Hello!

Part Two is here, and Part Three is underway. Like I said, stories like these tend to get away from me. This was supposed to be a oneshot for my cousin Gwen, and it expanded.

Many thanks to all who reviewed- wow there were a lot of you. I wasn't sure how well this would be received considering it is so different from my usual writing style, but your comments were lovely.

On to the story!


The next few weeks developed a type of routine. Hermione would come over at midmorning, and he would prepare potions ingredients on one cutting board while she made lunch on another. He would snark at her and she would laugh. Hermione wasn't scared of him, far from it. She could give as good as she got, and after one afternoon of endless debate (which involved tea, name calling, and Hermione storming out of the room after he made several comments about grown-up know-it-alls just to come back in and call him a heartless bastard who didn't understand how the underlying principles of thermodynamics affected the potion and then storming back out, just to return, apologize, and sheepishly mention she got a bit involved when it came to academics) she treated him with a level of familiarity that made him frown on the outside and smile on the inside.

They would eat whatever she made, and then she would help him carry all the bowls of various innards and plants into the basement potions lab. Then he would begin brewing, checking on the base of the potion and sinking into the kind of clear haze of focus. His concentration was on the potion alone, and yet his thoughts were free to wander. And wander they did- usually to the woman perched on a stool with her hair wild about her head and a pen either in her hand as she wrote letters or in her hair as she read.

Severus found he enjoyed Hermione's company. She didn't talk too much, but she provided a warm presence that lessened the aching feeling of loneliness Severus hadn't known was his constant companion until it was replaced with a bushy haired girl.

She usually left before dinner, although perhaps once or twice a weeks she stayed to finish her book (filched from his library) while he made dinner with a half smile on his face. On Saturdays they would walk to the library together, in either complete silence or in the midst of a complex argument depending on their mood. He found that she was an excellent debater, although she hated being wrong and would stubbornly cling to her point of view until he gave an irrefutable piece of evidence; then she would heave a great sigh and give him a long suffering look before grumpily conceding to him. He could usually wheedle her back into a good mood with a book from his shelves.

Severus Snape's days revolved around Hermione Granger and his nights were filled with dreams of darkness and spellfire and occasionally a woman with soft pink lips and unruly hair and tired eyes.

The librarians saw them coming in together and whispered in the stacks; Martha smiled and patted Hermione's shoulder.

The potion was a long one to make with many intensive steps- Severus was experimenting with a few things and wanted to make sure it was perfect. In the three weeks he worked on the potion, he was happier than he had been in years.

He had thought that the quiet life suited him. He wasn't quite sure that particular assumption was wrong, but he was sure that the idea that the quiet life was a solitary one wasn't quite true either.


"The potion will be ready tonight," said Severus abruptly. They were seated at his kitchen table, eating the cold sandwiches that Hermione had made. He had learned that letting her anywhere near an oven or stove top was a bad idea- that woman could burn water if she put her mind to it.

She finished chewing, an introspective look on her face. "Oh," she said, swallowing. "That's good."

He might have been wrong, but he thought he detected a slight sorrow in her voice. "You don't sound pleased."

Her eyes immediately widened as she sought to reassure him. "Oh- Severus, I'm very glad it'll be ready, it's just- well-" She stumbled on her words, then huffed. "I'm glad."

He narrowed his eyes. "Oh?"

"'Oh,' yes," Hermione retorted, squirming under his gaze. "It was just- I'd made plans to- well, to celebrate when it was done. I'd thought you'd let me know sooner." There was definitely reproach in her posture.

Severus scowled. "What kind of celebration?" If she was planning on cooking dinner, he needed to know where all the fire extinguishers were.

She flapped a hand, her way of saying 'nothing important.' "You were making something for me, so I'd thought I'd make something for you."

"It had best not be dinner," he said, guessing that while honesty might not be the best policy in this case, it had best be said. The curtains in his kitchen had smelled like smoke for three days. "Almost all my floors are wood."

She glared at him, a tinge of red coming to her cheeks. "That was one time!" Hastily, she stood and collected her plate and his.

"And you set the counters and the curtains on fire," he countered, rising to help her. "And the time before that if I hadn't smelled smoke you might have-"

He couldn't finish his thought as she interrupted again."Hush," she ordered him crossly. "Honestly. Two little flames and it's the end of the world-" She deposited the plates in the sink and turned on the water.

"Two little flames?" asked Severus incredulously, pointing to the scorched curtains. Hush? "It was a fire with smoke and flames and-"

She whirled around and planted her wet hands on her hips. "I warned you before I started cooking that I've never been formally trained, and-"

"'Never been formally trained' is a long way from 'I can set fires by breathing,'" Severus said sarcastically, eye dancing. She was trying to hide smile- he could see it, and the tension at the corners of her mouth let him know she was enjoying this as much as he was.

She continued to wash the dishes, pointing a fork at him. "Watch it, Mister, or you might bruise my tender feelings." He gave in and smirked at her from his position leaning against the table until she turned around.

He snorted. "Tender feelings my arse," he said dismissively. "Your feelings are tougher than elephant hide." Her shoulders trembled, from what Severus was sure was suppressed laughter.

Hermione shook her head, curls flying everywhere. "I'm serious. If you're going to knock my cooking, then you need to take into account that no one ever taught me to cook!"

The thought came to him in an instant- the potion was nearly done, there was no longer an excuse to keep seeing her if he didn't make one. "Then I'll teach you," he blurted out. "I taught you Potions, I can teach you how to cook."

She placed the last plate on the drying rack and turned to face him. "Are you serious?"

"I wouldn't offer-"

"If you had no intentions of following through," Hermione finished. "I know. But you'd really risk your precious curtains to teach me?"

He smirked again, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Oh, no," he said deviously. "Cooking lessons will have to happen in your kitchen. My curtains would never forgive me if I held them here."

She scowled at him and flicked the towel at his waist. He darted out of the way, chuckling. "You'd have to try harder than that."

In a childish response, Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. "Oh, hush you," she said, tone cross but eyes playful. "Go finish that potion. I'll be down as soon as I wipe down the table."

The rest of the potion was done before four; Severus removed from the heat at quarter to and cleared his throat to get Hermione's attention.

She was lost in her book- he watched bemusedly as she finished her paragraph and slid a bookmark into place with graceful fingers. "Is it done?"

"It is," he confirmed. "Are you ready?"

The look she gave the potion, which was a sluggish red color and bubbling noxiously, was apprehensive. "I'm not sure. Explain again what it will do?"

He had already explained this part to her once, and with anyone else (not that there was anyone else he talked to) he would have heaved a sigh.

"You'll take the potion. It works slowly- going through to all your nerves and repairing them. It will also target the pain center of your brain- it's magic, so we're not as exactly sure how it works but it will ease the memory of the Cruciatus and stop most of the symptoms. If you said that you were down to maybe four to six bad seizures a year, I'd say after the potion you'd be at one. Maybe less- one every two years, if you avoid alcohol and other narcotics."

Hermione swallowed hard. "Will it hurt?"

They looked at each other, and Severus knew he couldn't sugarcoat the truth, that normally the thought would never have crossed his mind but it did now because he wanted to spare Hermione pain. "Yes."

"For how long?" There was determination on her face, strength in her eyes.

He drummed his fingers on the table. "For as long as it takes to repair most of the damage. Three hours, perhaps. The longest I've seen was five."

A flick of her wrist brought a silver wristwatch into view. Hermione checked the time and nodded. "Can I take it here? And- well, and stay?" Will you take care of me while I'm in pain? was what she was asking him.

"Yes," was what he told her and what he meant. "Are you in comfortable clothes or do you need time to go home and change?"

She glanced down at herself- just jeans and a sweater for the cold of the basement, nothing fancy. "I'm fine," she said, brushing her curls back with hands that trembled still. "Will it take effect immediately?"

"You'll have about ten minutes," Severus told her. "Let's do this upstairs." He poured the potion into a decanter, touching a hand to the side and judging it cool enough to carry.

Hermione went up the stairs first, and he came behind. He could see the tension in her shoulders, in the way she carried herself. He worried for her.

When they reached the living room she curled up on the sofa and sighed. "Alright," she said. "I'm ready."

Severus handed the potion to her, watching as she drank it down in three gulps. As soon as she took the decanter away from her mouth, she shuddered and made a face. "That tasted awful," she croaked. "Do you have any water?"

He fetched some, and together they sat and waited, talking idly of things of little importance. After about eight minutes the shaking in her hands increased, and Hermione grew paler. At fifteen minutes sweat darkened the hair in a line on her forehead, and she began to tremble in earnest. At twenty, she was biting down on her lower lip, hard enough that Severus wondered if she would break through and bleed. At thirty, they paused their discussion and he found a blanket and gave it to her as she shook and trembled. At forty minutes they stopped talking entirely as the pain grew in Hermione's eyes and she focused on breathing. After an hour she had left him- shaking in jerky movements with her eyes closed and her breathing erratic and harsh.

He made tea and kept vigil over the girl's body as the sun sank lower in the western sky, coloring his living room yellow and scarlet (not quite the color of blood- far too brilliant and beautiful) until it sank beneath the trees of the park and cast long shadows over Hermione's face.

Every time she moaned he frowned, every time she made a gasping bid for air he winced in sympathy. He matched his breathing to hers, just to make sure he knew if she went too long without air.

The next week would be the first of August. Hermione had arrived in January, just over six months ago. He had interacted with her only for the last three weeks. In two months she would be twenty-six. More, she had confided in him, because of the semi-legal use of a Time Turner in her third year.

He had learned in his forty-five years as a wizard that the world didn't work in the ways an idealistic child would have grasped. The pretty girls with hair made of fire and sunlight promised friendship one moment and refused it the next. Handsome lords who dripped wealth and power dangled potions masteries in front of smart young wizards then turned those years of education into leashes and dragged them into worlds of blood and torture and death, not of elegant clothes and elegant wives and elegant manors. A boy who valued pride and honor above all else turned traitor twice, both times for a girl who had spurned him and stamped on his pride and devalued his honor. The leaders of the great revolution, one Light and one Dark were two sides of the same coin and the rim of that coin was a half-blood prince who had never wanted to be caught up in the whole mess in the first place.

But sometimes, only sometimes, a dead man found a scarred girl in a library and let her bring him back to life.

Severus Snape wasn't quite sure when Hermione Granger had wormed her way into his thoughts and into his dreams and into his life. (When he had seen her for the first time in the library, when she had seen him, when he watched her without wanting to, when she had turned to him with terror in her eyes from the sparks in the sky, when he had comforted her and let her warmth bleed into his heart, when she had freely given her pain, when he found that he was happier in her presence than alone, when he learned that her favorite reaction to anything was wrinkling her nose, when she burned his curtains, when he noticed that she never sang outright but always hummed, when his fingers brushed hers and left traces of warmth on his skin, when she teased him, when she laughed, when the most brilliant she had ever smiled was the first time she had heard him laugh, when she lay in pain on his couch and his heart thumped terribly and he felt phantom twinges in his own limbs, when thoughts about her and thoughts about love came right next to each other?)

The lamps were the only light in the room when Hermione's shaking and moans of pain slowed, then stopped. When she finally relaxed onto the couch, limp, drained, he breathed out a long sigh and let his relief overwhelm him for a sweet moment before gaining control of his feelings.

"Is all the pain gone?" he asked, a bit surprised at the hoarseness of his voice.

It was nothing compared to hers, though. "Not yet," she rasped. "But mostly. What time is it?"

"Nearing on eight," he replied. "Do you want anything?"

She started to answer, hesitated, then looked away. Severus sighed. "Say it," he ordered. "Forget politeness for two minutes and ask for what you want. If it is in my power, I will grant it."

"Well don't you sound like you just poured out of a lamp," she said wearily. "I was going to ask if you would mind if I slept on your couch tonight. I'm exhausted." It showed in her face- her hair was still dark close to her head and her skin looked clammy.

He gave her a kind of half smile he found he was using more and more around her. "Of course not."

It was clear she had been expecting a different answer. "What?"

"You'll be sleeping in my bed, not on my couch," he finished, wicked humor in every line of his face.. "Do you think you can walk?"

"Um- no, not yet- Severus! What are you do-" She made a sound between a shriek and laugh as he picked her up, blanket and all.

"It is quite obvious what I'm doing," he said, smirking. "I'm carrying you to my bedroom." The treacherous part of his mind gave him quite a few alternate scenarios where saying that might have been appropriate- he shoved them aside and focused on not pulling his back as he climbed the stairs.

Bushy curls were quite near to his nose and threatened to make him sneeze as Hermione sighed and tucked her head into the hollow formed by his collarbone and his shoulder, settling herself into a better position in his arms. She was a good size for a twenty-five year old woman, but his arms were strong and it wasn't difficult to hold her, just to find his footing on the rickety old stairs.

"You'd best watch out or I'll start thinking you've gone soft," Hermione murmured, in a tone that sounded half asleep.

She couldn't see his face, or his expression. It was a good thing too- he waited to answer as he struggled for words. "Maybe I have," he said finally, in a voice that was just as soft as hers had been.

It didn't matter. The woman in his arms was already sleeping, lulled to slumber by the rocking motion of Severus' movements and the safety she had found in his arms.


The next morning Severus woke to the sound of Hermione trying her best to pad down the stairs in her stocking feet to avoid waking him. It didn't work for many reasons, the foremost of which he had cultivated a habit of being a very light sleeper soon after he became a spy for two sides of a very dangerous war.

Therefore, when Hermione crept into the living room to check on him, she jumped and let out a little squeak when she found two open eyes looking at her quite curiously.

"Good morning," Severus said politely.

"Morning," Hermione answered, a hand still on her chest. "Sorry for waking you."

Severus yawned and untangled himself from the nest of blankets he had set up on the couch. "No you aren't. You probably did that on purpose because you knew that if I was wake I'd probably make pancakes."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I hope not. Waffles are far superior to pancakes." Scrawny arms made v shapes as her hands went to her hips.

He raised one eyebrow delicately. "My dear Miss Granger, somewhere along the line you have been misinformed. Pancakes, not waffles, are the pinnacle of breakfast foods. My personal preference is chocolate chip, but if you prefer I could make blueberry."

Hermione smiled sweetly up at him. "Chocolate chip waffles would be lovely," she said, turning and racing up the stairs. "Thank you, Severus! For the waffles and for letting me use your shower!"

He stared up after her, then turned and shook his head.

When Hermione returned, hair dripping and piled on top of her head, she found Severus swearing in a steady stream under his breath and he Vanished a burned waffle.

"Even I can make waffles," she remarked calmly. "Want some help?"

He turned and glared at her. "No. Considering your history with kitchen appliances, I would turn this bloody waffle maker over to you and you would manage to- are you wearing my clothes?"

Hermione shrugged, walking over and picking the batter up from the counter. She hummed in happiness when she found specks of chocolate in it. "I borrowed them," said the woman, turning large brown eyes on him. "You don't mind, do you, Severus?"

The only response Severus had was to scowl at her. "Impertinent chit."

"Grumpy bastard," she replied with absolutely no venom in her voice. "Here- you need to turn this little dial here to the right setting."

Breakfast was companionable, Severus with his pancakes and Hermione with her waffles. He was glad to see a happy little grin on her face- apparently there were no long lasting effects from the potion, and she was pain free. They were quiet as they ate- Severus was nearing the end of a rather fascinating book by an American author on the effects of substitutions for potions ingredients. An example he found particularly amusing was an account of the effects of a kind of American liquor called "moonshine" replacing other forms in alcohol in potions. Hermione, on the other hand, was reading a book she had found in his library on runic warding. He trusted her enough by now to allow her to eat and read at the same time. Her allergy to maple syrup helped too- no stickiness.

"When does school start for you?" he asked, frowning when he realized he had no idea of how much time he had before her time wouldn't be entirely his.

She hummed and held up a slender finger, her way of telling him to hold on a minute. "The twenty-third of August," she told him, not quite in the kitchen with him. "But I have to be there by the thirteenth. Some silly rule."

Only three more weeks. "When do we start the cooking lessons?"

Hermione shrugged. "We'll need to go grocery shopping. It's only ten- we can probably do a market before lunch. But I need to shop by my house first." She tugged at the shirt she was wearing with a wry smile. "As much as I admire your style, I prefer a bit more color. But I do applaud you on comfort. And I need to feed Crookshanks."

He gestured with one hand. "Then by all means, go home and examine your far superior closet and feed that ginger fur ball. I am going to have another cup of coffee."

She snorted and grabbed her wand. "Meet me at my house when you're down with your coffee." She turned and Disapparated.

Now that she was gone, Severus allowed himself a small smile. I'll need to plan some curriculum for my cooking class, he thought. I think we'll start off with something simple- grilled cheese, perhaps- for lunch, and then a nice roast for dinner.

With unusual haste he finished his coffee (which he had recently started taking with an American dairy creamer that Hermione adored) and hurried off to his bathroom to shower and shave. Chances were, grocery shopping with Hermione Granger would be an experience.


Smoke filled the pretty blue kitchen in Hermione' s house, alerting the fire alarms which began to beep at an ear piercing volume. Crookshanks yowled from the living room in shrill protest.

"We need to get the smoke out!" cried Hermione, clutching her hands nervously. "We need to open the windows!"

As she rushed to the lace-curtained windows, Severus drew his wand and Vanished the smoke. She was in the midst of struggling with weather worn wood when she figured out what he had done. "Smart," she muttered.

"You wish you had thought of it," Severus prompted. He cracked a half smile when she glared.

"Shut up." She looked adorable when she pouted, and his smile widened.

He gestured to the stove top. "It's still burning."

Hermione squeaked and rushed to move the pan. Inside were two crispy black grilled cheese sandwiches. "These are ruined," she said mournfully. "How did this happen?"

"You were distracted," Severus said, waving his wand again to Vanish the sandwiches.

Hermione huffed and flopped into one of her rickety old chairs. "You were the one distracting me."

"Cooking requires focus," Severus countered. "I was testing you." In truth, he had been just as distracted as she was.


By the time September crept around with its slowly cooling days and trees that were turning gold and amber and umber, Hermione could make a descent roast, grilled cheese, baked chicken, an assortment of vegetables, and a few other odds and ends. Crookshanks had appreciated the day devoted to baked cat treats.

School had started in a flurry of lesson plans, pencil shavings, and those shiny posters teachers hung in their rooms. One afternoon before the children arrived Severus spent three hours helping Hermione decorate her classroom, scowling darkly as she briskly ordered him to put things up higher than she could reach.

"You're quite handy to have around, you know," she said, letting a quiet laugh escape. It was true- he was more than a head taller than her- but that wasn't why he smiled when his back was to her.

For her birthday he left a beautifully carved wooden box with a sachet of catnip on her desk. If she asked about it he planned on telling her it was for Crookshanks and he had absolutely no idea it was her birthday but she never asked.

Severus' days, in a strange sort of paradox, both dragged on and sped up once Hermione was back in school. He spent more of the daylight at the library, although it had become custom for him begin to walk home at five o'clock, just about the time Hermione was leaving the school. They met on the main road and walked together. Hermione would talk about her day- some days she would vent about the children and more often the other teachers or administrators, and others she would chatter happily about one child's improvement or a new program she had decided to implement. Severus listened attentively, matching his pace to hers. He found it interesting, the American school system.

Usually, they would separate at Hermione's house, although his was the first one they passed. He would leave her there, and walk back to his house. Around six or seven, they'd meet for dinner.

He could tell from her conversation on the walk home if it had been a particularly hard day. If it had, he would usually walk to her house in the growing dusk, knocking three times until she would open the door with a weary smile and red ink and marker smudged on her hands. He would cook in her kitchen, she would finish grading papers (quite basic things- sometimes if something was in the oven he would grab a stack and do his best to imitate her handwriting) and they would eat and talk.

It had been so easy to fall into a rhythm with her- they circled each other, apart for only hours before coming together again. He hadn't known that he was craving her, that he needed her near him. More than a day away from flyaway curls and snapping brown eyes and her quiet laugh and he was anxious, wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking.

But when they were together they weren't constantly talking or interacting- he was more than happy to be in the kitchen alone while she worked in the living room, or to be in his potions lab while she was reading in his library. Just knowing he wasn't alone in the rickety old house was enough. Just knowing she was near him.

To make extra money Severus, at Hermione's prompting, began to take commissions for advanced potions. He put them under a false name, and refused to make his Potions Mastery common knowledge. There were far too few Potions Masters in the Wizarding World (less than five dozen last time he'd checked) and he didn't want anyone finding him.

From Hermione he had gradually formed a picture of the Magical Britain he had left behind; a place where Kingsley (he'd been alright for an Auror) was the new Minister for Magic, Harry Potter had just moved to a senior position as an Auror, and where Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were living quietly in disgrace.

According to Hermione nearly all of the marked Death Eaters had been rounded up in the first few weeks after the Final Battle; the rest had either died in their hiding places, or like Severus, had been good enough at evading the police that they had yet to be caught. So far the only ones missing were Dolohov. This knowledge had been imparted with a strange tone of voice on Hermione's part. He had racked his memory until he remembered that he had been the one to land her in the Hospital Wing after the foolhardy and disastrous adventure in the Department of Mysteries- that recollection had left him a fit of rage that nearly equaled the one that had accompanied Hermione's arrival.

He was comfortable in his life again- although comfortable wasn't quite the right word. There wasn't something missing, exactly- rather it felt like something could be there that wasn't, something that tantalized the edges of his consciousness and slipped away when he refused to examine it fully. He should be happy enough with his current state of affairs- a friend, a companion, someone who broke his solitude and made him smile. There was no need to look for anything more.

"You haven't been keeping up with your correspondence," Severus remarked dryly, bending to scoop up the scattered pile of parchment envelopes that had been in a teetering pile only moments before Hermione had walked into her own desk.

Hermione scrunched up her nose, her usual response to both reminders of things she didn't want to think about and his teasing. "Hush, you. I'll get to it."

"I'm counting... thirteen unopened letters," he informed her. "If you start worrying them, the Boy Wonder and his ginger will come knocking on your door."

She sighed heavily, pushing back her heavy hair. "That's just it. They want to come and visit, they've been telling me that I've had months to settle in and they're worried... but-" she huffed. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I was thinking that I'd take the Thanksgiving break and pop over to London. I don't particularly care for turkey and pilgrims. And that way you wouldn't be inconvenienced."

It was a good plan, reasonable, well thought out, but he still didn't like it. He refused to admit to himself that it was because the thought of several days without her was only slightly less unsettling than the appearance of Potter in his town.

"Then go," he said snarkily, covering his upset with venom. "One of you three here is bad enough. And leave Crookshanks with me. He hasn't done anything that deserves being dragged over the pond."

If he had thought that counting the days until she was back in school was bad, counting the days until the stupid American food holiday was worse.

September passed far too quickly for his liking, the bite of the days sharpening until the mornings were frigid and Hermione was wearing sweaters that had been knitted by the Weasley matriarch around the drafty houses. Now when they spent evenings together, a fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace and hot cups of tea were common. One evening Hermione showed up with a bag of chestnuts and a proud smile on her face, and they proceeded to roast them, burning their fingers as they peeled the hot nutmeat from its confines and their tongues because they couldn't wait for it to cool.

October was colder, drearier, despite the festive preparation for Halloween. Severus grew bitter, normally, around the holiday. It was only a reminder of how much he had lost- how much guilt he bore, how much he had sacrificed in atonement, how much blood would still be red and slowly cooling on his hands no matter how much he gave up, no matter how much he fought, no matter anything.

He remembered Lily around Halloween, remembered her autumn hair and spring eyes and winter heart. The woman who was dead and gone was so different from the woman who was so alive and present- Hermione was summer. She was in the summer of her life, she was a summer girl with eyes like sunlight through deep whiskey and hair that coiled and curled with pure enjoyment of being. Hermione smiled like summer and breathed like summer and was everything to him that summer was- sunlight and wildflowers and peace.

Their town was decorated in orange and black, with ghouls and goblins and ghosts, with witches and broomsticks and cats. Hermione found it hilarious- Severus was still trying to persuade her that dressing as a witch for Halloween wasn't that funny, but she had yet to be convinced.

"It would be so ironic, Severus," Hermione insisted, her entire face a smile. "Dramatic irony. We know something they don't, so it's funny."

"No, it's not," he protested stiffly. "And it's Halloween. It's not meant to be funny."

Her eyes widened. "Of course-" she stopped herself, embarrassment and guilt changing her features. "I'm sorry," she said in a low voice. "I should have remembered."

There might have been pain in her face too. "No," he said, shaking his head once. "Didn't I tell you before that what Potter saw wasn't the full story?"

It was plain that she wanted to know the whole story. "You did," Hermione hedged. "But-"

"I tried to save Lily Potter not because I loved her, but because I felt guilty," Severus said harshly, bluntly. "I was foolish and idealistic and absolutely bloody terrified of what I was getting myself into. I wanted out, and I wanted Lily to get me that way out. I never wanted anything to play out the way it did."

There was a kind of bitterness around Hermione's face. "The best laid plans of mice and men," she murmured, half under her breath. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth." There was honesty in her voice, in the way she met his eyes as she said it.

To his (ever diminishing) surprise, it was worth the world.


She had been gone for two days, and already he was edgy, pacing his living room or trying to get absorbed into a complicated potion.

He wondered what she was telling Potter, what she was saying about her life, if she was thinking about him at all.

Because he was thinking about her.

He had refused to consider how quickly they had grown accustomed to each other, how quickly he had accepted her into his life and into his home. They moved around each other, with each other, in harmony, each making allowances for the other.

He cooked for her, he walked her home from school, he helped her grade papers and gave her books. She talked to him, she smiled at him, she would sometimes touch his arm or his shoulder. She let him walk her home from school and complemented his dinners. She provided him conversation and company and a warm sort of fuzzy feeling low in his chest. She would tidy constantly, she hummed as she dusted, and she just existed around him. Her cat would fall on his lap and demand to be stroked, and lick his hands sometimes.

Hermione took away his loneliness.

She didn't look at him as if he was a Death Eater, as if he had killed people and tortured others. She gazed at him with steady eyes, with kind eyes. She knew about his past and she accepted him anyway.

Severus Snape was thinking about Hermione Granger and he couldn't stop, he couldn't think about anything except the way her curls outlined her face or the way her fingertips felt on his shoulder or the way her small trembling body had felt in his arms. He thought about her and he couldn't help the tenderness and the worry and the giddy happiness he had never expected to feel with anyone.

He had thought himself incapable of feeling anything but rage and anger and bitter sorrow. He had thought himself used and old, good for naught but to live out the rest of his life an man with his heart cut out by war and the realization that both sides did not have the right (one wanted to take over the world in blood and pain and sorrow for the betterment of all and the other wanted to stop that from happening with the death of an innocent boy with no thought to the prejudice and hatred that existed) and he was going to give his life for one or the other. He had not mattered to Voldemort and he had not mattered to Dumbledore.

But now he mattered to Hermione Granger and it was such a wonderful feeling that he was sure that he would anything within his power to protect it.


The day she returned it was cold and windy. The skeletal fingers of the trees stretched black and slender toward the sky, their leaves piled in brown masses at the bases of the trunks. The bruised circles under Hermione's eyes matched the color of the clouds, and her traveling cloak was clutched tightly around her.

Her hair was pulled back from her face, and the absence of the usual explosion of curls made her look younger and older at the same time. Perhaps younger wasn't quite the right word- she looked vulnerable, with nothing to hide the line of her jaw or the slender line of her neck. Her lips were a chapped and red dash across the paleness of her face, and her eyes were weary.

He wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and his heart beat against hers and his breath warm the top of her head until his vitality and his life was given to her and she emerged bright and happy and colorful. She was wearing grey again, grey and black and what looked like a dark purple. Mourning colors.

The Salem Portkey Center was not busy at that time of evening. Hermione had been the only one on the Portkey, a long length of wood. Severus was the only one waiting.

Their eyes met across the room, and Severus let out a long breath. She was home and all was as it should be. The corners of her eyes wrinkled as she smiled at him, a shade of her fatigue slipping of her bones.

She didn't run toward him and he didn't quite quicken his pace, but they were standing nose to nose before they should have. Hermione gave him a funny kind of knowing glance, one that was half self-assured and half doubting.

Before he could do or say anything, two arms were slipping around his chest and a warm body was pressed against his front. "I missed you," Hermione breathed, but it came out all in a jumble like imissedyou and it was so close to a sob that for a moment Severus thought she was crying.

But then her arms and her delicious warmth were gone and she was picking up her suitcase again. "How did Crookshanks do?" she asked, looking away and smothering a yawn with a hand.

He answered something he wouldn't remember the next day because his mind was too full of Hermione to take in anything else.


Apparently Potter and Weasley had been in good health, and the other Weasley who was now a Potter was pregnant again and happy about it. That was all he gleaned and it was all he cared to. Most of the time she had been talking about her trip he was more focused on the curve of her mouth, the slide of her hips, the graceful way she moved her hands when she talked. Hermione was made up of a thousand curves and arches and angles and he loved (oh yes he admitted to himself now) every one of them.

November ended in a series of icy rains and December arrived with the usual decorations. Hermione conjured herself a charming wreath to hang on her door, and offered to do one for him. He agreed with none of his usual reluctance, and she fashioned a garland with silver berries and small white flowers and evergreen branches that gave off a strong smell.

The children at Hermione's school were putting on a little play; on the last day of school Severus sat in the farthest row and watched stone faced as they trotted around the stage and mispronounced words with more than two syllables. Her class did well, though, and Hermione was beaming by the end of the play.

"They did marvelously," she exclaimed that night, and would clapped her hands together for the fifth time if one hadn't been occupied in petting the purring cat in her lap.

Severus sighed. "They did as well as could be expected for a group of six- and seven-year-olds," he responded.

"Marvelously," she said as if in agreement. "Now if only the Christmas staff party will go well I'll be able to relax over break."

"Hmm?" he asked.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Staff party," she said again. "We're supposed to go, all the elementary, middle, and high school teachers. Bring your significant other, get tossed, and have fun. As what pretty much accounts for a first year teacher, I have to go."

"Dumbledore did those," said Severus, not lifting his eyes from his book. "I hated them."

"They are much more fun if you can get properly pissed," lamented Hermione. "Since I can't, do you want to come with me and make snarky comments?"

Now he looked up. "What makes you think that after seventeen years of that treatment from Albus Dumbledore I would subject myself to it again for your sake?"

He hadn't meant it as a mean comment, but her face changed; the liveliness and contentment that had been present smoothed over into a calm and collected facade. "Nevermind it, then."

He desperately wanted to take it back, to recall or explain his words, declare that if anything he would only subject himself to a staff Christmas party for her sake, but he couldn't. Instead he swallowed and went back to his book. He finished his chapter, then left her house.

The Christmas party was three days later; Hermione had been distinctly colder toward him since the night of the play. It wasn't that she was upset at him and trying to punish him, rather, he saw that she felt that she had gone too far, had been too familiar, and his response was a rebuke. She was trying to give him space that he most decidedly did not want, and he had only one very stupid idea to return things to the way they should have been.

He owned one suit that was in reasonably good condition and fit moderately well; he found it and aired it out and donned it. He tied his hair back and shaved carefully, stowed his wand safely and in easy reach, and left his house with impeccable timing.

Instead of walking right in, he rang the bell and waited on her porch despite the bone chilling cold. The look on her face when she opened the door was worth it, however, and the flood of warmth that leaked from her house warmed him less than her smile.

"Come in," she said, more shyness in her voice than there had been in a long time.

"You look lovely," said Severus, brushing snow from his jacket. "Are you nearly ready?" Lovely didn't quite capture the contrast of emerald and cream and mahogany, of silky dress and creamy skin and shining curls. She looked older too; she hardly ever wore makeup and he quite liked the way her eyes were more defined and her mouth was crimson and her lashes even darker than they normally were.

She stood regarding him for a moment, her head cocked to the side. "Nearly," she said after a pause. "And thank you."

The party was very nearly unbearable. As Hermione had predicted there were plenty of people there, all getting drunk. Many of them were men, and far too many were sending appreciative looks Hermione's way. He stayed by her side all night and glared at the ones he didn't like.

If Hermione noticed, she didn't say anything. But every time his gaze turned too black there would be a soft hand on his arm and the half-curve of a smile on her face.

He heard the whispers as surely as she did- the other teachers wondering about the two Brits in the crowd of Yanks, the old man and the young girl who orbited around each other, talking in quiet accents and silent gestures. Neither of them drank, and while they stayed a polite distance from each other the whispers continued.

"... who knew Miss Prude would have that hiding away at home..."

"... wasn't he the one who always acted so mysterious..."

"...I didn't know she was seeing someone..."

"... that's why she always said no when I asked..."

"... how old do you think he is..."

They ignored the whispers, eventually retreating to a poorly lit table and talking until it was late enough to leave.

Severus was quite sure nothing had ever felt quite as wonderful as her arm tucked into his as he escorted her home.


Like I said, this isn't quite done yet.

Leave me a comment to let me know what you thought, any comments or criticism (although please be nice to my tender authorial feelings). To everyone who came from FTOH, thanks! Y'all are a great group.

To those who are new to my stories, I have another, much longer, SSHG story called For the Only Hope that you can check out.

Thank you for reading!