Story Notes:
Many thanks to my beta, amsev, for all the help she's given with this story.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Please know, first off, that this is a fic that jumps between time and place. The chapters will be named for journeys taking place within the story, and each section will have a date and time stamp to help you keep chronology straight. Also, this is perhaps one of the two most graphic (violence-wise) chapters in the story. It's intended to shock a little. However, there is more to this story than shock tactics, I promise.
11th January, 2000. 9:57 p.m.
She had not known she was going to do it until she had done it. There was an angry jangle from the glasses and assorted mugs that stood on the desk she had just kicked. She glared at them contemptuously, not allowing herself to acknowledge quite how much the sudden thwap of her shoe against the wood had startled her, and turned her back on them, hurrying toward the door. She had already put on her shoes, a scarf, her warm coat. After a half a minute’s silent contemplation, head in her hands, debating the merits of attacking an inanimate piece of furniture, she had done it without her own permission, and now she was free to leave. She had done all she could there for the time being.
She made her way out through the apartment complex, attacking several of the bulky, inertia-ridden fire doors on her way out. Her small, five-foot-four-inch frame would pause for a heartbeat in front of them before throwing itself at their centre, her arms shoving them away from her even after she was through them, swinging them as far as their hinges would go. There was a sort of malicious satisfaction in bending them to her will, particularly after those glasses had so impertinently jangled at her in such a surprising fashion. The thunks of wood slamming against concrete wall were deliberate and satisfying.
Outside, in the sharpest December air that London had to offer, she considered her options. She had to go and walk off this feeling, but where? The Square seemed like the best place. Although it was late and there was a certain fear associated with the area late at night, that was really what she was looking for. She was afraid of the dark. It made her panicky, made her want to run, looking over her shoulder every few seconds, until she reached a safe house. That was why she had to be outside right now. With a certain perverse glee, she resolved to walk until she was more terrified of being outside than she was angry at being inside with… him. The thought, which she had almost left unacknowledged but had forced herself to confess, spurred her on, and she strode off purposefully in her chosen direction.
It was cold, and she stuffed her hands into her pockets and curled her shoulders in toward her chest, stretching the wool of her coat taut across her back. After a few minutes, she reached the Square, and the sight of her destination made her reach for her wand. Perhaps this was a silly idea. Perhaps she should call somebody. Go back home and Floo Harry. Perhaps. Meet up with someone and talk it over. She discarded the idea with a pursing of her lips. There was no one left to call. She wondered about him, and then drove the thought out of her mind. It didn’t really concern her all that much now that she was out here in the cold, but she encouraged the flicker of self-righteous anger and the red glow that tinged the corners of her vision. She walked on. She had to work it <i>all</i> off.
Although she walked along the edge of the Square, she didn’t dare venture across it. There was a growing feeling of danger and insecurity about the place, and she resolved to turn back shortly. After a few minutes more, unable to bear it any more, she swung left and plunged back amongst the darkened buildings. Taking turns at impulsive intervals, she soon found herself terrifyingly disorientated, and the urge to run was growing. A perverse thrill of pleasure ran through her. Mission accomplished. It was almost time to go home. Falling back on her innate sense of direction, she turned right at the next intersection and hoped to see a familiar landmark. With a joyous sense of relief, she recognised the building up ahead, half of its windows boarded up, a ‘For Sale’ sign swaying gently in the chill wind. There was her building, just one more block to go.
In her eagerness to escape the cold, dark night and the irrational terror that gripped her as she wove through the towering hulks of concrete and brick, she had actually almost forgotten him. She had, at least, forgotten that she was mad at him. She wondered, almost idly now, if he was still there. It made no difference, she supposed. She could fix it all tomorrow, after she had slept a little. It was late, after all. She let herself into the building and climbed the stairs lethargically, her legs feeling heavier with each incremental height increase. With a weary sigh, she pushed open the door, which she had foolishly neglected to lock. The body was still there, and she sighed in vague annoyance at the idea of one more thing to add to her to-do list tomorrow. She really should call someone and find out the best way to dispose of him... Ron… it. "Oh, well," she sighed, turning off the light and slipping into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. Tomorrow perhaps. It wouldn’t do to leave it too long, after all.
***
12th January, 2000. 11:39 a.m.
There was someone shaking her. Who the fuck was it? “Hermione, Hermione?”
“Yeah? What?” she slurred, rolling over, squeezing her eyes shut. Why wouldn’t they just go away? No one ever woke her up. This was obviously just some horrible dream.
“Just wake the fuck up!”
<i>Shit. It’s Draco. Shit. I remember what happened last night. Shit.</i> Hermione jumped up with a start as coherent thought returned to her.
“Hey, calm down,” he replied.
“Calm down? You just told me to wake the fuck up!” she snapped, pulling the duvet more closely around her. She was wearing a camisole and a thong. That was inappropriate. At least for Draco to see.
“I was done with coaxing,” he replied silkily. “Here,” he reached behind him and took a bathrobe off the hook on the door, “put this on.” She took it from him and glared, so he turned around as he continued speaking. “You were late. As per usual. I thought I’d come get you. Then I saw what was in your living room. Want to tell me about it?”
“You can turn around now. So it… he’s still there?” Draco spun smoothly to look at his colleague again. He didn't question this remark of hers. For the Hermione Granger he now knew, this wasn't such strange behaviour.
“I called someone," he said calmly. After all, it wasn't like he'd liked Weasley anyway. What did he care what happened to him? He cared about what happened to <i>her</i>, though. "It is in the process of being dealt with. Want to talk about it?”
Hermione shrugged.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Draco blurted out, running a worried hand through his blond hair, showing emotion for the first time. “Have you gone completely insane?”
“I… I just wasn’t thinking.” How dare he shout at her? She was traumatised. Tired, had just been shaken out of bed. He should be offering coffee, not shouting. “I need coffee.”
“Hermione!” he began as she reached for the door. “Don’t go out there,” he finished belatedly as she swung open the door and got her first glimpse of who he’d called in.
“You called in our boss? What are you trying to do, Draco, get me fired?” she yelled at him, slamming the door again as the dark-haired man looked up at hearing his name. Well, his title, at least.
“Snape knows what he’s doing. Who else did you want me to call? Potter? The Aurors? My ex-Death Eater pals? Some geezers from down the pub? The neighbours perhaps?" Draco sighed and eased off his tirade. "At least you didn’t <i>Avada</i> him. That’s something. It’ll be untraceable,” Draco reassured her, managing to smoothly move the topic away from discussing his choices and back to discussing hers. For both of them, Snape was always the only option. “Can we talk about it yet?”
“No!” she snapped back, opening the door again and storming into the living room.
“Good morning, Miss Granger,” Snape greeted in monotone, not looking up this time. “I believe we need to talk.”
“Not you as well!”
“Ever heard the expression ‘don’t shit in your own back yard’?”
“Yes.” She glowered as she poured the tea. She knew where this was going. She didn't <i>need</i> this little chat.
“Well, perhaps you might want to keep it in the back of your mind in future. Now, what happened?” Snape demanded, looking up from the parchment on which he was scrawling a list of ingredients and equipment. He had thoughtfully taken the throw that had been covering the couch and laid it over the body.
<i>Who would have imagined Snape could be thoughtful?</i> Hermione pondered idly as her eyes settled on the lumpy shape on her floor and took a sip of her tea. Finally tearing her eyes away from the... thing, she looked back to Snape and answered his question.
“He came here begging forgiveness, begging me to come to his wedding with Lavender, telling me how wrong they had all been, how sorry they all were, how they realised now, with his impending nuptials, that I was an essential part of their lives that they had missed.” She spoke without any particular inflection, making a passionless report almost verbatim.
“And…” Snape didn’t even lift his head from his parchment this time. He didn't need to see the look he knew was in her eyes.
“And I told him to fuck off,” she sighed wearily as she was forced to continue. “He wouldn’t listen. There was a struggle…”
“And so you strangled him. Of course,” Draco broke in. Neither of them had noticed him enter the room. At least, Hermione hadn’t. Perhaps Snape had and simply hadn’t given any sign. She glared at her unwelcome blond guest. She was still mad at being woken up.
“No, I smothered him," she responded tartly. "Anyway, look, I didn’t mean to do it. It just got out of hand. He made me angry…” Hermione trailed off as she began to think of the implication of her words and deeds. It had been a long time since she’d killed someone. It had been even longer since she’d killed someone with her hands, rather than a quick, clean swish of her wand. In a detached way, she found herself wondering what would happen. She wondered what would happen to Lavender, to Molly, to Ginny, to Harry, but mainly she wondered what would happen to her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you two had to get involved in this.”
Only now did Snape look up. “What else would you have done but called us? You’re indispensable to our work. What would we have done if you’d gone and gotten yourself caught?” His voice was still as snarky as ever, and his eyebrows waggled in a challenge. He clearly didn’t think her capable of dealing with the matter on her own. Angry though that made her, she knew he was probably right. This was probably a sign of something. What, she didn't know, but something. Snape turned away from her now to glare at his other employee. “Here, take this,” he commanded, holding out the list to his oldest friend—all the others were dead, after all —and raising his eyebrows slightly. It was his version of an apology at involving Draco even more heavily than he already was.
“It’ll take me an hour or so,” Draco said nonchalantly, glancing over the list.
“No hurry,” Snape assured him. “In the meantime, Miss Granger and I, here, will attempt to do some packing.” He had turned to her again now as she was idly contemplating a piece of toast, and she raised her eyebrows at him.
“Packing?”
“I’ll be leaving then,” Draco said to no one in particular as he made his way to the door. He opened it cautiously, threw a glance down the corridor, and then slipped out, confident that the coast was clear. He didn't really mind being involved in this mess—after all, he'd made enough messes of his own in the past—but he didn't want any eyewitnesses to it.
“You, Miss Granger, are no longer safe to be left alone. Particularly… here, after all this,” he told her calmly, raising a hand to indicate the ‘here’.
“Severus, I can take care of myself!”
“Clearly,” he retorted, raising one eyebrow and cocking his head towards the corpse on the floor.
“You know what I meant!” she snapped back.
“Yes, Hermione, I did. And I know that you’re wrong.”
“I’m not always wrong,” she replied mutinously, glaring at him.
“You are on this count. You will come and stay with Draco and me. I have no idea why you aren’t already doing so, quite frankly.”
“Because you two are pigs?”
“I assure you, the house is quite clean,” he replied drolly, ignoring the fact that she sometimes seemed to hate the two of them. In the sort of way that she hated everyone. That was the real reason she lived alone. Still, it wasn't safe to let that continue, and he cursed himself for having let things get this far. It was his responsibility really...
“I’ll go and get dressed, then,” she sighed, shrugging. It wasn’t a battle she felt she could win. Hell, she didn’t even care. What did it matter where she lived? And maybe, just maybe, Severus was right. She wasn’t safe anymore. Wasn’t well. Wasn’t able to be alone. But to need them. To need <i>Malfoy</i> and <i>Snape</i>. Particularly Snape. Well, that just wasn’t quite right.
***
12th January, 2000. 1:15 p.m.
She was an enigma, Hermione Granger. After the initial shock and recoiling disgust that he experienced after seeing Ron Weasley laid out on her carpet, stone-dead with bulging eyes and icy skin, Draco had realised that he wasn’t quite surprised. He was now sitting around, waiting for the apothecary to finish collecting the long list of ingredients Snape had demanded, and he could afford to ponder on the topic a little.
She had been captured three weeks after their sixth year had ended. Snatched from outside of Grimmauld Place, no less, and without a trace. Panic had ensued, but she had returned two days later and reassured everyone that she had merely gone to see a sick aunt. They had fallen for it. Gryffindor loyalty and the willingness to see good in others had blinded them. The Imperius on her was strong. That night, she killed a Weasley, outside on the doorstep, pretending to want to have a private word with Charlie before he left. She returned inside with a horrified scream and a cover story about a Death Eater standing out on the street, hearing voices and casting an Avada Kedavra in the hope of hitting someone. There had, indeed, been a Death Eater standing around outside that night, but only as cover. She was coddled and comforted at having had to witness such a horrific sight. She killed Kingsley with a kitchen knife three weeks later whilst out on a routine search of a potential Death Eater location.
It was the Final Battle that outed her, though. Seen aiming her wand at Potter, she had been tackled by Tonks and had wrathfully aimed her Killing Curse at her instead, in full view of Remus Lupin, who had turned to follow the actions of his lover and caught her in his arms just before she fell to the floor.
Hermione Granger had spent six months in Azkaban, along with Severus, Draco, and the rest of the Death Eaters, awaiting trial. None of the Order had come to their rescue, although the three of them had been working on the side of the Light, or had at least meant to. Azkaban had not been kind to any of them, but Hermione was the least equipped to cope with it. Haunted by her own actions anyway, Azkaban slowly broke her down, stripping away some of her emotions whilst strengthening others. Her guilt turned to solid, writhing anger at the surviving Order members. Her sadness turned icy cold, making her almost blind to suffering. Azkaban and her memories made her indifferent to death. Draco was surprised she hadn’t killed herself. Severus had once assured him that it wasn’t because she was afraid to die, but merely because she didn’t see the point. It wasn’t rational. Without the emotions of pain, sadness and longing, death didn’t feel like an alternative to waiting for her day in court.
Severus and Draco, whilst tormented by their time in Azkaban, were mentally equipped: prepared for what they would have to undergo, resigned to their fate, unsurprised that they were being left to rot. They had always known that surviving the War would mean Azkaban for them, at least temporarily. Once there, however, they had plotted out their lives after release with idle fancy, like one imagines what one would do if one won the lottery. They agreed that becoming potions manufacturers was their most lucrative and potentially viable option. They would research, brew, bottle and distribute to Healers the world over. It was something they could do anonymously from anywhere in the world. It was a joy too painful to think of, sometimes, Draco remembered.
They were all acquitted. Harry and Ron, who had sat tensely through the three trials – Draco’s, Severus’s, then finally Hermione’s – had attempted to apologise to her after her release. She had heard them out and then merely turned away, joining Severus and Draco – her two lone companions in Azkaban, who had protected her and attempted to comfort her when they could – and the three of them, carrying only their wands and a few meagre possessions, had stepped out into the Wizarding world again. What better addition to a potions company than Hermione Granger? She was perhaps not the Hermione Granger they had always known, but she was still a brilliant witch. So, she had joined them and had stayed with them ever since. Three long years, give or take. And now it had come to this. The cold, dead eyes of a killer. He had heard that expression some place. Hermione Granger was not the first person he would have applied it to, but now it seemed to fit, and he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. She had just been waiting to snap. They had thought she would return to normal, become that enthusiastic teenager they had known and loathed again. She had seemed so indomitable. She hadn’t done any of those things. She had gotten colder, developed an even nastier temper, and absorbed the worst traits from himself and Snape. And now it had come to this.
Draco wondered what they were going to do. How they were going to help her with <i>this</i>. Was this not just the final nail in the coffin, declaring that Hermione Granger’s soul was officially dead? Strange that Draco had never imagined that might be something he would mourn for. Rolling his eyes, he realised that he would be proved wrong. His thoughts had gone down this sort of path a few times before. Somehow, she always bounced back, seemed to improve, get better, become more rational, more like herself—The apothecary was calling him. Had it been half an hour already?
***
12th January, 2000. 1:50 p.m.
“I’ll just take these upstairs to the spare room,” Snape offered as he followed Hermione into the house on Prince Street. It was a fairly spacious house: three floors, a basement, everything he and Draco could ever need. They had gotten it after they had left Azkaban and realised that Spinner's End would never be a place they could live without constant reminders of Snape's Unbreakable Vow and the crimes they had both committed.
“Thank you, Severus,” she replied dully, making her way into the kitchen as he clattered up the stairs with her bags. She really did like this house. It was old, and still, and comfortable. She didn’t know why she didn’t spend more time here instead of at her tiny little flat.
A pop from the empty corner of the room startled her, but she gave no sign. That was something she had learned in Azkaban. “Tea, Draco?”
“You two couldn’t have waited another ten minutes for me to get back? I only warranted a note?” he grumbled, and she heard the solid thud of his packages being laid on the counter as she moved towards the kettle.
“Excellent idea. Some tea would do us all some good, I think,” Severus commented as he entered the room. “Draco, did you get everything?”
“Of course,” his apprentice grumbled back. He was still in a bad mood apparently.
“Good. Take everything downstairs, would you? I’ll get to work shortly.” Severus’ voice was low, and Hermione, still with her back to them both as she leant over the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, heard Draco shuffle to the door without a word. The door closed behind him, and she finally spun to face her employer.
“I don’t need your help, you know,” she spat out angrily. Severus always made her angry these days, meddling with her life, always offering this potion or that potion to help with her headaches or brighten her day, always there for her when things got so low and then reminding her of her pain by his very presence in the morning...
“Of course not,” he replied smoothly as he moved towards her. He stopped in front of her and gripped one of her shoulders with his hand as he peered down at her. There was a height difference of perhaps six or seven inches between them, and she had to tilt her head to glare at him fully. “But as your employer, and your... <i>friend</i>, I take a keen interest in your wellbeing. I think that, in this case, I can be of service. Now, Draco and I will be busy for the rest of the day. You may have the run of the house. There are some books on the table in the library that I have earmarked as potentially useful for our revisions of the Deep Pression potion.”
Involuntarily, Hermione felt a shudder run through her. Severus was forever trying to persuade her to take the anti-depressant potion, and she always put him off by citing its after-effects and unreliability. Now, he was apparently insistent on closing off her avenues of escape by having her fix it.
Severus felt the shake run through her body at the mention of the potion, and he knew what she was thinking. Could he help it if he couldn’t give up on her? Sometimes there were faint glimmers of the personality he had known when she was young, sometimes she would be boisterous and gay and funny, and he wanted to see that back, even if it had grated on him in the past. Circumstances were different now. He was no longer constrained to a dangerous life as double agent. He was doing something he loved, was respected by his peers and colleagues, did not feel so bitter about what he had lost or missed out on. Naïve, genuine enthusiasm would no longer annoy him quite as much as it had before. It would certainly pain him less than watching the brightest student he had ever taught disintegrate before his very eyes. He felt her soft, vulnerable warmth only inches away from him, and for a second had a familiar and yet terrifying urge to gather her to him, and hold her, and tell her all of this, as if it could better persuade her to fight her sickness and return to herself.
“Very well,” Hermione remarked dully, breaking his reverie. “I would prefer to help you and Draco, but if you think that my time would be best spent elsewhere…”
“This time, Hermione, I cannot justify letting you be any more involved than you already are.” He savoured the sound and feel of her name on his lips and tongue. He rarely used it. More often than not, if he found himself forced to refer to her by a name, he referred to her as Miss Granger. Her name was kept for more important moments. Such as now.
“Let us be frank, Severus. I killed him. You don’t want me involved in the disposal of the corpse for fear I might become overly emotional and do something to jeopardise the secrecy of the operation. You don’t want to find yourself back in Azkaban.”
Severus nodded, and then amended her final sentence: “I don’t want any of us to find ourselves back in Azkaban. None of us deserved to be there the first time, and we certainly would not deserve a second detainment.”
“I do, don’t I? I killed Ron Weasley, War Hero, Order of Merlin, blah, blah, blah.”
“Hermione, we will discuss that later tonight. Right now, I suggest you make your way to the library and begin our project. I will handle the tea,” he added, nodding in the direction of the kettle, which was now beginning to bubble and hiss.
“As you wish,” she replied with a curl of her lip. Shrugging off the hand that still lay on her shoulder, she made her way towards the door. Stopping halfway across the kitchen, she turned back to him, and he raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Severus,” she began tentatively, sudden, surprising, devastating emotion clogging up her throat. “Thank you,” she managed to blurt out. Then she was gone.
***
12th January, 2000. 2:10 p.m.
“Here. Tea.” Severus laid a steaming mug down on the wooden worktable next to Draco and took a sip of his own tea.
“How is she?” Draco enquired, turning away from the ingredients he was grinding together.
“How is she ever?” Severus retorted. He didn’t want to discuss Hermione with Draco. Draco often called into question the safety of having her work with them and gave Snape scathing looks when he got too close to her, and Severus frequently refused to discuss the matter with him. Although they were joint partners in the company, Severus still thought of Draco as his apprentice. The boy was a quick learner, but he was still a boy, and he was still learning.
“Snape, I care about her too, you know!” Draco blurted out angrily, unable to stop himself. He hated the way Severus dismissed his concerns.
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, I am aware of that. But she is, indeed, the same as ever.
“Don’t you think that maybe she needs to see someone, now?” Draco suggested casually, leaning back over his work.
“I think I would rather watch her for a day or two first before committing to such a suggestion. I think that this may prove a turning point for us. For her. When we are done with our task, I will talk to her about what happened. Maybe this will open a floodgate.”
“Snape,” Draco began again, more cautiously this time.
“Yes, Draco?” Severus replied through his sips of tea. Although he wasn’t doing anything with the ingredients himself, he was carefully observing the boy’s hands. He wasn’t grinding the ingredients quite finely enough, but he might yet correct the mistake, and Severus would give him the opportunity to do so before chastising him.
“This isn’t Dark, is it?” the boy asked tentatively.
Severus allowed a deep chuckle to rumble through him at the question. “It’s good to know your stay in Azkaban was enough to leave a lasting impression on you, Draco. No, this is not a Dark potion. It is simply a more potent version of a decaying potion used by pest control specialists to do away with the bodies of dead Dillygales and other rodent-like creatures. It is actually <i>less</i> potent than the potion used to get rid of dragon carcasses, or the remains of their prey. I don’t think we’ll be getting into any trouble for brewing it.”
“Just the use we’re intending to put it to?” Draco suggested.
“Yes, Draco. But remember, there will be no traces. This is an unpleasant job, perhaps, but you and I both know that we would have done worse for the Dark Lord, had he demanded it, if only to save ourselves. Now, we are saving both ourselves and our young Miss Granger. You need only help me with the brewing. I will take care of the administering and cleaning up the rest of Miss Granger’s flat.”
“Severus, you know that I don’t doubt you, and I’m perfectly willing to help—”
“Yes, Draco, I know,” Severus interrupted him. “But I’d rather one of us was on hand to take care of Miss Granger, should she require it. I will only be gone an hour or so this evening. I believe you had something planned for tonight?”
“Yes. I am supposed to be taking Veronique out for dinner at nine.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back long before then,” Severus assured him. “I’m going to go and check that Miss Granger has settled in. Oh, and Draco, do be a good boy and grind those down a little further before you begin step two.”
***
12th January, 2000. 8:37 p.m.
“You’re back,” Draco commented unnecessarily as Severus stumbled into the kitchen. It was cold outside, and his feet were almost completely numb, limiting his mobility somewhat.
“Sorry. It took longer than I thought,” Severus responded as he slid into a stool at the high counter and regarded Draco, who stood in his dress robes, watching his boss with a careful, implacable look on his face.
“Hermione’s upstairs. I took her some tea earlier. She seems to be engrossed in whatever it is you have her doing.
“Research on the Deep Pression potion that I want to modify,” Severus replied shortly. “Speaking of tea,” he added, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
“You can make your own. I have to leave now, or I’ll be late for Veronique. I might not be back tonight. You can Floo me at hers if anything urgent comes up, okay?” Draco added in a concerned voice. Severus knew that “something urgent” translated as “Hermione does something drastic.” He was confident he had everything under control, however.
“Yes, of course. Enjoy your night,” he added rather dully as Draco moved past him and out into the hallway. He didn’t begrudge his friend his social life, but he didn’t quite like having to get up and make his own tea and stoke his own fire after what he’d just done. He wanted to be distracted, not left alone. Of course, he wasn’t alone. Hermione was here, and she provided ample distraction.
He heard the front door close. There, Draco was gone. Perhaps he should go and check on Hermione immediately. She would undoubtedly have a fire going in the library, and that would save him having to make his own. Rising, he considered Apparating up the two flights of stairs that separated the ground floor from the library, but he decided the physical exertion would do him good. Get his heart pumping, begin to thaw out his feet and hands. He’d been standing around in a field for thirty minutes, waiting for the thing to dissolve. With an internal shudder, he reminded himself that he had taught that thing for seven years, fought side-by-side with it, and yet he had also been abandoned to Azkaban by it. Was that enough to condemn Ronald Weasley to the demise that he had suffered? Perhaps he deserved it. Severus certainly didn’t see himself as a moral compass. Who was he to decide what people deserved? He had done what had needed to be done to protect one of his friends. Friend? Acquaintance? Employee? Charge? Something else? There was no noun for what she was to him. He had done what had needed to be done to protect <i>Hermione</i>. That was all he could say for sure. With a heavy heart and slightly heavier feet, he made his way up to the top floor of the house.
“I could hear you stomping up here from a mile off,” Hermione remarked casually as he opened the door. Her voice was light, and she sounded a little more like herself, for which Severus was glad. “Take those shoes off, for Merlin’s sake!”
Severus did not reply, but made his way to the chair in front of the fireplace, which did, indeed, contain a raging fire, and slipped his boots off. Propping his feet up on the chair opposite him and delighting in the warm, glowing flames, he turned his attention to her. She hadn’t looked up from the desk, over which were scattered several open books, some of which he had left there for her, some of which he had not. Good. She was making progress.
“How is it going?”
“Good. Interesting. Distracting. Wasn’t that what you wanted?” She looked up now and met his gaze. He felt a small, cheerful glow rise in his stomach. The glitter in her eye was the same one that he always remembered from their time at Hogwarts: Hermione delighting in knowledge. Still, there was something hard and challenging there. Perhaps it was in the lines around the mouth, or the quirk of her eyebrows. She was the same Hermione, but not the same simultaneously.
“Yes, I suppose. I’m glad you find it interesting. I think it’s a useful piece of work. I’m glad it’s distracted you for a few hours, too. You look better for it.”
Hermione gave him a little smile and rose from her chair. “Shift,” she commanded, waving his feet away from the chair and settling herself into it. “You look a little worse for wear. And that’s my fault. I want you to know that I’m sorry for all of this. I don’t…”
“It’s okay, Hermione. I don’t begrudge you any of the help I give.” There was a long pause, during which neither of them spoke. Hermione played with her nails whilst Severus watched the flames in the fire lick at the blackened bricks that enclosed them.
“He came to tell me that he and Lavender were getting engaged. That he wanted me to be <i>happy</i> for them. That he wanted me to come to the wedding. Of all the things, after all this time, when I always thought…” Hermione’s voice had gotten progressively higher-pitched and more angry, and now she trailed off with a fierce look on her face and a suppressed sob.
“What happened?” Severus asked finally. He knew that was the question she had been waiting for, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. It was fairly obvious, and he didn’t really want to know the details.
“I don’t remember,” she choked out. “It was like Charlie, or Tonks.” There was another sob, and although part of him wanted to stroke her hair and comfort her, another part had leapt in fear.
“The Imperius?” he demanded tensely.
“No, no,” she corrected him hastily. “I just… blacked out. Lost it. He made me so angry, and then, afterwards, when I came back to myself, I was still so angry at him, just lying there, accusing me, causing trouble…”
Severus leaned over the gap between them and rested a hand on her shoulder like he had that afternoon in the kitchen downstairs. A few tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she seemed to have a fairly good grip on herself. “Do you often black out?” he asked in a concerned voice, allowing his hand to curl towards her neck, lightly touching a few of her curls. Would this be another symptom he’d have to treat, like the migraines of old?
“No, no. Just once before, when Harry and Ginny announced their engagement and sent me that owl.” Hermione gave a little giggle at this, and Severus leaned back in his seat with a wry smile.
“Black-out sex, was I?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. That evening had been a mistake, they’d both admitted it. Their worlds had collided in violent fashion that evening, but the morning after had been tense and filled with discomfort. They had followed that same pattern every time since.
“Some men would take that as a compliment,” she replied coyly, wiping the final tears from her face with a business-like motion. They were old tears. She was no longer crying. She was in a different mood now. “Was it horrible?” she asked, suddenly changing tack, a serious look taking over her face.
“What, the sex?” Severus replied, suddenly confused.
“No, tonight!”
“Oh.” What was he supposed to say to that? What did she need to hear? “It was discomfiting. He was not how I remembered him. Hermione, are you sure you want to ask me this question?”
“I think I have a right to know. It should have been me out there tonight, dealing with his body…”
Severus nodded and took a deep breath before beginning his narration, his eyes boring into Hermione’s. “When I arrived, he was just exactly as I’d left him. The look of the dead always surprises me, but… I used to have a great fondness for the Weasleys. It was a little disconcerting to suddenly comprehend what Molly and Arthur had lost and that they didn’t even realise it yet. I Apparated out with the body to a hidden place in Scotland, which I won’t tell you the location of. I applied the decomposing potion and waited. It is not a pretty sight. It took almost thirty minutes before I was sure that we were safe.”
She hadn’t once flinched, but now she seemed to collapse, slumping over and burying her face in her hands.
“Severus,” she whispered hoarsely through her hands. “Make me forget again?” she requested pleadingly, raising her head just enough to lock her gaze onto his.
“Hermione, what you’re asking…” She did not usually ask. She usually... persuaded. This was dangerous territory.
“Please?” her thin, high voice pleaded again.
“Hermione, I think that right now that is the last thing you need,” he told her softly, reaching out and stroking her hair. “Come downstairs with me. I’ll make us something to drink and…”
“No!” Hermione let out, leaping to her feet. “I need to be busy. I’m going to continue with the Deep Pression stuff. I need something to do!” She hurried back to the desk and sat down with her back to him again.
“Very well,” he sighed deeply, rising from his chair. “I will be downstairs in the kitchen if you want me.”
She did not reply as he closed the door behind him and Apparated himself down to the kitchen. Fuck those bloody stairs.