FIC: The French Connection, Part II (SS/HG, PG-13)
Title: The French Connection, Part II
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Hermione and Severus have each come to Paris in search of themselves. They find each other instead.
See Part I for Notes and Acknowledgments.
Return to Part I
Hermione is not quite certain what she expected Severus’ lodgings to look like, but had she been pressed to guess, she would have thought of a squalid little studio flat in a less-than-ideal quartier, something with an unmade camp bed in the corner and a single grimy window as a source of light.
She is not prepared for what she finds. She might have deduced it from the address, but still… this certainly does exceed expectations.
The Place des Vosges is one of the loveliest places in Paris, a neat and symmetrical jewel box of a square, lined with stately townhouses composed of rosy sandstone, surrounding lush green lawns, manicured trees and several sparkling fountains. The houses themselves are almost pathologically neat, and the entire area exudes an air of regal elegance and old money.
Numéro 15, Place des Vosges is also home to Patrick Prince-or, as she thinks of him now, Severus. If she didn’t know of his contempt for pranks, she’d think he was having her on.
After taking a moment to admire the organized beauty of the square, Hermione seeks out Number 15. The entryway is deserted, and in order to get to the first floor, she has to climb a vast marble staircase that looks like something out of a film set; her footsteps echo loudly in the silence. Finally, she reaches the hefty, double oak doors and rings, feeling oddly nervous. She glances down at her jeans and pullover and wonders if she’s underdressed for the occasion.
The door swings open to reveal a cavernous entry hall and a little old lady who only comes up to Hermione’s shoulder. Her white hair is piled on top of her head, and she has the perfectly self-possessed manner of the aristocracy. Her clothes are neat and stylish, and she is clearly not intimidated in the least by this stranger at her door. Hermione suspects that there is nothing in the world that could disturb such unruffled calm; in an odd way, it makes her think of Lucius Malfoy.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Hermione says, thankful once again that her parents insisted on her learning French. “My name is Hermione Granger, and I’m looking for Patrick Prince. You must be Madame de La Rochefoucauld; Patrick has told me so much about you.”
This is a lie. In the several weeks that they have been meeting, Snape has told her nothing about Madame de La Rochefoucauld, except for her name and the fact that she exists.
Madame de La Rochefoucauld looks vaguely amused. “I doubt that,” she tells Hermione. “Talking isn’t his strong point, poor boy. He doesn’t talk about much of anything, except for the stupidity of other people-and you, of course.” She peers at Hermione with piercing blue eyes, measuring her worthiness before giving a curt nod of approval. “Please come in, Mademoiselle Granger. You may call me Marie-Céleste,” she adds, with the air of conferring a royal indulgence.
The flat is outrageously huge and shockingly empty. Room after room is devoid of carpet or paintings or even much furniture, the perfect blankness only highlighting the lovely bones of the space: massive windows overlooking the Place des Vosges, sculpted fireplaces, elaborate mouldings and cornices decorating the plaster. The walls are the greyish-yellow colour of benign neglect, badly in need of a new coat of paint. Marie-Céleste’s high heels echo against the parquet floors as she walks past the parlour with its one solitary chair. She carries herself proudly, brimming with a confidence that Hermione can’t help but admire.
“Patrice? Votre petite amie est là!” Marie-Céleste announces.
Hermione blinks at her phrasing. Since when has she become Severus’ girlfriend? Curiously, she finds that she feels no strong objections to the idea.
Severus’ room is much like the others in the flat: enormous and largely unfurnished with a magnificent view of the Place. On the opposite wall is a white marble fireplace with a grand mirror above it, and the perimeter of the room is ringed with stacks of books, sorted in a system comprehensible only to Severus. His mattress sits on the floor in the centre of the room, half-buried beneath sheets and blankets.
“There. Now you’ve satisfied your curiosity,” Severus tells her. He looks acutely uncomfortable at her presence in his bedroom, as though she’s disrupted the cosmic balance.
“Bonne journée,” Marie-Céleste wishes them as they leave. “And Patrice, don’t forget to be back in time to prepare dinner!”
Severus’ cheeks turn pink, and he sulks silently as they exit the building.
“You prepare dinner?” Hermione finally prompts him. It’s not hard to picture him cooking, actually; he’d never forgive her for saying it, but cooking isn’t so very different from brewing.
“Ever since Marie-Céleste discovered that I know my way around the kitchen, she’s been eager to press me into service,” Severus mutters, scowling at a crack in the pavement.
“She’s very interesting,” Hermione offers.
“Yes, and tough enough to spit nails. Her husband died some years ago; he left her the flat, but not much else. She refused to give up her home, so she’s sold off the antiques bit by bit and taken in the odd lodger or two.”
That explains the empty rooms, then. “Like you.”
“Like me. She only charges me a pittance for rent, so I don’t mind helping out where I can. If she didn’t need it, I suspect she would prefer that I not pay her at all,” Severus reflects, as they cross the Pont Louis-Philippe, scuttling past the crowds coming from Notre Dame and heading towards the Latin Quarter. “In fact, I believe she finds the very idea of money to be appalling. She knows how to pinch a penny ’til it screams, but heaven forbid anybody should actually want to make money.”
“She likes you, I think.”
Severus shrugs, although he might be pleased. “There’s no accounting for taste, especially in somebody so opinionated.”
Hermione’s original impression is confirmed: Marie-Céleste is not a woman to be taken lightly. If Severus approves of her, then it would appear that he appreciates a bossy woman.
The thought cheers Hermione.
“Where are we going?” she asks. The question is futile; he never tells her what he has planned until they’ve arrived at the selected destination. Severus has a certain knack for finding hidden gems, and Hermione has come to look forward to each new discovery.
He smirks. “You’ll see.”
Hermione follows him through a maze of old streets in the Latin Quarter, past the riot of competing aromas from the kebab stands and Tunisian bakeries. Finally, they turn down the narrow Rue Saint-Séverin, only to stop in front of an old Gothic church.
Though ornate and solidly built, the church looks rather worse for the wear with overgrown shrubs outside it and large patches of blackened stone on the façade. There is something sad about it, Hermione thinks-a slight air of neglect. It lacks the presence of Notre Dame, which probably accounts for the utter absence of tourists, but she can’t deny that there is something strangely interesting about the massive building with its carved arches and jutting, snarling gargoyles.
“Very nice,” she says politely, sensing that Severus is presenting this discovery as a test of some sort. He’s tenser than she’s seen him since her schooldays, fairly vibrating with restrained nervous energy and expectation.
“Wait until you see the inside,” he promises.
Hermione tends to think that most old churches look alike inside, but from the moment she crosses the threshold of Saint Séverin, she senses that it is different. The silence within the church is almost absolute, as though she and Severus are the only people in existence. There are no tourist hordes or souvenir shops here, only stark beauty unlike anything she’s ever seen.
The silence and dim lighting lend a sanctified atmosphere, so much so that Hermione feels that even the echo of her footsteps is an offence. She explores the space slowly and carefully, taking in all the strange and wonderful details: the twisting columns like palm trees, the soaring ceiling, the glowing candles and the magnificently bizarre organ with its undulating pipes.
“Here,” Severus whispers, leading the way towards the back of the church, turning to face up the long central aisle towards the altar. “Look.”
She does. The view is awe-inspiring-she might even call it divine. As she watches, the sun breaks through the clouds outside, and all of the stained-glass windows glow like jewels, a vibrant mosaic of every colour imaginable.
Hermione steals a glance at Severus and sees a look on his face that she’s never seen before: perfect contentment. The earlier nerviness is gone, replaced by a profound tranquillity that nobody would ever have expected of him. The colours of the stained glass are reflected on his pale skin, lending him a rainbow aura.
Nobody would ever detect it from the outside, but Hermione knows that there is magic in this place. It occurs to her that the attraction Severus feels to the church is a sympathetic one: he, too, contains far more beauty than the average person would ever suspect. It is only waiting inside of him for a more discerning person to discover it.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks her, eyes fixed on the windows.
She looks at him and smiles.
“Yes,” she agrees. “Yes, it is.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The canopied tomb is old and beautiful, well carved and well kept, though the people it commemorates have been dead for centuries and in fact might not even be buried here.
Between the stone sarcophagi are bouquets left by admiring visitors, paying tribute to the very idea of romance as much as they are to the legendary lovers. Hermione sets her offering down with the others, a small clutch of blossoms tied round with ribbon. She steadfastly refuses to think about the significance of selecting scarlet and gold flowers paired with green and silver ribbons. She also does not think about the small, sealed letter tucked in the midst of the stems.
“Very nice. I’m sure Héloïse and Abélard appreciate the gesture,” Severus snipes. The wind is sharp, and he pulls his long black coat tightly around himself in an effort to ward off the chill. “Are you satisfied, or have you not yet had your fill of the grand cemetery tour?”
Hermione takes one long, last look at the serene stone figures and nods decisively. She is not by any means superstitious, but she feels somehow lighter, happier for having entrusted her confessions and hopes to the tortured philosopher and his most beloved student. “Finished.”
“Finally. This entire exercise is as maudlin and sentimental as it is macabre.” Severus snorts in eloquent disgust. “Since when has death become a tourist attraction?”
Hermione refrains from mentioning the small mountain of flowers that tends to accumulate on Severus’ own empty grave near the war memorial in Hogsmeade. She doubts that he would appreciate the gesture. Then again, perhaps he would; Hermione has never met another wizard with so little understanding of his own value.
“I did offer to come by myself, you know,” she reminds him. The autumn leaves crunch beneath her feet, yellow and orange and red as phoenix feathers. “You didn’t have to come.”
“As if you can be trusted to navigate the Métro by yourself,” he scoffs. “Must I remind you of the unfortunate incident at the Châtelet station?”
“That station is enormous!” Hermione protests, wounded. “Five lines all meeting in the same place, ten different directions to go in, a thousand different levels… anybody could be confused under those circumstances. Anyway,” she adds, as she can see him opening his mouth to complain again, “I know that you secretly wanted to come here.”
“You know nothing of the sort.”
“I know why, too.”
“Do not presume to know my mind.”
“And it’s fine with me,” Hermione continues. “I don’t mind if we visit Jim Morrison’s grave, too. It’s right over there,” she adds helpfully, pointing towards the squat granite headstone in the distance. Even from here, they can see the obscene heap of flowers, rosebuds shimmering in their cellophane shrouds.
Severus stops and stares at her. “How did you-?”
“Your iPod is filled with songs by ‘The Doors.’ Don’t deny it; I’ve seen the evidence.”
Severus looks as scandalised as if she’d just admitted to rifling through his underwear drawer, rather than his music collection. Lately, Hermione has been spending so much time at the Place des Vosges that Marie-Céleste has made pointed remarks about moving her in, but clearly, Severus has not considered all the implications that come with sharing a space. “The vaunted integrity of Gryffindor at work again, I see. Whatever made you think that you should-?”
“I wanted to know something about you,” Hermione cuts in, looking up to meet his gaze. “I can’t do something nice for you if I don’t know what you like, can I?”
His expression goes from astounded, to mystified, to cautiously pleased. It’s a subtle transformation, but Hermione sees the way his mouth quirks in an almost-smile and the way his eyes warm from shiny black to the darkest possible brown, and she knows that he is happy.
It takes so little to make him happy, she thinks. Why did nobody ever try before?
Of course, he does not thank her for the consideration. Instead, he simply nods and slips her hand inside his as they walk together in comfortable silence to pay homage at the altar of the Lizard King. Her skin, where it touches his, tingles in a way that neither magic nor logic can explain, and Hermione can’t help but smile.
Despite the frigid air, she feels very warm inside.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It is not until they’ve actually arrived at the Musée Rodin that Hermione realizes that this is, perhaps, not the best museum to explore with Severus, given the strange and fragile thing that seems to be growing between them. Their progress has been sure but slow: a lingering touch here, a heated look there, some suggestive banter that could almost be flirting if Severus weren’t pants at that. Having come to the conclusion that Severus is who and what she wants, Hermione is reluctant to do anything that might endanger what they have. All appearances to the contrary, he is nothing if not skittish.
The Musée Rodin is not really for the skittish.
It’s not that Hermione isn’t enjoying the museum-not at all; it’s a lovely house filled with lovelier sculptures. It’s just that she somehow had allowed herself to forget how many of these sculptures are nude, and what, exactly, they’re doing with one another. There’s nothing pornographic about it, despite the nudity, but the sculptures tell stories of almost excruciating intimacy: lovers draped over one another, entangled in intricate knots, gazing into one another’s eyes and baring their souls at least as much as their bodies.
She’s worried that Severus will think she’s trying to drop him a hint. Not that she’d mind it if he were inspired, but…
Hermione glances at The Eternal Idol with the male figure on his knees, worshipping his mate and tenderly burying his face in her breasts. Briefly, she imagines what it would be like if she and Severus were in that same position. Would Severus look at her that same way? What would it feel like to cradle him in her arms? Her face heats at the thought of it.
It’s suddenly far too warm inside the museum, and Hermione escapes into the empty sculpture garden, even though it’s late October and her jacket is too thin to stand up to an extended stay in such a brisk wind. The sky is a pitiless steely blue, and in the odd light, the pavements glow a greyish-lavender. The trees are mostly naked, stretching their bared limbs heavenward with infinite grace.
Hermione hugs her arms around herself and tours the garden, hoping to chill her overeager thoughts as much as her body. As she stops to regard The Kiss, she hears the soft crunching of footsteps approaching. She does not need to turn and see who it is; he is so close behind her that she can smell his scent.
“You’ll catch your death out here,” Severus says, and before she can tease him for fussing like Molly Weasley, he has scooped her into the shelter of his coat, pressing her against his chest and enveloping her in wool warmed with the heat of his body and impregnated with all the scents she associates with him: aftershave, soap, a trace of spicy clove cigarette, the smell of books and parchment, and something else that is Severus and nobody else.
She breathes in deeply, resting her head against his chest and listening to his heartbeat. For a moment, she’s sure she feels the ghost of his lips pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “This is a much nicer way to warm up than hot cocoa.”
He snorts. “I suspect you are very much alone in that opinion.”
“I don’t care. More for me.” Within the confines of the coat they share, Hermione slips her arms around Severus’ skinny torso and hugs him. “Are you enjoying the museum?”
“It is… very interesting,” Severus says after a moment. He stares at The Kiss, observing the passionate lovers with an unreadable expression. “What’s the name of this one?”
“The Kiss. That’s some kiss, isn’t it?”
“So is this,” Severus says, before he tilts her chin up and meets her lips with his own.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hermione frowns when Severus finally offers an awkward invitation to dinner. His phrasing is stiff, and his sober, frowning gaze is trained on the potatoes they’ve agreed to peel for Marie-Céleste. If she didn’t know better, Hermione would think that Severus is nervous.
“Haven’t we already shared quite a few dinners?” she points out. “We’re making one right now, in fact.”
The crease between his eyebrows deepens.
“Not that sort of dinner,” he mutters. “You’re going to force me to spell it out, aren’t you? I’m talking about a date.” He spits the word out as though it tastes bad.
Hermione raises her eyebrows in surprise. Pleased as she is, she’s never dared to hope that Severus might make such a gesture; the offering of it makes him far too vulnerable for it to be anything but excruciating for him.
“My answer is ‘yes,’” she tells him.
“Yes?” He’s too incredulous to pay enough attention to the knife.
“That’s what I said: yes. Oh! You’d better get that under a tap.” Hermione leaps up and hustles Severus over to the sink, firmly holding his bleeding hand as she thrusts it beneath the stream of cold water. Fat crimson droplets dot the bottom of the sink, turning the water a pinkish hue.
Hermione inspects the damage: a deep cut, but thankfully not so bad as to require stitches. Severus hasn’t made a single sound of protest, although he must be in pain. He’s avoiding her gaze again, but it hardly matters when they’re pressed against each other this way, arms and hands intertwined.
“Good job that wasn’t something poisonous. It’s unusual for you to be so careless with knives,” she observes.
“It’s unusual for an intelligent and attractive witch to agree to go on a date with me, as well,” he hisses.
Ah. So that’s what this is about. Hermione suspects that on most days, Severus still sees himself as a nine-year-old boy, flapping around in his father’s old coat and hiding in the bushes rather than summoning the courage to simply make the first move.
She smiles. “If it makes you feel any better, I think we’ve actually been dating for the past month. We’ve only just agreed to start calling it dating. Purely a semantic difference, really.”
Severus says nothing, but he allows his uninjured fingers to interlace with hers, warming her hands under the chill of the water. She is close enough to rest her head on his shoulder, and so she does, burying her nose in his scarred neck and breathing in the clean, spicy scent of his aftershave.
“After all, we’ve certainly kissed enough to be dating,” Hermione continues.
Severus makes a choking noise.
“Really, we just haven’t had sex… yet.” She offers him a cheeky smirk and winks for emphasis.
She never ceases to be fascinated by just how red Severus’ face can blush when he’s embarrassed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The date turns out to be rather different than Hermione expects it to be.
Severus does such a remarkably good job of acting like a sneering, unsentimental bastard that she sometimes forgets that he actually contains immense reserves of untapped soppiness. Therefore, it is something of a surprise to find that he’s capable of making a grand gesture when the occasion calls for one, though it’s hardly an unwelcome revelation. In any case, Hermione is glad that she’s made the effort to tame her hair into something halfway stylish.
Severus insists on picking her up in front of the Fourcy, waiting outside the bright blue doors until she emerges to meet him. He, too, has made an effort to look smart, wearing a sharp gunmetal grey suit over a lighter grey shirt, complemented by a silvery tie. As always, the black overcoat completes the ensemble. The overall effect is cool and sleek and altogether gorgeous. When Hermione tells him this, he looks both pleased and disconcerted.
“Yes, well… you look very lovely,” he mumbles into the wool of his muffler. He keeps stealing sidelong glances at her, as though he doesn’t want to be caught staring.
This is how Hermione knows that he likes what he sees.
Severus leads her through an intricate web of streets, down to the Rue des Barres, which is transformed by the night. He offers his arm to help her navigate the cobbled steps with her impractical shoes while the gargoyles of Saint-Gervais wink down at them.
Their destination is tucked into a quiet corner next to the Hôtel Maubuisson, overshadowed by the larger buildings and only distinguished by a single glowing lantern. In the daylight, Hermione doubts that she would ever notice it. When Severus opens the door for her, she reads the name on it: Carte Blanche.
The restaurant inside is both small and perfect: plain walls the colour of fresh cream and furniture the colour of espresso. The white damask tablecloths are proudly starched and stark against the dark tables while crystal and silver flatware gleam in the candlelight. There are only four tables, and none of them are occupied.
“Bonsoir,” the maître d’hôtel greets them, as polished and professional as the setting requires. “Ah, Patrice. Excellent timing! Céline is ready for you-just as you discussed.”
“Excellent. Merci, Alain,” Severus replies. He’s smirking like the cat that got the cream, which can only mean that he’s plotted something. Alain, meanwhile, is looking from Hermione to Severus and nodding in approval.
“Do you mind telling me what that was all about?” Hermione asks him after they’ve been seated. She straightens the sleeves of her ruby-coloured dress and wonders why there are no menus.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Severus says. “Alain and Céline offer a very-ah-specialised sort of service.”
“Will I like this?”
“I certainly hope so. That was rather the point.”
The service, as it turns out, explains the question of menus. It would appear that there are none: the chef has designed their menu for the evening.
“How does she know what we’ll like?” Hermione wonders.
“I’ve spoken to her. She knows what I have in mind,” Severus says, fiddling with the stem of his wineglass.
“I suppose it would be too much to hope that you’d let me in on the secret as well,” Hermione says tartly, though she really doesn’t mind. She wonders what Severus must have planned to have him fidgeting like a first year.
“Belon oyster vichyssoise with Sevruga,” Alain announces, as his young and handsome assistant presents them each with a shot glass filled with soup and dotted with what appears to be caviar. Alain then pours a flute of champagne for each of them; the bubbles form along the edge of the glass like a string of pearls. “Enjoy, Mademoiselle, Monsieur.”
They do. The soup is creamy and chilled, with a silky texture and a clean, salty taste like the ocean. The champagne is like drinking stardust, pleasantly warming as it tingles down her throat. Severus, she notices, is staring at her.
“It’s excellent,” she reassures him, reaching across the table to place her hand on his.
He does not pull away.
The second course brings more champagne and scallops over stewed fennel, garnished with sea urchin roe. Though Hermione is reluctant to try the roe, she gives it an honest attempt and is pleasantly surprised by the results.
“My compliments to the chef,” she murmurs in appreciation, scooping the last trace of sweet fennel from her plate.
Severus, meanwhile, has decided to glare at Michel, the server. “And to the server as well?”
Hermione glances at Michel. He is very good-looking, and well aware of it: tall and muscular, fresh-faced and handsome, with wavy blond hair and very blue eyes. His arse, she concedes, is the stuff that fantasies are made of.
Clearly, Severus is jealous.
“He’s very nice,” she says carefully.
Severus scowls and downs the last of his champagne.
“But he’s not my type,” Hermione continues, giving him a significant look. “On the whole, I think I prefer the view where I am.”
It’s a beautiful thing, to coax a smile from him. His smiles always look a trifle stiff, as though he is unused to them; Hermione’s goal is to make them a more regular occurrence.
The main course is as delicious as everything before it: turbot, lightly smoked and saffron-roasted, accompanied by fava beans and clever little chips made of celery root. It is only as Hermione savours the last sip of the divine white wine that accompanies it that she realises the theme of the meal: oysters, caviar, scallops, saffron…
It is a feast of aphrodisiacs, and this meal is nothing less than Severus’ attempt at a grand seduction.
Hermione could have told him that he hardly needed to try so hard, but who is she to argue with his methods when the result is an experience like this? When it comes to personal matters, Severus is far more eloquent with actions than with words.
“Are you pleased?” he asks her. He sounds supremely unconcerned, but she knows him well enough by now to hear the uncertainty beneath the question.
She looks into his eyes, which are warm and worshipful, and allows her smile to speak for her.
By the time they’ve completed the last course-an earthy, roasted truffle paired with a wine that tastes like the love child of red wine and dark chocolate-Hermione feels as though she’s floating, pleasantly sated with good wine and good food, and impressed beyond belief by the man who’s arranged it all for her.
She thinks she might love him, more than just a bit. If she had any doubts about the depth of his feelings for her, they are more than answered by the look in his eyes. Severus Snape does nothing by half-measures, and when he chooses to give his heart, he gives it fully.
Hermione will guard it much better than Lily Evans ever did.
Once they are strolling out in the lane again, Severus hesitates. “There is… a certain decision to be made,” he begins.
“Yes,” Hermione interrupts before he can torture both of them with more excruciating awkwardness. “I’d love to spend the night with you, as long as Marie-Céleste doesn’t mind.”
Severus blinks at her, astonished, before breaking into a full-throated laugh that echoes off the buildings around them.
“I’m sorry if I spoiled your script,” she explains once he’s sobered up, “but you know us Gryffindors-no sense of subtlety.”
Severus smiles and brushes a curl away from her forehead. “I must confess, I’m beginning to see the merits of that trait,” he murmurs. “But, Hermione, are you certain? I’m very-”
“Cranky, rude, opinionated and antisocial?”
He considers and then nods.
“Then we’re well-matched. I’m as opinionated as you are, and bossy and nosy besides. I don’t mind if you don’t.”
Severus smiles again-it’s small, nearly imperceptible, but there all the same.
“I don’t mind at all,” he says. “However, fair warning: the flat is freezing cold, and even the fireplace doesn’t take all the edge off the chill.”
She pauses in a pool of lamplight to kiss him very thoroughly.
“I don’t think we’ll have any trouble keeping warm,” she tells him when they’ve both caught their breath again.
Sure enough, they don’t.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The following week, Hermione leaves the Fourcy behind for good, all her worldly possessions packed into one improbably tiny beaded bag. Not coincidentally, she moves into Numéro 15, Place des Vosges immediately afterward, at Severus’ rather diffident invitation and Marie-Céleste’s insistence.
She has no plans to leave it anytime soon. Neither does Severus, who has travelled the globe enough and is ready to put down roots in a place of his own choosing, rather than a place dictated by circumstance. Neither of them says these things out loud, just as neither of them ever dares to name this thing they share, the magic they raise between them. They know what it is all the same.
She writes of the news to Ron and Harry and the others at home, sending actual owls with thoughtful and honest letters, rather than tacky postcards with clichéd sentiments. She does not share the name of the man she has met, but she is sure to inform them of her happiness. If the responses she receives express dismay that she won’t be returning to England, then they are also filled with well-wishes and congratulations and promises to visit soon-a situation that they will deal with as it comes.
Hermione eventually unpacks the beaded bag in the room that now belongs to the two of them, making the space a bit less barren than before. Her book collection mingles with his: law and Arithmancy and molecular biology texts piled next to volumes of Flamel and Eliot and Baudelaire. Somehow, this merging seems an even greater intimacy than anything else they’ve shared together; surprisingly, neither of them seems to mind.
Perhaps one day, they’ll get some furniture for the room-a pair of reading chairs by the fireplace would be rather nice, or a writing desk for professional correspondence. Perhaps they’ll adopt a cat of their own. Perhaps she will eventually persuade Severus to pick up a wand again, as she has decided to reclaim hers. Perhaps one day, they’ll even buy a real bed. But really, all they need is each other and the books; everything else is extraneous.
Hermione smiles when she pulls the final item from her bottomless bag: the neatly folded map of Paris with its delicate red network of streets, bisected by the fat blue curve of the river. She remembers a day when she clutched this map and stood on a bridge and felt lost beyond the telling, simply because she did not know where to go next. It is only now that she understands that the question was not where to go but how to get there, and that the journey was not one that could ever be graphed on a sheet of paper, easily reduced to charts and grids.
Nobody has yet found a way to form a map of the human heart, and Hermione doubts that anybody ever will.
Severus finds her smiling over the map and peers over her shoulder. “What’s so amusing?”
“Nothing, really. Only thinking about how far I’ve come-how far we’ve come.”
“Hmm.” His breath is hot against her ear. “Speaking of coming…”
Hermione laughs. “Very clever-now I know where your mind’s at. Mind you, I don’t think I’d need much convincing to join you,” she adds, turning to look him in the eyes. They are dark and open and so filled with emotion that it takes her breath away.
It is the greatest of all powers that he offers her-the power to crush him utterly, beyond salvation-and yet, she knows that she will never dare to exercise it. Instead, she will defend him to the death, and beyond it, if necessary. She knows now what the woman in The Eternal Idol must feel when she gathers her lover to her breast, overwhelmed by the strength of his devotion.
Her heart feels as though it might burst, but she gently pulls his head down towards her and threads her fingers through the short black spikes of his hair, pressing a kiss to each eyelid. His arms reach up around her in a tight embrace, and their heartbeats echo the sound of one another as Hermione relaxes in the circle of Severus’ arms and feels that at long last, she has come home.