goodnight, Hermione."