Setting down the loaded and rattling tea tray with a loud thump, the young apothecary fell into the armchair across from her master as he idly turned the page of his book. Seemingly ignoring her abrupt appearance before him, he sat back in his chair and raised a brow. The woman held her head in her hands, supporting the weight on her knees as she tried to control her breathing.
In and out. Breathe.
"Do be more careful with the table, Miss Granger. It is hand-carved cherry wood." he drawled, his tone unbothered despite the scolding.
Her head shot up and she stared at him with wide eyes, her face tear-streaked and blotchy as she struggled for breath. "When were you going to tell me you were dying?"
The man in black briefly shifted his eyes toward her and turned his attention back to the large volume in his hands. He exhaled slowly, as though attempting to gather his thoughts as he weighed his words. He knew this day would come, that she would inevitably explode in a fit of anger and accuse him of all sorts of things, calling him every name she could think up. He had managed to keep it from her for so long, too.
After his near-death, he had retired from teaching and taken her on as an apprentice. If she could save him from death with little more than the remnants of potions and salves in her beaded bag, she was more than competent enough to take on the position. Insufferable as she was. They had developed a strange sort of friendship, leaning on one another throughout the very many trials and funerals, award ceremonies and weddings. All alone in the world, he had not minded her company. He figured he would much rather get along with his apprentice than hate her. Besides, it was not as though anyone was lining up at his door to have tea with him.
Yet there she was, bushy-haired and barefoot, curled up in his armchair with a book every afternoon like clockwork. Even after the end of her apprenticeship, they had kept contact. She had taken up a position in an old apothecary as Potions' Mistress, the youngest in a generation. She had passed all the Ministerial examinations with flying colours, though her mentor could hardly expect anything less from his best pupil. He rarely openly praised her, though the day she had flown into his sitting room with her results in hand, he could not help himself. "You are brilliant, Hermione. Why must your validation come from outside approval?"
She had blushed hard, her face beet red and warm to the touch. The witch had curled in on herself and bit her lip, smiling at him bashfully. "You think I'm brilliant? Truly?"
He had replied simply with a raised brow and a single, elegant nod in her direction. The corner of his lips lifted in what was a nearly indiscernible smile.
It was the day she realised she loved him. Though, what sort of love she felt for him, she was not certain. They were friends, surely, though he had always been her mentor. An older male figure to learn from and look up to, despite his past behaviour and indiscretions. He had been terrible to her in her youth, though now, she could not possibly imagine her life without him. She could not picture a single day without him by her side. She had never told him, though she suspected he knew how dearly she cared for him. She had never dared to tell him in fear of how he might respond. Would he taunt her? Would he make light of her affections? She did not know and feared finding out. And so, she had kept quiet, barring her heart.
Yet still, in his own way, he cared for her too. He let her have unbridled access to his entire library, she was free to read his private notes and studies, to sit in his chair every afternoon and waste away the hours in each other's company, he wrote to her often, visited her in her shop, accepted every invitation to any social gathering and to every supper. His heart thudded painfully at the accusation in her eyes, the grief that lay there. Surely, she must have already known this was coming.
She was so very bright. So quick and clever. Was it hope and blissful ignorance that had kept her in the dark for so long? Had he really blinded her as to the nature of his condition?
No.
She must have known, deep down. She was a Potions' Mistress. The very first poison they covered was that of reptiles. He had told her, from the very beginning, there was no cure.
All she could do was delay death for a while.
And she had. Hermione had successfully added another four years to the dungeon bat's life. An extra four years of companionship and peace. Because of her, he had finally known peace. He would owe her a thousand lifetimes over.
Setting down his tome on the low table, he held open his arms, beckoning her toward him. Standing, she reached out a shaking hand and slid it across his palm. His own calloused one warm beneath her skin, his spindly fingers curling around hers. Leading her forward, he pulled her into his embrace, tucking her into the crook of his elbow as she curled against him. He gazed down at her, his dark eyes shining with an unfamiliar expression crossing his severe features. His finger hovered above her cheek, trailing to her jaw. "How?" He asked simply, his voice soft.
Her lower lip wobbled and she bit it to keep it still. He hated it when she blubbered. "I was making tea, as I do every day. And it dawned on me, your tea canister is nearly empty. You once told me you'd made enough to last a lifetime." Her voice broke and she hid her face in his chest as sobs racked her body. Her entire frame trembled in his arms as he held her close, his grip impossibly tight. As if she might vanish if he let her go. Disappear and leave him all alone.
He nodded, his heart squeezing at her open display of grief. For him. She was weeping for him. No one had cried for him before. Not ever.
Only because of him.
He leaned further into his seat and pushed the hair from her face, cupping her cheek. "My dear girl," he whispered. "You should not shed such tears over your most hated teacher. We knew this day would come. Everyone dies, Hermione. No one can truly live forever."
She shook her head, shutting her eyes tightly. "I didn't want you to live forever," she admitted between gasping breaths. "I just can't stand to think that you're leaving me so soon. I have seen too much death these last years."
He hushed her, his fingers trailing along her hair again and again. Gods, he loved her hair. The insanity of her wild mane. How it seemed to come alive with magic when she was feeling particularly cross. He had never told her.
She gripped the fabric of his coat and tugged herself closer. "Please, Severus, don't leave me," she whimpered. "I love you."
His eyes slid shut at her confession and he took a moment to breathe. A moment to settle his soaring heart. Up until then, he had been quite comfortable with the reality of his passing. That he would not survive the thrice-damned snake that had nearly torn out his throat. That Voldemort would have killed him in the end. But damn it all, she loved him. She loved him and she had finally said it aloud. And he would leave her behind with a broken heart and a head full of dreams. He sighed, his breath shallow and shaking and he opened his eyes. "I have treasured every day of the last four years with you," he told her gently, his fingers nimbly catching her chin and forcing her to meet his eyes. "I owe you 1,703 days. 1,703 days of an unruly apprentice, of squabbling and nitpicking and arguing with said apprentice, of funerals and weddings, of balls and Orders of Merlin, of afternoons spent drinking tea and reading until the early hours, of companionship and friendship, of happiness. I could never properly give you these 1,703 days, sweet girl. So I wish you a fulfilling and exciting life filled with such things as you have offered me."
Her hand flew to her mouth to withhold more sobs as her eyes streamed endlessly. She could not get enough air, she was certain she would lose consciousness if her heart didn't properly shred into a million pieces first. Of all the things racing through her mind, all the words she wanted to bestow upon him, the only ones she managed were a strangled: "You counted?"
He nodded, a chuckle escaping him. "Yes, my darling, I counted."
His darling.
How would she ever live without him?
They sat in silence for what seemed like hours. Simply basking in one another's attentions, feeling whatever emotions they needed to feel. Never once did he release his hold on her, and in response, she gripped him fiercely. As though this might somehow prolong their time together.
Her fingers trailed along the jet-carved buttons of his coat and she tried to memorise his scent, every detail of his face, the sound of his voice, the way he liked his tea.
Snape gazed down at her, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone to rid her face of tears. "Thank you," he said simply. He did not elaborate. He did not need to. There were too many things to be said, and not nearly enough time to say them.
She nodded and sniffled. "I wish we had more time. I'm not quite ready yet to let you go."
"Are we ever truly ready?" He asked in return. "If I could have another century of you, I would take it." He was not sure what had made him speak the words, though as they left him, he knew them to be whole-heartedly true. The realisation of it caught his breath, his heart hammering in his chest.
This elicited another pained gasp from the witch as a fresh round of years left her. Sitting up in his lap, she grabbed his face in both her hands, staring hard into his eyes. Those dark, dark eyes that glistened with unshed tears. Her lips curled downward and quivered. "I hate you for saying such a thing," her tone was cold and unyielding, though her trembling voice betrayed her. "How can you expect me to survive the next one hundred years without you? You will destroy me, Severus. I will become you, you know that, don't you? Your death will ruin me."
His finger trailed along her nose and settled on her lips, mere inches from his own. "You are too full of love and promise to end up quite like me. Your heart will break, it will ache for a while. You will survive my passing, Hermione." He whispered to her. "You must."
His unsaid ' please' nearly broke her again. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that she would recover, that she would continue his legacy in her own way. That she would honour his life and pass on his knowledge and his memory. Though, as her heart split, she could not possibly understand how.
Her gaze fell to his lips and she fought to breathe. "You would never survive a century with me," she retorted. "You would off yourself at least fifty years in."
He took hold of her face and laughed. "Too true," he agreed, pulling her closer. "And what a fifty years it would be. An insufferable fifty years."
The insult-turned-endearment tugged at her heartstrings, the man knew how to play her like a fiddle. He always seemed to know just what to say to get under her skin, and elicit some sort of reaction from her. She took a slow breath. "What a pair we make, hm?" she questioned, her fingers inching toward his nuque as she held him still. "The world's most bitter and brilliant man and his obsessed former student."
He chuckled again and shook his head. "No, Hermione," he corrected. "The world's most bitter man and his hopeful, loving, mind-bogglingly intelligent know-it-all. Love kept me alive all these years. Potions and salves merely assisted in the process."
She shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about, sir, I hated you then. Just as I despise you now," The brightness in her eyes gave away the fact that she did not mean a word of her vitriol. He had never been so openly affectionate, at least not with her. She had never heard him say such lovely things. Oh, how he had a way with words. Of course, the man waited until his final days to tell her he appreciated her at all. She could expect nothing less from him. "It is not like you to be so sappy and grateful. Where is my sour and cutting dungeon dweller?"
He raised a brow, his fingers catching her chin and leading her closer to him. " Your dungeon dweller?"
The young woman blushed hard, colour creeping down her throat and along her chest. Her skin warmed beneath his touch and he smirked. She had not meant to say so aloud. Her feelings were getting the best of her logic and rendering her little more than a pile of sobbing putty in his hands. Willing to be moulded to whatever shape he so desired, though there was nothing he wanted more than to have her exactly as she was. Sensitive and loving and angry and passionate and clever and so very brilliant.
His mouth hovered over hers and he heard her breath hitch. Amber eyes fluttered closed and her fingers curled into his hair as he teased the lightest of kisses from her. Smiling against her lips, he huffed a laugh. " Your dungeon dweller."
The tear that wet her cheek then was not her own. The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow and even harder to breathe. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to see he had closed his own. He could not bear to look at her as he could no longer hold back his sadness. The anguish that ran through him at the thought of leaving her behind stabbed at him, when an hour prior, he had not even considered it. The tiny little witch in his arms had turned him inside out and upside down in the way only she could, as she had been doing for the last four and a half years. Hermione sniffled and kissed away his tears, her lips finding his forehead, his temple, his cheek, his nose, his jaw, the scars on his throat, the corner of his mouth. "I will keep preparing tea just the way you like it, with milk first and no sugar. I will tie back my hair as I brew with your voice reminding me that I'll just about set the shop aflame. I will add three anticlockwise stirs to my draught of living death to achieve the end result more efficiently. I will annotate every book with your corrections. I will think of you often," she murmured between kisses as she peppered his face. "I will miss you terribly, though I will find solace in the knowledge that you have been properly loved at least once in your lifetime."
He opened his eyes and drank in her features. His gaze shifting across every inch of her face. The soft curve of her cheek, the gentle line of her nose, the length of her lashes and the hundreds of freckles that danced across her skin like stars in the milky way. His hands slid down to her waist and he pulled her into his arms, crushing her to his chest. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in her scent, trying to capture her in his memory for as long as she might stay there. Jasmine and musk and old books and ink and her laboratory in the backroom of the shop where sunlight filtered through the stained glass window they had transfigured to protect her ingredients and samples. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she held him tightly, her face pressed to his. She could not possibly get any closer if she tried. He took a settling breath and angled his mouth toward her ear, his breath hot on her skin. "I have always been a little too at ease with the notion of my death. I have committed horrors I never dare repeat," he started, his voice low. "Though, leaving you behind… This is my greatest crime."
She whimpered, her hold on him tightening. "Please, no more. Severus, you're breaking my heart."
He placed a kiss upon her curls and sighed. He said nothing more for several minutes, allowing her to process her emotions. She did not say anything, only shifting every so often to pull him impossibly closer still, her hand lifting to his head. Silky locks of midnight black flowed through her fingers as she ran them through his hair. Her tears had long since dried, her breathing evening out, and she drifted off in his embrace. The scent of sandalwood and spices following her into her dreams.
She had not slept so peacefully since the war.
And she would not sleep so well again for many years to come.
As the sun rose the next morning, filtering through the large bay window, Hermione woke. Her eyes, red and raw from so much crying the night prior, were sensitive. Squinting against the sun, she raised a hand to shelter her eyes, only to find she was still curled up against the Potions' Master. His head was leaned back against the tall back of the chair, his eyes lightly closed. He seemed so at peace with his arms limp around her, though the weight of them comforting. Her heart fell and her stomach lurched as she realised the man was a little too still, the sunlight glinting off his too pale face. Taking his face in both hands, she leaned her ear to his slightly parted lips, though she heard no sound. No breath against her cheek. Dread built up in her chest, panic constricting her throat and halting her lungs.
Think!
She could not think. Her mind ran a mile a minute trying to come up with a solution, a plan, anything. Something to help. Something to save him.
Though, the man's face was cooling between her hands by the second. Each passing moment had his already pale lips turn paler still as the blood had stopped flowing. How long it had been, she did not know. She was only certain of one thing, the heart wrenching scream she heard had been her own as her heart painfully split in two. Sobbing, she took his coat into her hands and shook him, hoping beyond all hope that he was merely in a terribly deep slumber, that she might have dreamt up this nightmarish fate. The tortured mantra pulled from her chest as she cried. " No. Please, no. Not yet. Don't leave me yet." But he did not move. As time went on, Hermione began to lose hope, and began to come to terms with the fact that he was lost to her.
She did not move from his arms, though rather curled back into them. She had fixed his hair and straightened the folds of his coat. She stayed there for what seemed like too long, refusing to leave him alone. Her voice had gone raspy and her eyes burned from so many tears. They had left tracks of salt along her face, dried now from all her crying.
She made no move to answer when there came the knock at the door. She took no notice of the squad of Aurors that had stormed into the house, breaking down the front door. She did not respond to Harry as he swept down on her, asking her to please stand, to come away from his body. It was time to go. They would take care of him. He was not alone anymore. She had done her work, she could walk away. The boy-who-lived had practically peeled her from their former teacher's frame, lifting her into his arms because she had no strength left to move. It was only once they were at the home's threshold that she spoke again. "Harry," she muttered. "Harry, he doesn't like it when people touch his things. You mustn't let them touch his things. He's a very private man, he won't approve of so many people."
Her friend sighed heavily, his cheek resting against her forehead. "Yes, I know, 'Mione. I won't let them touch his things. He told us you might still be here waiting. He wrote to me yesterday. He knew."
Her neck made a funny sound at the speed with which she shot up her head to meet his eyes. "He knew? He knew I'd be there still?"
Harry nodded and the woman hiccoughed, hiding behind her hands. "He knew," he repeated quietly. "He loved you too."
Peeking between her fingers, she frowned. "He told you?"
She could not for the life of her imagine why he would say such a vulnerable thing to Harry Potter of all people. The son of the one woman he had always loved. The child of the man who had bullied him throughout the entirety of his schooling. A boy he had been awful toward for too many years.
Seeing the gears spinning in her mind, Harry shook his head, walking out of the house and toward the apparition point on the corner. "I don't think he meant to. In his note, he referred to you as 'my Hermione'. It was the slightest of things. I might have missed it if it weren't for the rest of the letter's contents. It isn't every day someone writes to me about dying. About having to come collect my dear friend because she might be weeping over the body of the man she was overly keen for."
The apothecary offered him a watery smile, her hands clasped over her heart and she sniffled. "He meant it," she managed between shaking breaths. He had always been so very deliberate in his actions, with his words. The notion that he had told Harry he had loved her tugged at the jagged edges of her heart. He had laid claim to her without ever saying a word. She had poured her heart out to him and all she had received in return was a deathbed confession of wanting one hundred more years with her. Still, she was comforted by the thought that he had said it to someone. His Hermione. His.
And she was. She had been his since she didn't know when. Too long to remember. Too gradually to mark a certain point in time. She simply was. And in a way, he had been hers.