Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Thank you, DelilahKelley, for all your help!
"Compassion will cure more sins than condemnation."
-Willard Beecher
When Hermione awoke her head ached miserably, but she quickly noticed that she was otherwise comfortable… and warm.
Tentatively, she reached up to touch her forehead. The gash was now covered with a small, gauze bandage. She fingered it thoughtfully, her mind drifting to earlier – the last thing she remembered was feeling dizzy. Had she fainted? She must have – she did not remember having her head bandaged, or lying down…
Suddenly fearful, Hermione sat up quickly and was rewarded with a fierce wave of vertigo. She pressed one hand over her eyes and the other over her racing heart as she waited for it to pass.
As she did, she realized that she was only wearing her tank-top – her outer jacket had been removed. Shit! She didn't remember taking off her clothes either. Frantically, she tried her best to keep the vertigo at bay as she threw back the covers… and let out a sigh of relief. She was still fully clothed, sans jacket, socks, and trainers.
Hanging her head in shame, she ran a hand over her face. Did she really believe Severus capable of taking advantage of her in such a state? Of intentionally harming her? Well, he had been more than willing earlier that night… hadn't he? Hermione gave a resigned sigh, admonishing herself for being so paranoid. If he was going to harm her he would have done so already.
Still, it frustrated her to no end that she could not remember what had transpired between the two of them at the Doll. Apart from the crude comments he had tossed at her – the contents of which had been both shocking and humiliating – she didn't remember much of anything from the time she left the stage. That is until she found herself lying wantonly across the sofa in one of the private rooms, spreading her legs and inviting her former teacher for a bit more than a lap dance.
Pushing the implications of the evening's prior events to the back of her mind – for now – Hermione turned her attention back to the matter at hand, and took a moment to look around the room she currently occupied. Like the main room, it was sparsely furnished: the bed was a double-sized sleigh bed done in a dark cherry-wood finish; the linens were white, and there was a large, red throw draped over the footboard; on her side of the bed was a small nightstand that contained a simple lamp with a black base and a white shade; a large wardrobe occupied the middle of the wall directly in front of her, with the door leading to the hallway on its right and a tall floor mirror situated in the corner to its left; on the wall to her right sat a small cherry-wood writing desk and chair; to her left there was another door in the center of the wall, which she assumed lead to the bathroom.
Absently, she looked down at her watch – it was now well past one in the morning. Damn, she thought. Sliding from the bed, she padded barefoot to the bedroom door. With as much stealth as she could muster, she slowly cracked it open and peered out into the dark hallway. Seeing no one, she slipped out quietly.
The hardwood floors were cool under her bare feet as she crept along, one hand on the wall to guide her way in the darkness. Once at the end of the hall, she peeked cautiously around the corner. Hermione could see that the once cozy fire had burned down considerably. The only sounds were the occasional soft pop and sharp crackle of the small pile of charred logs and red embers that lingered from earlier.
She looked around slowly. Where was Severus? Surely he had not gone out. He couldn't have – the consequences of the life debt should affect him as well. She rubbed absently at her forehead - he shouldn't be able to get more than a block away without her.
Sighing, and knowing she would not be able to sleep again just yet, Hermione padded over to the bookshelves she had spotted earlier. She smiled softly as her eyes roamed over the titles. They glimmered in the low light, each one promising adventure, intrigue, romance, excitement… escape.
Finally, she selected a well-loved, leather-bound copy of Faust and made her way absently around the edge of the sofa, flipping eagerly to the first page. A movement caught her eye, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw someone lying on the couch. "Fuck me!" she nearly screamed, covering her mouth quickly with her hand.
It was Severus. He was stretched out on his stomach, asleep.
She stood rigid, afraid she might have woken him. When he didn't move, Hermione sighed in relief and pressed the book to her thundering heart as she took in the scene before her. Severus' right arm was hanging off the edge of the sofa, long fingers brushing the floor, while the left was hidden beneath him. His dark hair fanned out around him, creating a black halo against the pale fabric of the pillow he lay on.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she realized he was shirtless. The pale line of his back stood out against the dark fabric of the couch like snow against a midnight sky. Hermione could not pull her eyes from him. She stepped closer, unable to stop herself…
… and inhaled sharply.
Although she had played nurse to the man for months, and even though they had once been intimate, Hermione had never really gotten a thorough glimpse of his body. Nothing more substantial than his torso and legs anyway. While he had been unconscious, powerful cleansing charms had taken care of the more difficult – and private – aspects of Severus' hygiene. As soon as he had been able, he had taken control of his personal cleanliness.
She had noted a few marks on the front of his body – nothing significant, mostly small burn marks and a few faint white lines – but still, Hermione was astounded that she had never noticed the full extent of the damage. Severus' back was an intricate web of scars: old, white lines – some clean-edged and almost surgical, some ragged and terrible – crisscrossed his ivory skin. Something tightened in her chest, and she suddenly longed to reach out and brush her fingers across the puckered skin, across the reminders of his cruel and tortured past. She was overcome with a desire to soothe them… to heal them…
… to heal him.
She was startled from her reverie as he moaned and shifted restlessly.
Hermione watched him. He moaned once more… a low, desperate sound.
With sudden clarity, Hermione realized that he was… dreaming.
No, not a dream, she thought, a nightmare.
Concerned, she moved closer and slowly knelt beside him, setting the book carefully on the floor. She could see a thin sheen of sweat covering the pale skin of his back and forehead. The tiny drops of moisture glimmered pale orange in the dying firelight. Her forehead bunched as she watched his inner turmoil play out.
His eyes moved frantically beneath his lids. His hands clenched and unclenched into fists. The muscles in his legs twitched and bunched beneath the dark fabric of his pajama pants. After a few minutes, his breath started coming in gasps, and his moans became more frantic… more fearful.
When the first silent tear rolled from underneath his dark lashes, Hermione could stand it no longer. He would probably be furious that she had witnessed him in such a vulnerable state, but at that moment she did not care. Let him rage at her… let him curse and belittle her – she knew from first hand experience that no one should suffer such things alone.
Reaching out cautiously, she laid the backs of her fingers to his cheek. It was cold and clammy. "Severus," she called softly.
He did not wake.
She called his name again, "Severus…" as she brushed his sweaty hair back from his face.
Still nothing.
"Damn," she swore softly as another tear made its way down his cheek. Did she dare wake him? No… it was probably best not to.
Hermione sighed. If she were honest, her reasons for not waking him were more selfish than altruistic. Who knows what kind of reaction he would have. What if he lashed out at her in his frightened state? He might hurt her, even though he would not mean to. She was no match for him physically and yes, she was a bit afraid. So she let him sleep.
Still, she could not just sit there and let him suffer alone. Had the tables been reversed, what would she have wanted?
The answer came to her in a cold flash of memory: three friends huddled together around a campfire in the Forest of Dean – cold, frightened, and literally at their wits end. She herself had been close to hysteria. She remembered a warm arm around her shoulders… a protective hand at her back… soothing words in her ear. She had calmed almost instantly.
Still on her knees, she hesitantly slid closer to the edge of the couch. If it had worked for her, it would work for him. Wouldn't it?
Slowly, her hand moved to Severus' back, coming to rest tentatively between his shoulder blades. Even in sleep, he tensed beneath her touch. She closed her eyes and froze, silently praying that he would not wake and rage at her. When he finally relaxed, but continued to moan, she started at the nape of his neck and trailed her fingers softly down his spine. He shivered, and goosebumps rose along the path her fingers traversed. When she reached the waistband of his pajama pants, she went back the other way, rubbing slow, soothing lines up and down his back.
Beneath her hand, she could feel the planes and ridges of the scars that lined his flesh. Each one, she knew, was a permanent reminder of everything he had worked and suffered for over a lifetime. He had endured unspeakable horrors so that their world – the one they both left so long ago – would have a chance at freedom. He deserved freedom as well – freedom from the ghosts of a past life, freedom from vengeful demons… just freedom, plain and simple.
So she continued.
After a while, her knees started to ache, so she shifted. She turned around and sat, leaning her right cheek tentatively against his bare shoulder. Her left hand continued its ministrations. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the rhythmic movements of her hand. Where no scars lined his flesh, the pale skin was soft, and she concentrated on the feel of the dips and curves of his muscles, the bony prominence of his vertebrae.
When she felt herself growing drowsy, she quickly opened her eyes. Searching for a moment, she smiled softly as she reached out and pulled the copy of Faust towards her. She shifted again, sitting with her left side against the couch, holding the book in her right hand as her left rubbed absent-minded circles in the small of Severus' back. She flipped to the first page and started to read:
"Uncertain shapes, visitor from the past
At whom I darkly gazed so long ago,
My heart's mad fleeting visions – now at last
Shall I embrace you, must I let you go?
Again you haunt me; come then, hold me fast!
Out of the mist and murk you rise, who so
Besiege me, and with magic breathe restore,
Stirring my soul, lost youth to me once more."
Hermione's breath trembled as the last words left her mouth. Was it Fate that had led her hand to close upon this particular tome? Goethe's words seemed to call to her… the undercurrent of feelings that thrilled through her body as she read the opening stanzas scared the life out of her.
Pushing those feelings aside, she continued on, and her voice lost its tremor as she neared the end:
"… I tremble, and my burning
Tears flow, my stern heart melts to love again.
All that I now possess seems far away
And vanished worlds are real to me today."
Oh, he was real. He was real and warm and alive and breathing beneath the skin of her hand…
… and he deserved peace… even if he was a bastard.
Severus had not moved as he found himself pulled from the claws of his nightly demons. He had waited for the anger to boil over when he realized what was happening. Surprisingly enough, it never surfaced. Instead, it was replaced by a calm acceptance... and a subtle, quiet desperation.
How long had it been since someone had touched him with compassion… without ulterior motive? Years… decades even. The hands upon his skin were warm and soothing. They did not seem to seek anything, except perhaps to ease his suffering. They absently traced the lines of his back, undeterred by the hideous scars he bore. This in itself was enough for Severus to keep his eyes closed, feigning sleep.
On the rare occasion that he had brought a woman to his home – he could count the incidences on one hand – the moment he took off his shirt, the moment they got a good look at his ravaged chest and back, they made some excuse and were gone faster than he could blink.
So it was that Severus fought to keep his breathing slow and even. If Hermione could stomach his scars, then he was not going to protest her ministrations.
He lay there, simply enjoying the feel of her hands upon his back. His breath caught in his throat when he felt her rest her head against his shoulder. The forgotten warmth of desire – true, heartfelt desire, not the primal lust he had grown so accustomed to – flooded through him as he felt her warm breath puff against his skin. He was overcome with the urge to wrap her in his arms and pull her onto the sofa with him. It had to be the compulsion of the life debt. Why else would he suddenly want to bury his face in her hair, run his hands over her body and wrap her legs around his waist as he took her right there on the sofa?
Bloody hell…
He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind, instead concentrating on the way her skin felt against his. She was warm, and he could still smell her perfume from earlier. Suddenly, she moved away. Had she realized he was awake? No… she was reaching for something. Now she was repositioning herself.
Hands again – warm, soft, soothing.
And now she was… reading. From Faust.
If he had not been feigning sleep, Severus would have laughed at the irony – he was no stranger to making deals with devils. Still, her voice was soothing. This too stirred something deep within him. He had been a child the last time someone had read to him. His mother…
No… he would not dwell there tonight. Tonight, he would simply listen… and feel…
As Hermione continued to read, her soft voice seemed to calm the turmoil in Severus' mind. He drifted in and out, struggling to stay awake, but he was too tired to resist for long. When Morpheus beckoned him once again, he went willingly…
… and for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Severus slept…
…and did not dream.
Eventually, Hermione noticed that Severus' breathing had evened out. She watched his face for a moment, noticing how his features had softened. She smiled – he seemed to be resting peacefully.
Carefully setting the book on the table, she reached over him and pulled a soft, cotton throw from the back of the couch. She covered him gently, tucking the edges around him so he would not catch a chill in the cool night air. She swept his lank hair back from his face once more before settling herself on the adjoining section of the sofa.
Something inside her told her that she needed to be near him, just in case the nightmares returned. Elsewhere, something hidden, deep and forgotten, fluttered to life – a subtle whisper that tickled her subconscious, suggesting that perhaps she wanted to be near him. As with everything else that had made her question herself that night, she pushed it aside, telling herself she would explore it later.
For now, she lay down and pulled another blanket from the back of the sofa. Covering herself, she lay watching the slow rise and fall of Severus' back for several long minutes.
Fifteen years was a long time to run from one's past. Again, if Hermione were honest, she had grown weary of running a long time ago. Nothing good had come of it. Her life was shit – relatively speaking, of course.
As her own eyes closed, her earlier concerns of getting to work on time were completely forgotten. Slowly, she drifted into a deep sleep – a sleep which, like Severus', was blessedly devoid of dreams… and nightmares.
If Hermione had not been sleeping so soundly, then perhaps she would have awoken a few hours later – in the wee hours of dawn, just as the sun broke over the horizon – to find Severus' dark eyes watching her, filled with a forgotten fire that had burnt out almost fifteen years ago.
~TBC
A/N: The bold faced quotations are from the Dedication from Faust, by Goethe.
The chapter title is by Robert William Service:
Some praise the Lord for Light,
The living spark;
I thank God for the Night
The healing dark.