Hermione had been in Paris for a month when the depression of being alone, working as a glorified shop keeper in a local apothecary, and licking her wounds had increased her desire to drown her sorrows in Firewhisky. Or vodka. Or maybe both. It had been a night that played out far differently than she could have anticipated.
Deciding to indulge herself, she changed into her trusty Little Black Dress, the one that pretty much guaranteed it wouldn't be her galleons falling into the bartender's hand. She figured the price for drinking away her troubles would be quite high, and she didn't intend to pay for it herself. It was the one situation in which she allowed herself to play "the girl" card.
It was a warm July night without a breeze, and Hermione tugged off her shrug, baring her shoulders and her back in an attempted to cool off. Voting in favor of air conditioning and anonymity, she decided to patron the nearest pub instead of continuing her walk to the wizarding section of the city, figuring if things went her way, she'd be too drunk to Apparate home, so it was better to imbibe somewhere within stumbling distance to her front door.
Entering the next pub she came across, she settled herself at the bar and commenced plan Get Hermione Drunk.
"Drinking alone is never a good sign, Miss Granger."
She had been possibly five, maybe six, shots down when she was certain the alcohol was affecting her mind, or at least her hearing, because she could have sworn the voice that had just whispered in her ear was the same as her dead Potions master's.
"Hit me again, Henrie," Hermione said, ignoring the obvious hallucination behind her.
"Make that two," the voice said as an arm reached passed her to drop some coins on the bar. It was a familiar hand, one she had watched fastidiously chop ingredients and stir cauldrons for five years.
"Join me?" The voice that never before had sounded so full of temptation was now practically dripping it against the bare skin of her neck as black-clad arms reached around both sides of her to pick up the shot glasses.
"Is it really you, Profesor?" she whispered, not daring to believe.
"Turn around and find out."
Slowly, she twisted in her chair until she was face to face with a very-much-alive Severus Snape.
"How? I saw you die. The blood, so much blood." The last word was barely audible as visions of her professor lying prone in a crimson pool chased away the happy fuzziness in which the alcohol had cloaked her brain.
As if sensing her change in mood, he transferred the shot glasses into one hand, along with a bottle of vodka with a nod to Henrie, and gently took one of hers in his other.
"Come, and I will tell you a story."
She followed him and the alcohol to a corner booth, unable to stop staring at her former teacher. He was dressed in a black button-down shirt and matching trousers. She briefly wondered if he had ever dared to don something other than black or his house colors. Concentrate! she chastised herself. The man is back from the dead, and all you can think about is his sense of fashion.
Back from the dead.
She downed the shot before her in a single gulp. Snape graciously refilled it.
"Thanks," she said. "I'm not used to speaking to people I watched die two months ago."
"Obviously I didn't die."
"What happened?" she asked, staring into his never-ending black eyes.
"Dumbledore had his suspicions about Nagani before he died. I was certain to always take an antivenin when Summoned."
"But you died!" she insisted.
"I lost consciousness due to loss of blood," he told her. "I was afraid I might die; I nearly did. The antivenin was draining from me along with the blood. The only thing that truly saved me was that I was able to apply Dittany to the bite just in time to save my life, but my body rendered itself in a state of suspension in order for it to work."
"Dittany," she said in awe. And then she smacked herself on the forehead. "Dittany! Why the hell didn't I think of that? I stood there, watching the life seeping out of you, and I had a bottle of Dittany with me! I didn't do anything!"
"Hermione," he interrupted her self-censure, "you were in the middle of a battle and had just witnessed death first hand. You can't blame yourself for not thinking clearly."
"I could have saved you," she said, looking at him with glassy eyes.
"I didn't need rescuing," he assured her.
"Doesn't everybody?" she asked, taking another swig.
"Is that why you are here?" he asked. "Looking to be rescued?"
"Why are you here?" she countered.
"To see you."
She just stared at him.
"Am I right in assuming that Potter has shown you the memories the two of you collected that night?"
She nodded.
"For nearly twenty years, I was fought over as a valuable pawn in a never-ending war. Never once was I asked how I felt about risking my life on a daily basis. Never once was anyone concerned about what I had sacrificed for the greater good of the wizarding world."
"I was. Am," Hermione assured him.
He studied her, his stare so intent that Hermione had to fight to remain still under it.
"You are in the minority then," he confided. "I am tired of running, tired of hiding. I want to have my name cleared. I want a chance at the life I have been deprived of all these years. And you, Miss Granger, are going to help me."
"Of course," she said. "Whatever you need."
"You will testify to what you have seen in my memories?"
"Yes," she said adamantly. "And you will have Harry on your side as well. He sang your praises to all at the battle before he killed Voldemort. He felt, still does, that you were unfairly manipulated by Dumbledore and should be celebrated as a war hero."
"With the Boy Who Lived on my side, how could it possibly go wrong?" Snape asked snarkily before downing his own shot.
Hermione giggled, then, appalled, covered her mouth.
"Don't," Snape whispered, reaching over to remove her hand. "I like to see you smile."
They were both silent for a second before each swallowed the alcohol before them, confused by Snape's last comment.
Hermione realized her lips were rather numb, and her limbs were feeling tingly, a sure sign that room spinning, complete babbling, and possibly even developing a close, personal relationship with the loo, might not be too far off in the future.
She toyed with the empty glass. Not meeting Snape's gaze, she asked, "Do you want to walk me home?"
She kept her eyes down as she felt him slid out of the booth and stand before her. His hand, palm up, infiltrated her line of sight. Slipping her hand over his, she stood and allowed him to lead her out of the pub.
The door to her flat had barely closed behind them before they were on each other, a tangle of arms and skin and breath and heat. Hands tore at clothing, mouths sucked at skin, tongues ran smooth, wet lines down bodies.
Somehow they had found their way onto her bed. Naked and needy, they took turns mapping each other's bodies by sight, by touch, by taste, until the desire became so great that the only thought either had was NOW.
Finding nirvana together, they fell asleep tangled in sweaty satisfaction.
In the morning, he was gone.
Hermione had not seen him again until she had showed up at his trial to testify, as she had promised. Even then, she was unable to speak directly to him. And now, Severus Snape was stuck in a cell in Azkaban. As was Remus Lupin. Hermione wondered how running away had managed to complicate her life even more and just what she was going to do for the men who, once again, needed to be saved.