Chapter 6
I watch you disappear into yourself, like every one of my dreams fading at the touch of the morning sun.
I'm helpless, powerless to keep you here with me. Why, oh, why can I never hold on to what I love most?
Her body feels hollow. Rage and hope and fear lie strewn inside her like shrapnel after a battle, powerless and inert.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asks in a flat voice. She can't look at him, not now, when her need for him—liquid in her veins—has spilled out like so much blood, and all he can do is pace like a cat back and forth in front of the window.
She waits for as long as she can stand to before turning away. With each breath, she leaves pieces of herself behind; they fall away bit by bit and turn to dust. The cracks must have been there already, she thinks, for the rest of her to dissolve at the first gust of wind.
The kitchen is only a few steps away, she tells herself. Ron is in there, and he'll Apparate her away. If she can only keep herself from disintegrating first.
"Don't." His voice is raspy, and she stops short, startled.
She hears him moving towards her, his footsteps uncertain squeaks on the floorboards.
"I'm sorry, Hermione," he says, and she's sure she is going to die right there, standing on the threshold between his living room and kitchen.
She can't speak, so she just shakes her head and pushes away from the doorframe in the faint hope that she'll be able to propel herself through. Away from him and any hope she'd ever had that they would share a happily ever after.
"Please." And it is he who sounds desperate, but that can't be right, Hermione thinks. It is she whose life has been stolen. She who has been mistaken all these months, believing him the target. No, whoever took Severus and bound his magic and altered his memory has devastated Hermione as surely as if it had been her mind and magic stolen away.
"I can't—" she whispers. "I would do anything—" She won't cry again; she won't. "—but I can't stand here and say a long goodbye."
And then he's behind her; his hands brushing against her shoulders. Tentative, as if he's unsure he has the right to touch her.
"Please don't leave." His breath is warm on her cheek, his voice soft in her ear. It is how he's always spoken to her when she's hurt or angry after a row. From behind, so that he doesn't have to meet her eyes, he told her once, after he'd apologised and wiped away her angry tears. It's too hard when he's ashamed for having hurt her.
She closes her eyes and leans into him. He wraps his arms around her without a word, just as he has done all those times he can no longer remember. The steady sound of his breathing rocks her until she no longer feels as if she might blow away or blow apart.
He clears his throat, and she nearly smiles at the familiar show of awkwardness.
"I may not remember the man you say I am," he says, "but the sight of you walking away—" He pauses, and it takes her a minute to realise that he's choked up. "Please don't go."
The press of his hand on one shoulder and she turns to face him.
"I haven't given you a single reason not to," he continues. "Before I knew…" He snorts. "Earlier today seems like an age ago. But, until a few hours ago, before you showed up, I was resigned to the life I have. But now you're here, and I know it makes no sense, but I can't stand to see you leave."
He shakes his head as if he thinks what he's said is fanciful, the words of an irrational man. But to her, they are nothing less than a pinprick of light in the heart of darkness.
"Then I won't," she says.
His request and her acceptance spin together like the most delicate of threads, a tenuous anchor in the storm. It hovers between them, firm for all that it's built of nothing less ethereal than hope.
And for the first time in an age, Hermione can remember what it is to feel safe.
"I believe that's my cue to go," says a voice from behind her.
She holds on to Severus more tightly, as if he might disappear again if she lets him out of her sight, and turns around, surprised to have forgotten Ron's presence so quickly.
Ron is sitting on a battered kitchen chair, an empty glass on the table in front of him.
"Right. Of course," she says, wanting him to stay. Wanting him to go.
"I had a bit of time on my hands," Ron says, standing, "so I checked the perimeter. There are no tracking or trapping spells in place. No sign at all of magical monitoring." He looks grimmer than such news would normally warrant.
"They meant him to be found."
He nods. "So it would seem. Or they are arrogant enough to believe we'd never be able to find him in the Muggle world."
They almost didn't, she thinks.
"Do you think he's in any danger?"
"Danger?" Severus interrupts. "Kindly refrain from speaking about me as if I am not present."
Hermione blushes.
"I apologise, Severus. I was saying that I've checked around your place for enchantments that might have been left by the people who kidnapped you but found none," explains Ron.
"So I heard." Dunderhead, the set of his jaw implies.
Ron looks flustered for a moment.
"I don't believe you're in further danger," the younger man continues. "But I plan to reopen the investigation when I return to the Ministry. Now that you're found. And—" He looks uncertain.
"Impaired?" Severus suggests. "Found, but not quite myself. Is that it?"
"Well, yes."
For a long moment, the two men appraise each other.
"Were you my student as well?" He looks dubious.
"I was. Yes, sir." Ron stands straighter.
"I would have been pleased."
Ron blinks, then his face breaks into a wide grin.
"I seriously doubt that, sir. But thank you." He clears his throat. "I'll be in touch." He's speaking to Severus. "And I've set some magical trip wires to alert us if anybody uninvited comes to call."
Severus inclines his head in thanks.
"Ron?" Hermione stops him as he turns to go. "Thank you." Her eyes say more than her words. "I can't tell you how grateful—"
"Quit it, Hermione," he says, but his cheeks are red. She's not sure if he's uncomfortable having overheard her earlier exchange with Severus or ill at ease with her gratitude. Either way, it's his problem, she thinks, and throws her arms around him. He pats her back and gives her a squeeze before letting go.
"You know how to find me," he says.
"Yes." She nods. "Just tell the others that I'm okay, and that Severus—" She pauses, looking at her husband. "Tell them that Severus is safe."
Ron smiles. "That, I will." He nods once to Severus, smiles again in that way he means to be reassuring, turns on his heel, and disappears.
"Now that," Severus says, eyebrows raised. "I reckon I'd give a month's wages to be able to do that." He points at the spot where Ron had just been, visibly impressed.
There is nothing for it.
Like a trickle of water come to replenish the desert, she feels it brush against the brittle edges of her despair.
Joy at the light that has appeared in his eyes. It has been so long since she's seen it there. Since long before he'd gone.
She cannot help herself. Can't stanch it any more than she could stop her heart from beating.
So long as there could still be that light in his eyes, and in hers in turn, she sees herself nowhere else but here.
With him.
I say the magic words and you don't disappear.
It's a revelation, really. That something I wish for might come true.
The house is quiet, eerily so, after the other man leaves.
Now that she's here, staying, he doesn't know what to do next. He hadn't thought beyond lunging after her and begging her not to go.
The rumble of her stomach saves him.
"Would you like to get something to eat?" he asks, wondering where he'll come up with funds for a night out.
She looks flustered. "I'm just as comfortable cooking, if that's okay with you," she says. "Do we need to shop?"
They do, as his kitchen boasts week-old bread, mostly mouldy, and the milk left from their tea.
He doesn't comment when she adds items to the sparsely populated basket at the market down the street, even though his gut clenches as he calculates the cost in his head. She never asks whether he has the quid to cover it, just hands a wad of her own bills to the cashier, as if sharing the grocery bill were perfectly natural.
Perhaps it had been, he thinks as they make their way back. Marriage means comingled lives to many, he's heard, though his parents never seemed to manage it.
The sun has set, and they walk quickly in the chill air. Most of the streetlights are burnt out, save the one abutting the old playground, illuminating it like a shimmering island in a sea of black ink.
"My primary school is just down the road," he says, pointing. "I'd come here after, and in the summers. Better than going home straightaway."
He's not sure why he's telling her this, but she seems interested enough.
"Whom would you play with?" she asks.
He furrows his brow. "I don't remember much play," he says, thinking. "It was just a place to go, I think."
They're stopped at the edge of the park. From here, it's easy to see the broken swings and rusty slides that have clearly been neglected for decades.
"Not much for maintenance, I guess," she says. "It's a shame." She's walking towards the swings, and he can see the stick peeking out from beneath her sleeve. In an instant, two swings are in working order, links repaired, seats sturdy and clean.
She sits on one and pushes off just a bit, making the swing move back and forth only slightly.
"Join me?"
He hesitates.
"I don't swing."
She snorts and pushes her swing higher.
"Why not?"
He watches her move through the air, and feels a swooping sensation in his chest, like a bird flapping its wings, trying to get out.
"I don't need to explain myself to you," he grumbles.
She ignores him and pumps her legs harder, sending herself further into the night sky.
He can't move, only watch her soar, his body angled towards her as if she might sweep him up as she passes by. But she only pumps once more and when she reaches the apex, without warning, leaps from the swing, tumbling through the air with a laugh that pierces the night and sends his heart galloping.
Severus has the oddest feeling for an instant that she's going to fly; that she'll buoy herself on a pocket of air and land softly at his feet. But she's moving far too fast, and her expression has morphed from jubilant to anxious. Disoriented as if she's forgotten how to find the ground.
There's no time to think, and he doesn't know what to do anyway other than to open his arms as if he could catch her. In reality, she'll send them both sprawling, he thinks, his breath a knot in his throat, but at least he might cushion her blow. He can't hear anything over the blood whooshing in his ears, and he reaches out for her with both hands, palms open, willing her to land on him rather than splintered concrete.
He's not prepared for the warmth pouring from the palms of his hands, rolling to the tips of his fingers as if it were a ball of power he could yield at will. Nor had he expected her cry, surprised, as her descent slows, dropping her softly into his embrace.
His heart is hammering, and her breath is still coming in pants, whether from exertion, fear, or surprise, he couldn't say. Tremors roll through her body, and he wonders if she's hurt after all.
"Hermione?" He leans closer to her face, hoping to see.
Laughter.
She's laughing?
"Hermione?"
She is, it would appear, beaming. At him.
Beaming.
As if he is a particularly clever child who—
Oh.
"Did I do that?" He looks between the swing, which has not completely stopped its cyclical motion, and the woman in his arms.
"Well, I certainly didn't," she says, smug.
"Why the hell not?" His chest tightens. Now, after she's safe. Typical. Still, what is she on about? "Testing me?" Now he's shouting, but she's not cowed.
"I didn't do it on purpose, and no, I wasn't testing you," she says. "I let go sooner than I'd planned and got disoriented. I'd have hit the ground hard if you hadn't—"
"If I hadn't what? What, precisely did I do?" He looks at the palm of one hand while the other holds firmly on to her. It still looks ordinary. Long, calloused fingers, strong, square hands meant for a full day's work.
"Wandless magic," she answers. "Instinctive." She pauses a moment. "Most witches and wizards notice it first as the magic we display as young children before we know how to control it."
"Marvellous," he mutters.
"But some adult witches and wizards have the ability to access their magic without using a wand and can learn how to direct it."
She pauses, and he lets the information sink in.
"That was an instinctive use of magic?" His voice sounds to him like it's coming from far off. He's not really standing in the abandoned playground talking with this stranger who isn't a stranger about magic. Is he?
"Your magic, Severus. Yes, I think there can be no doubt it was," she says, beaming again.
"And this makes you happy?" He's feeling around in the dark, looking for landmarks.
"Very happy," she answers. "Your wand—that's what we traditionally use to focus our magic—was found on the grass outside our lab. The Aurors… like Ron, you know, law enforcement for wizards, they think that's where they grabbed you."
He nods, chilled at the thought.
"You've not shown any spontaneous magic that I could identify since I found you, and, well, I was worried."
"I suppose I wouldn't be much of a wizard without magic, then?" The pit in his stomach is back.
"It doesn't matter to me whether you ever use magic again, Severus," she says. She's grown serious all of the sudden, and he understands that this not something to be taken lightly. "It's only that binding a wizard's magic can sometimes have side effects, and I don't want you hurt any more than—" She stops. Her cheeks look red, but it's hard to see in the shadowy light.
"So since I did this—" He waves towards the swings. "—does that mean my magic is… what would you call it? Unbinding?"
"Unbinding will work for our purposes," she agrees. "And honestly," she adds, "I don't have the answers, here, which, when you…" She looks flustered. "Well, I'll tell you why that's ironic another time."
A gust of wind sends pebbles on the blacktop skittering, and Hermione shivers.
"It's getting cold," he says. "Let's continue this over something warm to eat, shall we?"
She nods, and they gather up their shopping bags and head back to the path to his house.
Maybe it's because the moon has risen, or perhaps some of those old streetlights have been fixed after all. But it seems to him the road ahead is just a bit brighter than the one they'd left behind.