Nine

"Come out of the circle of time,
And into the circle of love."
—Rumi

14th October 2004
Hermione is 33

I'd expected anger and resentment, accusations and bitterness, angst and betrayed snarls from Severus: the stark and violent intensity of the betrayed. The image that had come to mind again and again was of Severus confronting Sirius and Remus once upon a long time ago. Their betrayal had been incontrovertible to his mind, then. Did he feel the same way about me? In the quiet and dark hours I'd waited for him to wake again, my own mood swung back and forth like a lead pendulum—from blind hope to bitter dread to sweet, aching longing. The soft gasp of my name on his lips echoed in my mind over and over, sometimes sounding like forgiveness, sometimes like a final condemnation.

I should have known that life rarely lives up to expectations, that reality usually different than imaginings and dreams. His continued silence is, in a way, far worse than any rage I'd envisioned. It leaves a vacuum in the room that I don't know how to fill. His face is a mask; I can't see behind it.

I open the door with my hip, balancing the tray carefully… the cups tinkle against the saucers softly, and he turns to glance at me. He's sitting in an armchair at the window, and he was staring out at the stormy sky before I'd come in. The autumn wind howls mournfully at the door, scratches at the windows, but I've Charmed the house tightly so that it is kept at bay.

I set the tray on the table and sit in the armchair next to him. "Tea?" I ask quietly, not really expecting an answer. His silence is my punishment, now. It's uncomfortable and expectant, but I bow to it because I deserve it.

He watches me for a long moment—there's a beautiful depth to his gaze like his soul has flickered to life behind the dark pupils—and then one corner of his mouth lifts slightly as if he's trying to remember how to smile.

"The crossword is best with tea, yes," he murmurs; his voice is still somewhat hoarse, but some of the beautiful, rich timbre is returning already. He flicks his long fingers at the Daily Prophet I'd left on the table for him earlier. It's folded open to the crossword puzzle, but he hasn't started to fill it in, yet.

Oh, I realise as my heart swells impossibly large in my chest… he was waiting for me.

And then I am locked in a familiar moment with Severus, one that burns with promise and sends a thrill of expectation tickling through every nerve.

7th October 1993
Hermione was 32

Severus had been in a shockingly bleak and snarling mood for the last few months. To his mind, Sirius Black—murderer, traitor, betrayer of Lily—had escaped from Azkaban and was threatening the sanctity of Severus' promise to protect Harry.

He bolted shots of Firewhisky down with almost taciturn determination, perhaps trying to numb the anxiety and sense of impending horror. We were playing chess today, and he made each move with predatory skill, as if my black chess pieces each bore Sirius' face. I struggled to find a conversational foothold without betraying my insight into his gloom, so we played in tight silence, and I took the crushing defeat with uncustomary grace. I reached across the board and tipped my king over; it fell with a clatter. "Well done," I said in a strained voice.

Oh, how I wanted to tell him that I knew, to let all my secrets and the details of future days tumble from my lips like a gushing waterfall. But I'd already made such a tangle of Time, and although I couldn't imagine that I was going to get out of the corner without tripping over the intricate web of lies I'd woven, I still couldn't bring myself to see the shock of horror in his eyes, to be despised and hated… like Severus hated Sirius.

He stared at the fallen chess piece, the sharp planes of his face tight and drawn. "Do you ever wish that you could live another life?" he asked suddenly, and his dark eyes snapped up to capture mine in an intense gaze.

Yes, yes, yes, I thought behind the strong mental wall that bounded all my secrets. I wished that I'd been born in another time, that I really was a woman named Hope who cultivated rare magical plants, that I could mesh myself into his life completely and open myself up to him like a flower. I wished that he could love me like I loved him. "Yes," I whispered. Although my thoughts were locked away from his uncanny gaze—the seeking, probing gaze of a Legilimens—some of my hope must have leached through to my eyes.

An answering flash of hope warmed his black eyes, and a small frown etched between his eyebrows. "What is it that you want, Hope?" he asked. There was something stretched between us in that moment, the unspoken and tangible bond that threaded through a hundred Thursday afternoons.

A thrill of possibility enveloped me, setting all my nerves vibrating and tingling. I opened my mouth to tell him everything, but my mouth was dry with want, the words wouldn't spill out. The silver Chrono on my wrist felt like ice.

"Nothing," I murmured eventually, and the longing in the air between us recoiled so quickly that I almost gasped at how bereft I felt.

He never asked me again.

"What is it that you want, Hermione?" Severus asks quietly. Tension is tight across his shoulders; it draws his mouth into a thin line.

I feel like I am being drawn into him, like the magnetic draw he's had on my heart for so long is pulling all of my soul towards him in long, glittering ribbons of hope. There are no barriers, now: Time has come full circle, and our lives are flowing in the same direction towards something that I have no power to stop.

He can surely see into my mind, now—see the stark lines of my need drawn clear and bold. My lips tremble, and the words barely squeeze past the aching in my heart and my throat. "You," I say, with tears spilling over as I am laid bare in front of him. "I want you…"

He is all I have ever wanted for so many years now, that I cannot remember ever having wanted anything else. I can't believe he never saw it through all the years, how I loved him beyond the boundaries of Time: My love for Severus has always been as sharply clear and painful to me as slivers of glass.

11th October 2004
Hermione was 33

My body ached with uncomfortable tightness. Stress and lack of sleep made my head throb, and I was so tired of jerking to my feet with each movement he made in his healing sleep. I couldn't sustain the nervous and gut-twisting anxiety for long; the tension stretched and loosened with each dragging minute. Each time I curled up in the armchair and dozed fitfully on a hazy level just below wakefulness, I was afraid that he'd wake up.

I tried to read at first, but the words were just an incomprehensible crawl of black ink across the page. I stared at the far wall, imagining what would happen when Severus woke up—a hundred different ways my life could play out. Eventually, my mind was too tired to sketch out yet another scenario, and I pressed my cheek into my palm and cried silent tears for no good reason at all. I pressed my forehead to my knees and rocked gently, but it was an empty comfort.

"Why?" His voice was a sandpaper rasp in the silence, and my heart lurched with surprise.

A high squeak squeezed through my throat; I was on my feet in a flash, hovering next to the bed. "Severus, you're awake!" Words tumbled from my lips like a river. "Do you want water? Something to eat? What can I get you? God, I'm so glad you're conscious… does it hurt? I did the best I could with what—"

It took him a moment to adjust to my blur of movement, to catch up with my stream of words. "Why?" he repeated more clearly. He was so pale, and his black hair tangled limply across the pillow. Dark circles bruised under his eyes.

My mouth hung open in mid-babble, and I frowned in confusion. His question wasn't angry—there was a world of weariness in the one word, the depth of defeat almost made me sink to my knees under its weight. "Huh?" I managed to breathe.

He coughed dryly and glared at me, obviously not liking that he had to look up at me. "Why did you save me?" he asked. His voice took on a robotic, monosyllabic rasp; it sounded almost metallic. "What do you want from me?" He coughed again, touched a long, spidery hand to his throat.

Automatically, I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and offered it to him. What did he mean? I wanted him to live, of course. But there was deep distrust in his eyes as he eyed the glass of water, hesitating, like he thought it might be poisoned or drugged. I sighed softly and took a small sip of it, then offered it to him again. This time he took the glass, but the line of his jaw tightened; I could see he hated to need what I offered.

I turned and pulled the armchair closer, sat down so that I was at eye-level with him. He put the glass back onto the side-table and pulled himself into a sitting position, grimacing fiercely. I didn't dare offer my help when it seemed to be so unwanted. Sadness spooled through my veins and pierced my heart. I shook my head in answer to his question.

His lips twisted into a familiar sneer. "Secrets and lies, Hope. I should have known you'd have them, too. Dumbledore and Riddle and Lily all had their secrets and lies… they all wanted something from me, in the end. So, spit it out… What do you want from me?"

And then I understood: All his life he'd been used, served one or more people's wishes, bowed under the weight of his promises, ever ignoring his own desires. It made sense that what I'd done would slot neatly into his expectations of people, now.

I pressed my lips together for a moment as tears feel involuntarily. Were they tears for him, or tears for me?

"I just want," I said thickly, my voice wavering, "you to live."

And in the face of his blank and stunned incomprehension, my secrets and lies spilled into the air, and I talked and I talked until my throat was sore and my heart felt like it'd shattered all over again. And all through it, he was silent, gazing past me at the leaden sky with a blank and neutral gaze.

"When you're better, you're free to leave, of course," I finished, although it was the last thing I wanted. "You don't have to stay… I don't want… anything from you at all." I paused for a moment as I stood, and I closed my eyes and fought the new rise of grief. And as I let him free with my words, he was dead quiet and still.

"Everybody makes mistakes," I whispered softly. And then I left him to his silence.

His gaze holds my fragile hope suspended as my heart is laid bare. I can't breathe. He can see all of me, now, and his heart and mind is opaque as the night to me. And still, hope flutters against my chest like a trapped bird longing to fly.

"I want," he says, and it's like he's savouring the taste of the unfamiliar words he's never been free to utter, "you, too."