Fic: The Nine of Swords
Title: Possibilities
Author: WendyNat
Type: Fiction
Length: ~3800 words
Main character or Pairing: Hermione. Pairings: Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Snape
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters don’t belong to me, and I’m making no money from this.
Warnings: n/a
Summary: After viewing the Pensieve with Snape’s memories, Hermione re-evaluates her own relationship.
Card Interpretation: I used the interpretation listed from Learning the Tarot: “The Nine of Swords represents the pain that we generate from within. What tortures we put ourselves through when our fears and doubts overwhelm us."
Author Notes: A very huge thank-you to Rilla for her excellent and extremely fast beta help. Thanks also to the mods of the HP Tarot challenge for inspiring me to return to HP fanfiction, though this fic might surprise some of my prior readers.
Chapter 1
The first time she saw him after his death, he was energetic and young, dressed in ill-fitting Muggle clothes and gazing through a fence at two young girls playing in a park.
Hermione sat back from the table, staring down at the now-silent Pensieve. The images she had seen whirled through her mind. Who would have thought that Severus Snape had loved so much. A devotion like his for Lily Potter - Evans, she corrected herself - was something she’d only seen in fanciful books. Well, books that she’d once thought only fanciful.
She could feel Harry’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look up. Not yet. “I… I didn’t know,” she murmured.
“Yeah.” At the tone in Harry’s voice, she glanced up and watched him brush his hair back from his forehead in a gesture reminiscent of their Hogwarts days. The now-faded scar held her gaze until a few locks of hair flipped back down to obscure it once again. “None of us did. You always defended him-”
“Because I had to.” She bit her lip. Harry wasn’t the only one who still displayed habits from years back. Thinking back, thinking of the times she’d defended Professor Snape to her two closest friends, she sighed. It seemed so long ago, when she had just been a student, trying to make a name for herself in this new, strange world. Now, she was a hero in said world. It didn’t feel real. “He was our teacher. I wasn’t any better at clairvoyance than you and Ron, just better at behaving as a proper student.”
“Whatever the reason, you were right about him.” Harry stood and paced a bit around the room.
“Thanks for finally showing me, Harry. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
He continued to pace. She watched him silently, waiting, until he finally stopped by the window. Leaning heavily on the window sill, he said, “I wish I’d known, when he was still alive. When I could still do something.”
***
Those words, and the images from the Pensieve, echoed in her mind for months. The echoes grew deeper and longer, touching her psyche in places she never anticipated. What would have been different, if she’d known before?
She let none of this show to the outside world, instead conducting her days as she always had. She spent time with friends, continued to be an exemplary employee, continued to spend time with Ron. At night, however, in her dreams, her mind broke free to torture her with possibilities. One morning, after a particularly vivid set of dreams, she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling. What would it be like, to be the object of such intense desire? A desire of the soul, beyond that of body or self? She loved Ron, and knew that he loved her, but… was it enough?
The image of black eyes filled with snapping fire caused her breath to catch, and she closed her eyes. What would it be like, to be with someone other than Ron? To be with him? Would it be anything like the dreams that tormented her almost every night?
With a sigh, she let one hand hand drift across her body, teasing a breast before sliding down further. Her other hand stroked her stomach, caressed the tops of her thighs, pinched a nipple… her breathing deepened and her back arched as years of practice combined with the leftover ache from her dreams brought her to completion quickly.
Her body still tingling with aftershocks, she wondered if it was the sign of a deranged mind that the long, slender fingers she had pictured in place of her own belonged to a dead man rather than her fiancé.
***
Hermione didn’t intend to talk about any of it, but when she was out with Hannah at the Leaky Cauldron, the subject somehow came up. Over glasses of wine, Hermione told Hannah about her dreams and the dark man that inhabited them - though she didn’t identify the man, of course. Some things were beyond her ability to confess.
Hannah eyed her over the wineglass, tilting her head. “If you’re not sure, Hermione, maybe you should… you know. Call off the wedding, or something. I know you’re not planning it for another year or so, but-“
Choking out a laugh, Hermione shook her head. “No, no. I’m sure, I am. I mean, I’m sure as much as anyone is, right?”
“But what if you run into this man from your past - you keep dreaming about him. Maybe it’s a sign.”
“I won’t run into him.” Definitely not.
“You can’t know that, Hermione! What if-“
Ever blunt, Hermione cut Hannah off. “He’s dead.”
“Oh.”
She ran a finger along the rim of her glass, regarding the muted shine of light through the wine. “It just makes me wonder. What would it be like, having someone love you that much? To have that sort of single-minded intensity, all directed at you?”
Hannah looked a bit confused, and Hermione couldn’t really blame her. Her friend took a small sip of wine and said, “Ron loves you.”
Hermione let out a breath. “I know he does, but… how much, really?” What she wanted to ask was whether it was the kind of love that could withstand twenty years apart, but it would be useless. No one could answer such a question.
Hannah sat quietly for a time. Finally, she said, “What brought about all this, Hermione? I thought you two were happy.”
“We are. We’re best friends, as well as being in love.”
“Then why all this doubt? These dreams… that’s all they are. What are you afraid of?”
That stopped her short. She sat still, one finger gently tapping the side of her glass. Fear and doubt. Was that all it was? Or was it a desperate longing, from deep within her, something fundamental to her being that demanded more, now that she knew it was possible?
Hermione pushed her glass away and laughed a little bit. “Well, we’ll see if Ron and I can withstand two months apart when I go to Australia.”
“That’s a test, isn’t it?”
“It’s a start,” Hermione said, her thoughts already far away, wishing for something that she didn’t have.
***
The next week, Hermione woke from another set of dreams. Shaking her head, she threw off the bedclothes in frustration and stood in the small guest room in her parents’ house. The walls were a gentle green, a calming color, but she didn’t feel calm.
She’d been with her parents in Australia for three days now, and it was wearing on her. While they had understood her motivations in wiping their memories during the war years ago, there was still a sort of tension hanging in the air between them. She understood it, just as she’d understood why they had decided to live in Australia after the war. The neighborhood she’d sent them to as Wendell and Monica Wilkins was lovely, and the weather even more so.
Today, she had a free day, at least. Her parents were visiting with some friends and didn’t expect to be back until later the next day. She’d been invited along but had begged off - some of her vacation away from the Ministry should be spent resting, after all.
If she could.
Luckily, Ron hadn’t seemed to notice anything off about her, which was at once a relief and a concern. Shouldn’t he sense something, when she was in such internal turmoil? Her logic asserted itself and pushed the concern down ruthlessly. Of course he wouldn’t notice, since she’d been taking such pains to be sure he didn’t notice.
She sighed. One thing was certain - she had to get out of the house. Maybe wandering the shops would clear her mind. A plan in place, she left the room to get ready, hoping desperately that she could exhaust herself enough that she wouldn’t dream that night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2
The second time she saw him after his death, he was older and tired-looking, dressed in Muggle clothes once again. These, however, fit him quite well.
Hermione couldn’t believe her eyes. She had been looking over trinkets in the small corner shop when she sensed something over her shoulder. She had whipped her head around and gasped. “Professor!”
She stopped herself, then. How ridiculous did she sound? It couldn’t be him - the man was dead. She hadseen him die, she and Harry. And even if she hadn’t, what would he be doing in a Muggle trinket shop in Australia? “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean-“
“No, you meant Professor. Though the term no longer applies.”
Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. An odd twisting began low in her stomach as their eyes locked. Those were the eyes from her dreams… but were they his eyes? Finally, he sighed and leaned forward, his hair almost brushing her cheek, causing her breath to hitch. “Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger.”
“Professor Snape!” she finally managed. “But… but you’re dead!”
“Apparently not.” A ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.
He wore a turtleneck, and she vaguely wondered if it was to hide the scars. Reminded of his horrible injuries, she shook her head. “We saw… we thought…”
He sneered at her, and finally she began to believe.
“You did not see what you thought you saw.”
“But, how…” Her mind was trying very hard to catch up to this reality. How could he be alive?
An irritated sigh cut her off, and the sound was so like her memories of the man that she straightened her spine imperceptibly.
“Come, Miss Granger. If that is still your surname?”
She nodded. “Ron and I haven’t gotten married.” Yet, she thought to herself. “But, sir, how could you have-“
Again he cut her off, gripping her upper arm. His touch was gentler than she would have anticipated. “Somewhere more private, if you please.”
She nodded again, feeling a bit like one of those Muggle bobble-head dolls that her mother collected, and allowed him to lead her from the trinket shop. Her entire being was concentrated at the point where his hand touched her arm, the fingers just as long and slender as she’d pictured.
It took a few minutes before they reached their destination. The small coffee shop was practically deserted, with enough background noise to cover their words. They sat across from each other, and she couldn’t stop staring at him. On some level, she realized that he had the same issue. The air grew thick between them as they maintained eye contact.
Finally, she broke away and took a deep breath. “How?”
The chair creaked as he sat back, and she dared to glance back up. “There are many possibilities, of course. I’m not at leave to identify the exact method of my survival, because it involves another… person.”
Hermione shook her head, considering the puzzle. “I suppose a blood restorative had to be involved. Maybe a time-turner - but they were all destroyed in the Ministry of Magic at the end of our fifth year-“
“Were they?” A sneer, then. She frowned, and his sneer deepened. “The ones in possession of the Ministry at the time were destroyed, yes. But those few that were in the hands of authorized users… and the British Ministry of Magic was not the only place where they were stored, of course.”
“Of course,” she said slowly. “Why would the Egyptian Ministry, or even the American Ministry, allow us to keep all the inventory?”
“Rightly so.”
Her lips parted and she licked them unconsciously. To her surprise, his eyes drifted down and froze there. Was that a hitch in his breathing that she heard? She tilted her head, a suspicion growing in her mind. A suspicion that had no purpose in reality, only in dreams, since she was to be married - married to the love of her life. Wasn’t she?
“There are many options, of course. A restorative potion on my person, as you mentioned, and why not an immunity I built up over time to Nagini’s venom, knowing that one day I might become a meal?”
She shook her head. “But-“
He leaned forward, oddly eager, and she wondered if he had spoken of this to anyone else. “But, indeed. It was none of those things, not in the singular. I didn’t anticipate my ending, and I certainly didn’t anticipate my rescue. If I had, I would have been more circumspect about which memories I gave to Potter… but no matter.
“A restorative was on my person, of course. And the house-elves - I was still the Headmaster of Hogwarts. I was saved by an elf, whose identity I won’t name, and she apparated with me to a… a friend. Who healed me.”
“A friend.” Her voice was flat.
An eyebrow twitched at her. “That is all I can say. Now, the question is - what will you say?”
“I’m sorry?” She tilted her head, her attention on his eyes as they bore into her. They were so passionate, so forceful, that she felt as if they were pulling her into their depths. Idly she wondered if all her fanciful notions were for naught - could she even handle that sort of intensity, all directed at her, after all?
“What will you tell others about my presence?”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
“Nothing, if you please,” he said, his deep voice stroking her eardrums. “I have my reasons for being on this continent.”
She nodded slowly. “Of course.” She reached out and touched his hand, surprised by the jolt that went through her at even that innocent contact. What would it feel like if- she sternly stopped that train of thought. “If you wish, I’ll make an Unbreakable Vow.”
A look of distaste crossed his face at that, and he pulled his hand away. “That won’t be necessary.” He stood suddenly, and she wondered what had set him off.
“I’m sorry for suggesting it, Pro-“ She stopped and stood along with him. “I don’t know what to call you.”
The ghost smile returned. “Call me Severus.”
“Severus, then.” She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, her mind racing. “Ah… will I see you again?”
He stared at her in silence for a moment, then reached out to stroke her cheek. Stunned, she didn’t move. “I believe so. If you come again tomorrow, we can perhaps speak further.”
She nodded, and then watched as he walked out of the door. Her eyes followed him until he left the view of the window, then she sighed, leaning against the table. So much for avoiding the dreams, she thought wryly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 3
The third time she saw him after his death, he was tall and strong, sitting across the table from her in a Muggle restaurant.
They had just finished their meal and were now lingering over glasses of white wine. The warmth from the wine and his gaze spread through her. In a husky voice, she asked, “Why haven’t you returned? Why don’t you want anyone to know?”
“I have my reasons.” Snape sat back, eyeing her intently. She shifted in her seat. This was the fifth time they’d met here, in this restaurant, the third since she’d returned from her vacation to her normal life. The apparition between continents was taxing, but she couldn’t stop herself from returning to see him.
Back in her normal life, Ron had started to notice that something was on her mind, but she assured him that she was just working things out with her parents and it was taking time. He’d nodded in understanding and simply held her, comforting her, and she writhed internally with guilt for her subterfuge even as she drank in the comfort.
Severus’ voice brought her back to the present. “Why do you keep coming here, Hermione?”
The one question she couldn’t answer. Her reasons were completely illogical, so unlike her normal self that she shrunk away from even putting them into words in her own mind. “I… I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Aren’t you happy with him?”
Her throat was dry, but she managed a tight nod. “I am.”
“Then….” He leaned forward, reaching an elegant hand across the table to twine his fingers in hers. “Why do you continue to come here, to me?”
“It’s a long story,” she whispered, rubbing his fingers with her thumb.
“I find myself with an open schedule at the moment.”
She chuckled and took a sip of wine with her free hand. She kept her gaze on the glass as she brought it back to the table, silently watching the bubbles rise, some overtaking the others in their race to the surface. “Everything, since I started Hogwarts, was so fast. So quick. Learning, studying, then the war. There was never time to think.”
“And now…”
“Now there is. I’m with Ron, but… I mean, I have all the time in the world now, to think, and I’m not. If I was, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“Because of him?”
“Because… yes. Because of him.” She shook her head, frowning, and went back to watching the bubbles.
“Why are you here?” he pressed.
“It’s not that I don’t love him. I do. It’s just…” How could she tell him the truth? That she wanted more, and the more that she wanted was based on what she’d seen in his most personal memories? Swallowing, she settled on another, more predictable angle. “I’ve never been with anyone else, not that way, and….”
“I see.” With a small smile, almost a smirk, he leaned closer. His other hand reached out to caress her wrist, tracing the veins, and that now-familiar spark flew through her body. It was disconcertingly similar to the spark she felt when Ron touched her. “Curious?”
“I… well…. I mean, no. No, of course not.”
“Come now, the most promising brain ever to cross the threshold of Hogwarts, not curious?” Severus clucked his tongue. “I can’t believe that.”
“Well, maybe I am. Wouldn’t you be?” She stopped before she spoke further. They had never discussed the memories he’d left in the Pensieve. The knowledge was there, hanging between them, and Hermione was still unwilling to touch it.
Severus watched her through hooded lids and then stopped caressing her wrist long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out a small scrap of paper. Pressing it into her palm, he murmured, “My address. If you wish to indulge your curiosity further.”
***
She had knocked on the door of the small house, heart hammering, and almost walked away three times. Almost. When the door opened, she was pulled inside, immersed in the smell and taste and feel of him.
It exciting and arousing, the motions surprisingly close to her imagination when she allowed herself to imagine, the physical sensations surprisingly close to those in her dream. Satisfying, but… empty. It was as if he had been somewhere else, or somewhen else.
After it was over she lay for a time, staring at the ceiling, not in thought. There was no need for thought. The decision was made, in her heart.
He reached over and stroked her shoulder, but she didn’t respond. “Are you going to leave?” he murmured.
“I have to.”
“You’ve chosen him, then?”
She realized, as she lay beside him, that this whole situation had been doomed from the beginning. It wasn’t the right time - that time had passed, or hadn’t yet come. She had been stretching, reaching frantically for a dream, trying to convince herself that it would be better than her reality. She couldn’t bring herself to regret it, because now she knew. The thought was a dull comfort.
“There’s nothing to choose.”
“Nothing?!” Rage suffused his face, then a great sorrow. He turned away, and she was shocked by the sound of a choked sob. Surely he couldn’t feel so much for her? Maybe the round peg of dream could fit into the square hole of reality, somehow. She began to reach out to him when he said, “He will never appreciate you as I will! He will never look into those green eyes and see what I see!”
Hermione went utterly still. She stared at his back, and everything became clear. “You still love her. You always will.”
“What are you talking about?” His voice was savage, now, as he sat up to face her.
“Wrong Mudblood, Severus. My eyes are brown.” She swallowed, then slowly stood and picked up her clothing. Even though she was relieved that this choice was now made, it still hurt to realize she’d been used. But hadn’t she been using him just as much? He had pretended she was a dead woman, and she had pretended that he was a… a dream. A construct of her own fear and doubt and willful longing.
She dressed, thinking of Ron, his open face and bright smile, and a crippling guilt swept through her. How could she have put herself through all of this, just because of some baseless doubts? He loved her, encouraged her, and didn’t imagine a dead woman’s face when he made love to her.
“Brown? That’s… that’s what I said.”
“You loved her, and always will,” she repeated. “How can any woman compete with her? She’s perfect in memory, isn’t she?”
He fell back to the bed, eyes on the ceiling, defeat in every line of his body. “You’re very much like her.”
She stared at him in silence for a long moment, then left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Epilogue
Her wedding to Ron was beautiful, her marriage restful and filled with love. It wasn’t the blazing intensity that had once haunted her dreams; it was the type that could nurture family and friends and peace.
She was happy.
Years later, she found herself in that same trinket shop in Australia, this time with her daughter Rose in tow. They were visiting Hermione’s parents for a long weekend and Rose loved to browse the shops nearby.
As she often had in the years since she’d closed that door quietly behind her, Hermione sensed something over her shoulder. Her head whipped around but, as always, she only saw a ghost image from the corner of her eye. Indistinct. Was it Severus? Could it be?
She shook her head resolutely and turned back to her daughter, who was exclaiming over a statue of a cat. That door had closed, and it needed to remain closed so that she could concentrate on her life, her children, her family.
She knew that she had the power to destroy the door and what was behind it. She knew, also, why she didn’t. Perhaps someday, when her children had families of their own, she could afford to open it once again. Perhaps someday, she could let her dreams free.
Author: WendyNat
Type: Fiction
Length: ~3800 words
Main character or Pairing: Hermione. Pairings: Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Snape
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters don’t belong to me, and I’m making no money from this.
Warnings: n/a
Summary: After viewing the Pensieve with Snape’s memories, Hermione re-evaluates her own relationship.
Card Interpretation: I used the interpretation listed from Learning the Tarot: “The Nine of Swords represents the pain that we generate from within. What tortures we put ourselves through when our fears and doubts overwhelm us."
Author Notes: A very huge thank-you to Rilla for her excellent and extremely fast beta help. Thanks also to the mods of the HP Tarot challenge for inspiring me to return to HP fanfiction, though this fic might surprise some of my prior readers.
Chapter 1
The first time she saw him after his death, he was energetic and young, dressed in ill-fitting Muggle clothes and gazing through a fence at two young girls playing in a park.
Hermione sat back from the table, staring down at the now-silent Pensieve. The images she had seen whirled through her mind. Who would have thought that Severus Snape had loved so much. A devotion like his for Lily Potter - Evans, she corrected herself - was something she’d only seen in fanciful books. Well, books that she’d once thought only fanciful.
She could feel Harry’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look up. Not yet. “I… I didn’t know,” she murmured.
“Yeah.” At the tone in Harry’s voice, she glanced up and watched him brush his hair back from his forehead in a gesture reminiscent of their Hogwarts days. The now-faded scar held her gaze until a few locks of hair flipped back down to obscure it once again. “None of us did. You always defended him-”
“Because I had to.” She bit her lip. Harry wasn’t the only one who still displayed habits from years back. Thinking back, thinking of the times she’d defended Professor Snape to her two closest friends, she sighed. It seemed so long ago, when she had just been a student, trying to make a name for herself in this new, strange world. Now, she was a hero in said world. It didn’t feel real. “He was our teacher. I wasn’t any better at clairvoyance than you and Ron, just better at behaving as a proper student.”
“Whatever the reason, you were right about him.” Harry stood and paced a bit around the room.
“Thanks for finally showing me, Harry. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
He continued to pace. She watched him silently, waiting, until he finally stopped by the window. Leaning heavily on the window sill, he said, “I wish I’d known, when he was still alive. When I could still do something.”
***
Those words, and the images from the Pensieve, echoed in her mind for months. The echoes grew deeper and longer, touching her psyche in places she never anticipated. What would have been different, if she’d known before?
She let none of this show to the outside world, instead conducting her days as she always had. She spent time with friends, continued to be an exemplary employee, continued to spend time with Ron. At night, however, in her dreams, her mind broke free to torture her with possibilities. One morning, after a particularly vivid set of dreams, she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling. What would it be like, to be the object of such intense desire? A desire of the soul, beyond that of body or self? She loved Ron, and knew that he loved her, but… was it enough?
The image of black eyes filled with snapping fire caused her breath to catch, and she closed her eyes. What would it be like, to be with someone other than Ron? To be with him? Would it be anything like the dreams that tormented her almost every night?
With a sigh, she let one hand hand drift across her body, teasing a breast before sliding down further. Her other hand stroked her stomach, caressed the tops of her thighs, pinched a nipple… her breathing deepened and her back arched as years of practice combined with the leftover ache from her dreams brought her to completion quickly.
Her body still tingling with aftershocks, she wondered if it was the sign of a deranged mind that the long, slender fingers she had pictured in place of her own belonged to a dead man rather than her fiancé.
***
Hermione didn’t intend to talk about any of it, but when she was out with Hannah at the Leaky Cauldron, the subject somehow came up. Over glasses of wine, Hermione told Hannah about her dreams and the dark man that inhabited them - though she didn’t identify the man, of course. Some things were beyond her ability to confess.
Hannah eyed her over the wineglass, tilting her head. “If you’re not sure, Hermione, maybe you should… you know. Call off the wedding, or something. I know you’re not planning it for another year or so, but-“
Choking out a laugh, Hermione shook her head. “No, no. I’m sure, I am. I mean, I’m sure as much as anyone is, right?”
“But what if you run into this man from your past - you keep dreaming about him. Maybe it’s a sign.”
“I won’t run into him.” Definitely not.
“You can’t know that, Hermione! What if-“
Ever blunt, Hermione cut Hannah off. “He’s dead.”
“Oh.”
She ran a finger along the rim of her glass, regarding the muted shine of light through the wine. “It just makes me wonder. What would it be like, having someone love you that much? To have that sort of single-minded intensity, all directed at you?”
Hannah looked a bit confused, and Hermione couldn’t really blame her. Her friend took a small sip of wine and said, “Ron loves you.”
Hermione let out a breath. “I know he does, but… how much, really?” What she wanted to ask was whether it was the kind of love that could withstand twenty years apart, but it would be useless. No one could answer such a question.
Hannah sat quietly for a time. Finally, she said, “What brought about all this, Hermione? I thought you two were happy.”
“We are. We’re best friends, as well as being in love.”
“Then why all this doubt? These dreams… that’s all they are. What are you afraid of?”
That stopped her short. She sat still, one finger gently tapping the side of her glass. Fear and doubt. Was that all it was? Or was it a desperate longing, from deep within her, something fundamental to her being that demanded more, now that she knew it was possible?
Hermione pushed her glass away and laughed a little bit. “Well, we’ll see if Ron and I can withstand two months apart when I go to Australia.”
“That’s a test, isn’t it?”
“It’s a start,” Hermione said, her thoughts already far away, wishing for something that she didn’t have.
***
The next week, Hermione woke from another set of dreams. Shaking her head, she threw off the bedclothes in frustration and stood in the small guest room in her parents’ house. The walls were a gentle green, a calming color, but she didn’t feel calm.
She’d been with her parents in Australia for three days now, and it was wearing on her. While they had understood her motivations in wiping their memories during the war years ago, there was still a sort of tension hanging in the air between them. She understood it, just as she’d understood why they had decided to live in Australia after the war. The neighborhood she’d sent them to as Wendell and Monica Wilkins was lovely, and the weather even more so.
Today, she had a free day, at least. Her parents were visiting with some friends and didn’t expect to be back until later the next day. She’d been invited along but had begged off - some of her vacation away from the Ministry should be spent resting, after all.
If she could.
Luckily, Ron hadn’t seemed to notice anything off about her, which was at once a relief and a concern. Shouldn’t he sense something, when she was in such internal turmoil? Her logic asserted itself and pushed the concern down ruthlessly. Of course he wouldn’t notice, since she’d been taking such pains to be sure he didn’t notice.
She sighed. One thing was certain - she had to get out of the house. Maybe wandering the shops would clear her mind. A plan in place, she left the room to get ready, hoping desperately that she could exhaust herself enough that she wouldn’t dream that night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2
The second time she saw him after his death, he was older and tired-looking, dressed in Muggle clothes once again. These, however, fit him quite well.
Hermione couldn’t believe her eyes. She had been looking over trinkets in the small corner shop when she sensed something over her shoulder. She had whipped her head around and gasped. “Professor!”
She stopped herself, then. How ridiculous did she sound? It couldn’t be him - the man was dead. She hadseen him die, she and Harry. And even if she hadn’t, what would he be doing in a Muggle trinket shop in Australia? “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean-“
“No, you meant Professor. Though the term no longer applies.”
Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. An odd twisting began low in her stomach as their eyes locked. Those were the eyes from her dreams… but were they his eyes? Finally, he sighed and leaned forward, his hair almost brushing her cheek, causing her breath to hitch. “Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger.”
“Professor Snape!” she finally managed. “But… but you’re dead!”
“Apparently not.” A ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.
He wore a turtleneck, and she vaguely wondered if it was to hide the scars. Reminded of his horrible injuries, she shook her head. “We saw… we thought…”
He sneered at her, and finally she began to believe.
“You did not see what you thought you saw.”
“But, how…” Her mind was trying very hard to catch up to this reality. How could he be alive?
An irritated sigh cut her off, and the sound was so like her memories of the man that she straightened her spine imperceptibly.
“Come, Miss Granger. If that is still your surname?”
She nodded. “Ron and I haven’t gotten married.” Yet, she thought to herself. “But, sir, how could you have-“
Again he cut her off, gripping her upper arm. His touch was gentler than she would have anticipated. “Somewhere more private, if you please.”
She nodded again, feeling a bit like one of those Muggle bobble-head dolls that her mother collected, and allowed him to lead her from the trinket shop. Her entire being was concentrated at the point where his hand touched her arm, the fingers just as long and slender as she’d pictured.
It took a few minutes before they reached their destination. The small coffee shop was practically deserted, with enough background noise to cover their words. They sat across from each other, and she couldn’t stop staring at him. On some level, she realized that he had the same issue. The air grew thick between them as they maintained eye contact.
Finally, she broke away and took a deep breath. “How?”
The chair creaked as he sat back, and she dared to glance back up. “There are many possibilities, of course. I’m not at leave to identify the exact method of my survival, because it involves another… person.”
Hermione shook her head, considering the puzzle. “I suppose a blood restorative had to be involved. Maybe a time-turner - but they were all destroyed in the Ministry of Magic at the end of our fifth year-“
“Were they?” A sneer, then. She frowned, and his sneer deepened. “The ones in possession of the Ministry at the time were destroyed, yes. But those few that were in the hands of authorized users… and the British Ministry of Magic was not the only place where they were stored, of course.”
“Of course,” she said slowly. “Why would the Egyptian Ministry, or even the American Ministry, allow us to keep all the inventory?”
“Rightly so.”
Her lips parted and she licked them unconsciously. To her surprise, his eyes drifted down and froze there. Was that a hitch in his breathing that she heard? She tilted her head, a suspicion growing in her mind. A suspicion that had no purpose in reality, only in dreams, since she was to be married - married to the love of her life. Wasn’t she?
“There are many options, of course. A restorative potion on my person, as you mentioned, and why not an immunity I built up over time to Nagini’s venom, knowing that one day I might become a meal?”
She shook her head. “But-“
He leaned forward, oddly eager, and she wondered if he had spoken of this to anyone else. “But, indeed. It was none of those things, not in the singular. I didn’t anticipate my ending, and I certainly didn’t anticipate my rescue. If I had, I would have been more circumspect about which memories I gave to Potter… but no matter.
“A restorative was on my person, of course. And the house-elves - I was still the Headmaster of Hogwarts. I was saved by an elf, whose identity I won’t name, and she apparated with me to a… a friend. Who healed me.”
“A friend.” Her voice was flat.
An eyebrow twitched at her. “That is all I can say. Now, the question is - what will you say?”
“I’m sorry?” She tilted her head, her attention on his eyes as they bore into her. They were so passionate, so forceful, that she felt as if they were pulling her into their depths. Idly she wondered if all her fanciful notions were for naught - could she even handle that sort of intensity, all directed at her, after all?
“What will you tell others about my presence?”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
“Nothing, if you please,” he said, his deep voice stroking her eardrums. “I have my reasons for being on this continent.”
She nodded slowly. “Of course.” She reached out and touched his hand, surprised by the jolt that went through her at even that innocent contact. What would it feel like if- she sternly stopped that train of thought. “If you wish, I’ll make an Unbreakable Vow.”
A look of distaste crossed his face at that, and he pulled his hand away. “That won’t be necessary.” He stood suddenly, and she wondered what had set him off.
“I’m sorry for suggesting it, Pro-“ She stopped and stood along with him. “I don’t know what to call you.”
The ghost smile returned. “Call me Severus.”
“Severus, then.” She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, her mind racing. “Ah… will I see you again?”
He stared at her in silence for a moment, then reached out to stroke her cheek. Stunned, she didn’t move. “I believe so. If you come again tomorrow, we can perhaps speak further.”
She nodded, and then watched as he walked out of the door. Her eyes followed him until he left the view of the window, then she sighed, leaning against the table. So much for avoiding the dreams, she thought wryly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 3
The third time she saw him after his death, he was tall and strong, sitting across the table from her in a Muggle restaurant.
They had just finished their meal and were now lingering over glasses of white wine. The warmth from the wine and his gaze spread through her. In a husky voice, she asked, “Why haven’t you returned? Why don’t you want anyone to know?”
“I have my reasons.” Snape sat back, eyeing her intently. She shifted in her seat. This was the fifth time they’d met here, in this restaurant, the third since she’d returned from her vacation to her normal life. The apparition between continents was taxing, but she couldn’t stop herself from returning to see him.
Back in her normal life, Ron had started to notice that something was on her mind, but she assured him that she was just working things out with her parents and it was taking time. He’d nodded in understanding and simply held her, comforting her, and she writhed internally with guilt for her subterfuge even as she drank in the comfort.
Severus’ voice brought her back to the present. “Why do you keep coming here, Hermione?”
The one question she couldn’t answer. Her reasons were completely illogical, so unlike her normal self that she shrunk away from even putting them into words in her own mind. “I… I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Aren’t you happy with him?”
Her throat was dry, but she managed a tight nod. “I am.”
“Then….” He leaned forward, reaching an elegant hand across the table to twine his fingers in hers. “Why do you continue to come here, to me?”
“It’s a long story,” she whispered, rubbing his fingers with her thumb.
“I find myself with an open schedule at the moment.”
She chuckled and took a sip of wine with her free hand. She kept her gaze on the glass as she brought it back to the table, silently watching the bubbles rise, some overtaking the others in their race to the surface. “Everything, since I started Hogwarts, was so fast. So quick. Learning, studying, then the war. There was never time to think.”
“And now…”
“Now there is. I’m with Ron, but… I mean, I have all the time in the world now, to think, and I’m not. If I was, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“Because of him?”
“Because… yes. Because of him.” She shook her head, frowning, and went back to watching the bubbles.
“Why are you here?” he pressed.
“It’s not that I don’t love him. I do. It’s just…” How could she tell him the truth? That she wanted more, and the more that she wanted was based on what she’d seen in his most personal memories? Swallowing, she settled on another, more predictable angle. “I’ve never been with anyone else, not that way, and….”
“I see.” With a small smile, almost a smirk, he leaned closer. His other hand reached out to caress her wrist, tracing the veins, and that now-familiar spark flew through her body. It was disconcertingly similar to the spark she felt when Ron touched her. “Curious?”
“I… well…. I mean, no. No, of course not.”
“Come now, the most promising brain ever to cross the threshold of Hogwarts, not curious?” Severus clucked his tongue. “I can’t believe that.”
“Well, maybe I am. Wouldn’t you be?” She stopped before she spoke further. They had never discussed the memories he’d left in the Pensieve. The knowledge was there, hanging between them, and Hermione was still unwilling to touch it.
Severus watched her through hooded lids and then stopped caressing her wrist long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out a small scrap of paper. Pressing it into her palm, he murmured, “My address. If you wish to indulge your curiosity further.”
***
She had knocked on the door of the small house, heart hammering, and almost walked away three times. Almost. When the door opened, she was pulled inside, immersed in the smell and taste and feel of him.
It exciting and arousing, the motions surprisingly close to her imagination when she allowed herself to imagine, the physical sensations surprisingly close to those in her dream. Satisfying, but… empty. It was as if he had been somewhere else, or somewhen else.
After it was over she lay for a time, staring at the ceiling, not in thought. There was no need for thought. The decision was made, in her heart.
He reached over and stroked her shoulder, but she didn’t respond. “Are you going to leave?” he murmured.
“I have to.”
“You’ve chosen him, then?”
She realized, as she lay beside him, that this whole situation had been doomed from the beginning. It wasn’t the right time - that time had passed, or hadn’t yet come. She had been stretching, reaching frantically for a dream, trying to convince herself that it would be better than her reality. She couldn’t bring herself to regret it, because now she knew. The thought was a dull comfort.
“There’s nothing to choose.”
“Nothing?!” Rage suffused his face, then a great sorrow. He turned away, and she was shocked by the sound of a choked sob. Surely he couldn’t feel so much for her? Maybe the round peg of dream could fit into the square hole of reality, somehow. She began to reach out to him when he said, “He will never appreciate you as I will! He will never look into those green eyes and see what I see!”
Hermione went utterly still. She stared at his back, and everything became clear. “You still love her. You always will.”
“What are you talking about?” His voice was savage, now, as he sat up to face her.
“Wrong Mudblood, Severus. My eyes are brown.” She swallowed, then slowly stood and picked up her clothing. Even though she was relieved that this choice was now made, it still hurt to realize she’d been used. But hadn’t she been using him just as much? He had pretended she was a dead woman, and she had pretended that he was a… a dream. A construct of her own fear and doubt and willful longing.
She dressed, thinking of Ron, his open face and bright smile, and a crippling guilt swept through her. How could she have put herself through all of this, just because of some baseless doubts? He loved her, encouraged her, and didn’t imagine a dead woman’s face when he made love to her.
“Brown? That’s… that’s what I said.”
“You loved her, and always will,” she repeated. “How can any woman compete with her? She’s perfect in memory, isn’t she?”
He fell back to the bed, eyes on the ceiling, defeat in every line of his body. “You’re very much like her.”
She stared at him in silence for a long moment, then left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Epilogue
Her wedding to Ron was beautiful, her marriage restful and filled with love. It wasn’t the blazing intensity that had once haunted her dreams; it was the type that could nurture family and friends and peace.
She was happy.
Years later, she found herself in that same trinket shop in Australia, this time with her daughter Rose in tow. They were visiting Hermione’s parents for a long weekend and Rose loved to browse the shops nearby.
As she often had in the years since she’d closed that door quietly behind her, Hermione sensed something over her shoulder. Her head whipped around but, as always, she only saw a ghost image from the corner of her eye. Indistinct. Was it Severus? Could it be?
She shook her head resolutely and turned back to her daughter, who was exclaiming over a statue of a cat. That door had closed, and it needed to remain closed so that she could concentrate on her life, her children, her family.
She knew that she had the power to destroy the door and what was behind it. She knew, also, why she didn’t. Perhaps someday, when her children had families of their own, she could afford to open it once again. Perhaps someday, she could let her dreams free.