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Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

Hermione

The war ended with the tang of magic and smoke billowing up from the ruins of the castle, backlit by a slowly rising sun, its rays soft, as it warmed those still standing in solemn hope. The years had been long and devastating, growing progressively darker making their triumph over Voldemort a quiet one. There was no celebration, the past a lingering whisper in everyone’s mind as they awaited another sinister resurrection. But none came and slowly as the dead were identified and mourned, the remaining Death Eaters rounded up, and repairs to the castle commenced, the hard earned and long awaited revelry began.

It was that inescapable revelry that saw Hermione with her head down as she hustled up the streets that straddled the divide between Muggle and Magical London. To obscure her now famous features from the witches and wizards who clogged the narrow cobblestone path, she wore a rather plain cloak of emerald with the hood pulled up around her face. In and out she wove, dodging possible recognition as her cloak billowed behind her, matching her purposeful stride.

Like Harry—and as it had been during their fourth year when she found herself caught in the web of a fabricated love triangle—she had not taken to her sudden launch into fame well. She was no one. Had done nothing special. Her friend needed her and as it had been for seven years, that was all she needed to know before going with him and standing at his side, front, and back. It wasn’t bravery or courage that propelled her, it was loyalty and logic. A simple question she knew the answer to immediately every time she asked it: if not her, if not Harry, then who?

Her simple answer during the singular interview she and the boys granted, hadn’t mattered. It served only to further endear her to the population turning an already uncomfortable awe into unsettling worshipful reverence. They now called her a darling, humble, brilliant, beautiful, even coquettish.

She, coquettish? It was laughable and that was exactly what she did as she wadded up the article and tossed it in the bin where rubbish belonged.

In the weeks since, she had foolishly hoped things would die down. Of course they didn’t. The true defeat of Voldemort was the news of the century. As far as Britain and Ireland were concerned, his fall to Harry was akin to Grindelwald's defeat at the hands of Dumbledore. They were now heroes, celebrities, icons who would be receiving Order of Merlins and their portraits on chocolate frog cards. It was absolutely ludicrous to her. Especially the obsession that had been born in the wake of victory.

It mattered not that there were no scandalous war torn love stories to be told about herself and one or both of the boys during their time on the run. Nor did they care that every request for an interview was met with stonewall silence. Or that they were trying their hardest to fade away and deal with the months, years, of trauma they had endured because of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Everything they did was front page news. Their image, her image, was everywhere.

A splash of the photo she knew would one day grace the pages of not only Hogwarts, A History, but every historical text, of she, Harry, and Ron haggard but victorious as they stood amongst the ruins backlit by the rising sun, a lone tear rolling down her cheek as she hugged Harry and Ron hugged them both. A spread of her on the castle grounds taking and giving direction as she helped clear the wreckage making way for the rebuild. A quick repeated flash of a bulb as she navigated the streets each afternoon on her way to St Mungo’s the photos finding their way to Witch Weekly and the Life and Style section of the Prophet where she was lauded for the fit of her Muggle jeans, the pink chiffon ribbon in her hair, or the sweet ruffled frills of her dress—which would be accompanied by speculation over which hospital bed bound war hero of a wizard she was possibly dressing for and regularly visiting—. Then, without fail, inspired replicas of her clothing would adorn the mannequins of Diagon Alley the very next day and just as expeditiously sell out. She was now an icon, an aspiration for others, and it was one more thing she longed to see fade away. A responsibility she neither asked for, nor wanted.

She was Hermione, just Hermione. A witch caught between being a girl and a woman and as lost and directionless now that the war was over as the rest of them.

Hermione cut across the street passing a travel ad for Bora Bora, her landmark for a side entrance into the hospital. She stopped to gaze at the turquoise waters and the thatched roof overwater bungalows. Peace, serenity, anonymity. A deep breath in and her eyes fluttered closed as she pictured herself lounging on the daybed that was suspended over the warm ocean water.

“One day,” she quietly promised herself before opening her eyes and continuing on her way.

Another block and she arrived at the nondescript, newspaper covered glass doors. If a Muggle were to look, all they’d see was an abandoned London building. But if one were in possession of magical sight and looked a little closer, the grit and grime fell away taking with it all traces of the forgettable. Like everything else in their world, St Mungo’s was full of opulence and bursting with color. The simple metal framed doors were now ornately carved wood filled with stained glass and glimmering gold paint proclaiming the name of the hospital in art deco letters.

Hermione wrapped her fingers around the gilded handle and raised her other hand to her cloak, pulling the hood down. Immediately she was met with the flash of a camera capturing the moment her body turned toward the previously hidden reporter and photographer as she gave a hearty yank on the heavy door.

“Miss Granger!” the reporter shouted. “Do you wish to refute claims from inside St Mungo’s that you spend your afternoons at the bedside of Death Eater Severus Snape, infamous for his murder of Albus Dumbledore last June and for his tyrannical reign as Headmaster of Hogwarts, a position gifted to him by none other than Lord Voldemort himself?”

Credit was due to the ambitious reporter. He knew exactly how to bait her by dangling falsities in front of her like a carrot to a horse. However unlucky for him, she refused to rise to the occasion. Her words and attention were now currency and she would sooner plant herself back into the Forest of Dean running from the snatchers than give the upstart—or any other leech that fancied themselves members of the press—her back to utilize as a stepping stone to front page sensationalism.

Instead, she merely smiled at the pair and feigned ignorance. “I’m not sure I know what you speak of, sir. Good day.”

“What about his ongoing, closed door trial proceedings that commenced Monday morning? Have you any word—”

His words were cut off by the hospital door sealing shut leaving her to quietly stand before a waiting Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. “Bloody vultures,” she sneered, shaking out her arms in disgust.

She unfastened her cloak with a sharp flourish, the garment folding itself before she dropped the bundle into the whiskey colored leather satchel she carried. Her beaded bag had been promptly confiscated two days post Battle of Hogwarts—a name given to the blood soaked night by the media—when she and the boys had begun debriefing Kingsley and the rest of the interim emergency elected members of Ministry, within the first of what became many secret conclaves whose records would never see the light of day. The minutes of the meetings and the information divulged during the proceedings buried in the depths of the Department of Mysteries. Information like what horcruxes are, how they are made, and the chilling details about how they can latch onto other living, whole souls as was done intentionally by Voldemort with Nagini and unintentionally with Harry.

“I’m afraid they’ll only get worse,” Professor McGonagall sighed, clasping her hands together. “Kingsly arrived not too long before yourself with word of Severus’s trial.”

The news immediately caught Hermione’s attention and she looked up from digging around in her oversized purse for the new potions journal she had picked up just that morning. “And?”

She didn’t think there was any conceivable way Professor Snape would be convicted of his crimes as he was acting under orders given by Dumbledore himself. However, logic and reason seldom held sway over the heart. People were hurt, grieving, and angry. Atrocities had been committed across the country and within the walls of Hogwarts itself. And at the helm of defiling the hallowed grounds of the castle, was Severus Snape.

Already a known Death Eater following the first wizarding war, his favor had been poor. Dumbledore’s word and assurance having done little for him in the eyes of others. But Harry’s loud and vocal pronouncement of having witnessed Professor Snape kill their revered headmaster, had all but sealed his fate with the masses. And the few who still believed or questioned or searched for a grain of what Dumbledore saw in the young potions master fell silent when he stepped into the role of headmaster himself and allowed his fellow Death Eaters to infiltrate the teaching staff. 

The school under his rule had been so dark, whispers of it had managed to reach her, Ron, and Harry while on the run. Confirmation of such stories witnessed for themselves when they made their grand return through the new tunnels in the school. Not even his own colleagues who had once been his teachers had stood by him. He wore his mask and played his part with such expertise, no one had stopped to ponder the validity and true motives of his controlling edicts. Not even Professor McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey. Guilt for their easy belief in the worst of him, heavy on their shoulders now that the truth was out.

For ten months he was one of the most public faces of Voldemort’s regime. A structural pillar holding up the new world order. And Hermione feared that no amount of facts and weight of support for Professor Snape would be enough to allow reason and law to rule as it should.

Madam Pomfrey took her by the elbow, guiding her past the nurses’ station, murmuring, “Not here,” nodding to a far too interested looking witch behind the desk.

The three witches made their way down one of the inpatient corridors of the Creature-Induced Injuries floor. When the hall came to a T, they went left and presented their wands to an Auror who stood guard. With quick inspection, he nodded and stepped aside, opening the door to the private wing for them.

Once inside, Professor McGonagall answered. “He’s been exonerated of all charges.”

“Exonerated? Not acquitted? Are you sure?” Hermione questioned. “But he was never convicted.”

“No, he was not,” Madam Pomfrey confirmed. “But Kingsley wanted the new Wizengamot to go further than a ruling. He wanted to make it irrefutable to any who tried to smear Severus’s name, that he is not only not guilty, but innocent and was unmistakably acting under direct orders from Dumbledore himself.”

“You couldn’t possibly mean—”

“Yes,” the witches simultaneously confirmed with Professor McGonagall adding, “The closed proceedings will be made public with the evening edition of the Prophet. Everything from the minutes to the evidence examined will become public record. Including Severus’s memories.

Hermione’s lips parted, her inhale catching in her throat as her eyes turned down the corridor to stare at the door of the room where the man in question lay in a magically induced coma. Their professor’s memories had been meant for Harry’s eyes only. Something her friend had been steadfast in honoring, only surrendering them when no other avenue for clearing the professor’s name presented and he’d yet to awaken following his attack.

“What could have possessed Kingsley to do such a thing?” she whispered as if the man they spoke of would suddenly awaken.

“His title may currently be Interim Minister for Magic but I think we all know that come the June elections, he will be our Minister in full capacity. It is my belief that Kingsley is doing this so that—”

Hermione didn’t get to hear the rest of Professor McGonagall’s speculation. For as she spoke, ear splitting sirens pierced the corridor sending medi-witches and wizards—Madam Pomfrey included—into a frenzied flurry as they rushed Professor Snape’s hospital room door.

The man that in due time would be their Minister was unceremoniously shoved out and not missing her opportunity, Professor McGonagall pounced on him with anxious concern. “Kingsley, what’s happened?”

Never taking his eyes off the partially ajar room, Kingsley answered, “It’s Snape. He’s awake.”

Chapter Text

Severus

Sharp teeth tore into the flesh of his neck. Immediately, the scent of iron flooded his nose. Briefly, he thought he could taste the metallic tang on his tongue. Then it was green eyes, garbled words, and a rush of memories running free like tears. Finally, as darkness consumed him, it was the scent of roses.

Soft, delicate roses wrapped in warm, sugary vanilla, and kissed with sweet, honey-like jasmine. It was a combination that first presented itself seventeen years ago when he was brewing Amortentia for his NEWT level students. A scent profile he hated right away for what its appearance hinted toward. Convinced he’d made a misstep in the brewing, he threw the potion out and started again. However, the gentle, feminine profile remained, taking the place of Lily’s much more aggressive, fiery perfume. The first of several clues he reluctantly accepted over the years as proof that time does heal all wounds and that the heart does eventually move on. Particularly if the love one had lost was never really theirs at the start.

With a final inhale of what he once hated but slowly grew to accept, Severus found comfort as he greeted Death, the wisps of romantic notes and how it called for everything that never was, his last regret as darkness consumed him.

Roses. Fresh but faint. It was an allure that wafted through the nothingness. It called for him to come home if only he could open his eyes. But try as he might, the feat was too great and before he knew it, he had succumbed to the void once more.

Again, the delicate perfume floated through and pierced the veil that kept him trapped. This time, it was accompanied by a sweet lilt.

He couldn’t make out the words that were said, but they washed over him like a caress to his soul. A promise of something he knew not, lingering within the dulcet tones.

The need to know who spoke to him with such an ethereal quality consumed him. He was desperate to reach out to them, sure that wherever they were, was where he was meant to go. It was where he needed to go. If only his eyes would open or his words would leave his lips. If he could only coax his fingers to move. Something, anything.

In the end, the call of bleak, nothingness was stronger and he found himself free falling back into the unknown.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

“My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

“The more I have, for both are infinite.”

The mellifluous voice followed the familiar words with a dreamy sigh. “I do so love Romeo and Juliet. Though I’m sure if you were awake, you’d chastise me for reading you such drivel,” she chuckled, the sound like Christmas bells tinkling in the chilled wind.

Severus thought a smile might have twitched at his lips but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe if he tried not reaching for whoever came for him, he’d finally breach the surface and find her. So he lay there in the shadows listening as she continued on until another voice arrived, this one unwelcome.

The second voice was more familiar to him. It tugged at something in his memory, though whatever, or whoever, it was, was too deep into the recesses of his mind for him to grasp.

What he did know was, they vexed him. Not because of the sound of their voice or some self-preserving instinct, but because of what they said upon their arrival.

“You’re still here? It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

“Is it?” the voice who succeeded in drawing him forth questioned. “I hadn’t noticed.” Then more softly, almost shyly, she said, “I must have gotten lost in Verona and with such a captive audience in Professor Snape, I had no desire to return.”

Professor…

She had called him Professor. Did that mean she was a student? Though after so many years of teaching, he was hard pressed to find a witch who hadn’t been in his tutelage at some point during her education.

However, it was there in how she said his name. As if after everything, her respect for him had never wavered. Her identity tugged in his mind, so close yet so far away.

Who was she? Why was she here? Was he supposed to know her? Recognize her?

Severus didn’t have a single answer and it was maddening. 

An indulgent chuckle came from the second, older, mothering voice and drew his attention back to what was happening just beyond his view. “Be that as it may, dear, visiting hours are nearly over and Severus needs his rest if we have any hope of him waking.”

“Just one more scene?”

Yes, he thought. Just one more scene before you take her from me.

“Alright, but only one.”

“I promise,” his guide vowed before returning to the tragic muggle tale of teenage love, passion, and family feud.

“One kiss and I’ll descend.”

His beacon gave another wistful sigh of dreams over the ill-fated romance. “I’m sorry, Professor. I fear I’ve broken my promise to Madam Pomfrey and went over our one scene. But don’t worry, I’ll return tomorrow to finish. Maybe then, you’ll wake up. If not, I’ll pick up the new potions journal and read it to you the day after. How’s that sound?”

Her fingers were slender and small as they tentatively wrapped around two of his much larger and thicker digits. She squeezed but didn’t let him go. Then, coming from just above the surface, he thought her lips brushed his temple. But the moment he began to fight and struggle to reach her, the cold hands of Death snatched him back, stealing him from her.

Was this to be his penance? Forever receiving hope in her scent and voice only to lose her?

“Severus, I… I had no idea,” the man said. “I’m so sorry. We all are. We should have known, should have questioned it.

“I’d like to say it’s credit to you and how well you played your role of spy, but I think we both know the truth. No matter how good you were, your subterfuge would have never succeeded had we not all been so quick to accuse, blame, and believe the worst. We played right into yours and Dumbledore’s, and even Voldemort’s, hands by casting you out and painting you as the villain like we did. It’s why—Merlin, you may wake up just to kill me for this,” the man breathed. “That's why I’m going to make your trial public record. All of it. Your memories included. When you’re ready to come back to us, I want there to be no questions or suspicion cast your way. You’ve done enough, my friend.”

Lost in between, Severus didn’t know what memories to which the man spoke of, but something in his words provided the foothold he needed to escape.

As the man continued to talk, Severus climbed. Higher and higher, up from the depths of the beyond he rose. He was tired, his breath in short supply, his muscles past the point of fatigue and growing heavier. The further he ascended, the stronger the whispers that bid him to let go and fall backward grew. But nothing was going to stop him.

Soon, light began to pierce the veil. Slight beams slicing through to provide a much needed encouragement. Further and further he climbed, shaking off the call for rest. This was it. It was finally going to happen. Escape.

Eventually the slivers widened and brightened. With them, came clearer sound and sharpening shape. No longer was the man a disembodied figment of his mind.

Just a little more, he huffed.

A misted sensation he easily recalled as sweat coated his skin as the summit came within his reach. With renewed strength, he grabbed hold of the edge and hefted himself up, shattering the veil.

Severus was greeted by piercing sirens and blinding light as he gasped and choked on the air as if he’d been deprived of breath. His eyes were wild in their search of his surroundings, the adjustment to the harsh light taking too long. With desperate hands, he both grasped his ravaged throat and grappled with the sheets for his wand but came up empty as a team of witches and wizards in pea-green robes stormed the room.

“Severus, it’s okay,” Kingsley assured while he pried Severus’s hand from the thick bandages that covered his wound. “You’re in St Mungo’s.”

If he was so comfortably cared for and amongst a former ally, then surely they must know the truth about his loyalties. But what did that mean? Had they succeeded? Was the Dark Lord defeated? Had the boy lived? And what of her? Was she real? Or a figment of his comatose state. Had any of it been real? Or was it all just a dream?

Severus grasped Kingsley’s hand, holding on tightly as he struggled to ask his questions, his throat like sand paper and his voice hardly more than a groaning croak. “...the…war…”

Kingsley closed his hand over Severus’s and answered, “Over, mate. We won. We won. And you, you lucky son of a bitch—”

One of the witches yanked Kingsley back from him and started to shove him out of the room. “Minister, you must leave. We have to work.”

“I’ll be in the hall, Severus!” he shouted as he was finally pushed from the room, Poppy taking the vacant space at his bedside.

A cool, wrinkled hand cupped his face and tears shimmered in worn, tired eyes as he turned to look at the medi-witch who had been like a mother to him throughout his life. “My dear boy, it’s so good to see you. I didn’t… I feared I’d never… it’s not enough I know, but I am so sorry.”

He knew as the others fluttered around poking and prodding him with their wands, running diagnostics, and asking questions he wasn’t listening to, he had a choice to make. One that would dictate the rest of his second chance at life. It was a question he often asked himself when laying in a too firm bed in a private room within the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts following the sustaining of injuries concurrent with his life as a spy: what would he do differently if given the chance? How would he live?

Severus had toiled with the question so frequently he had begun to keep a journal of the answers that came to him. And as the end grew near, he had filled its pages not only with answers, but with wishes for his next life. Promises he vowed to keep if ever the opportunity were to arise for him to reinvent himself.

He would be more patient, more kind. Softer. Forgiving. Indulgent if given the chance and right witch. He would allow others in and not keep them at arms length or further. He would laugh and love without force or restraint. He would live.

Resolute in giving himself a better future, he closed his hand over Poppy’s and rasped, “You’re here, that’s enough,” feeling the power of hope and freedom for the first time in almost twenty years.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The healers hadn’t kept Professor Snape in a coma for long. He’d been too volatile—arms flailing and damaging bouts of fear induced magic exploding from within him—and his pain too intense to allow them to properly work. However, once he was stable and a course for the antivenom set, they’d removed that course of potions from his treatment plan. However, he hadn’t woken as expected.

Days went by and even Madam Pomfrey, who had assured Hermione and Professor McGonagall both that he would wake when ready, had begun to worry. It wasn’t common for those who had been placed in magically induced comas to remain in suspended slumber for more than a handful of hours once the potions stopped dripping into their system. But Professor Snape had been through a lot. Not just with the attack, but from the last year—the last three years really—of being a spy for the Order. Surely it had taken its toll on him and he was in far greater need of a healing rest than they had originally suspected.

At least that’s what she told herself while she sat at his side, reading to him and conversing with him day after day. But as each afternoon passed with her sitting in the hard little chair—occasionally, scooting his arm to the side and taking a perch on a small section of his bed to give her poor bum a break—her hope waned.

As her professor, he had seemed infallible. He was imposing which made him appear larger than life. Was unquestionably stronger than anyone she knew—even Dumbledore and Voldemort she suspected. And he was frightfully brilliant. But laying in the hospital bed as he was, bandages layered on his neck, and a never emptying tray of potions at his bedside, none of that was to be found.

But now, he was awake. Had been for three days. Not that she had gone in to see him. She’d been too shy.

It was one thing to show up when he didn’t know she was there. It was another thing entirely to face him while he was conscious. He was caustic at the best of times and at the worst… well she didn’t want to think about it. Suffice it to say, she was more than a little leery of what version of Professor Snape she would receive. Especially because Kingsley hadn’t stopped the evening printing of Professor Snape’s trial verdict.

As insufferable as it was, the bloody press merely followed her, hoping to stumble upon a story. But his, it was the story of the century and all of Britain knew about it.

They knew what he had done for the war, the sacrifices he had made, the terrible things he had endured and witnessed, the soul-tarnishing prices he paid to both masters. Between the article and now public recount of the trail, not a single detail had been spared. Not even the why behind Professor Snape’s actions. His entire life had been filleted open for public consumption and Hermione was not too proud to say the unknown of his reaction had kept her away.

However, yesterday afternoon, Professor McGonagall had received an urgent owl from Kingsley at the Ministry requesting her presence at his office in the morning. Whatever it was in regards to, she didn’t know and hadn’t the chance to ask. Upon reading the missive, her professor had asked that she take up her place at Professor Snape’s side. Hermione had floundered for any excuse as to why she couldn’t, but none had formulated.

Thus, she was at St Mungo’s pacing the quiet halls—her white sneakers occasionally squeaking on the tile as she turned and the ruffles of her skirt with the rosebuds flouncing with every anxious step—while a mediwitch was in with Professor Snape.

She was in the midst of giving herself a pep talk when the door to his room opened. Out stepped the mediwitch who has been doing morning rounds. She wore a bright smile on her face as she tucked her wand into the pocket of her unfortunately colored pea green robes.

That was promising. Surely if he had been in a foul mood the witch wouldn’t look so chipper.

“Good morning, Miss Granger. Professor Snape—Severus,” she corrected, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe she was addressing him as such. “He’s all set for visitors. If you could though, maybe try and coax him into taking the additional pain reliever. He’s quite stubborn about it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She started to turn away, then asked, “Forgive me, I’m not familiar with the morning staff.”

“Oh, of course! I’m Tillie Weedles. Former Hufflepuff. I graduated when you were a second year.”

The name didn’t ring a bell, but nevertheless, Hermione committed it to memory. “Nice to meet you.”

“You as well. And Miss Granger—"

“Hermione, please.”

“Hermione… thank you. What you did, what you helped Harry Potter do, just… thank you.”

As the witch spoke, Hermione began to fidget. It felt as if bugs had begun to crawl along her skin. To distract herself, she twirled the ends of the velvet bow that adorned her skirt around her finger. And inside her shoes, her toes curled and uncurled.

Then out of nowhere, Tillie flung her arms around her. Hermione ceased to move. Her whole body was rigid. Sweat coated her palms. Her heart skipped, then raced, growing faster and faster. Distantly, she thought she heard spell fire and the crack of falling trees.

But no, she was in St Mungo’s. She wasn’t in the forest, and she wasn’t being held by Greyback. It was Tillie. Tillie Weedles, former Hufflepuff, now a mediwitch.

Still, her heart was frantic and she felt as if air was coming into her lungs through the smallest of straws.

They called her a war hero. More like one turn short of having gone round the bend. 

Before her lack of air became truly problematic, the witch released her. Tears shined in her eyes and as Hermione heaved in a breath, Tillie repeated, “Thank you.”

She never knew what to say in these situations. You’re welcome? No problem? Of course. I was happy to be Crucioed by a mad witch and have my bloody arm carved up like a Sunday roast so Harry could live another day and be one step closer to saving all of Wizarding Britain? So, she merely nodded and offered what she hoped was a convincing smile.

Tillie wiped at her eyes and sucked in a breath, squaring her shoulders. “Right then, he’s all yours. But a fair bit of warning,” she said, lowering her voice. “He's been different since waking up.”

“How do you mean?”

The mediwitch looked at Professor Snape’s door and thought. “Hmm… I think it best you see for yourself.”

Well, that was about as comforting as a hug from Professor Sprout’s Devil’s Snare.

Hermione mumbled to herself as she headed for the door. “You fought in a bloody war not three weeks ago. Pluck up, Granger. It’s only Professor Snape.” For good measure—or an additional delay—she smoothed her hands over her skirt making sure the ruffles fell just right and pulled on the long sleeves of her white v-neck. It once fit like a second skin. But after her substantial weight loss from the last year, it had a tendency to fall off her shoulder and bag around her middle. The skirt too required her to regularly tug it back up her hips. However both were soft, delicate, and impractically feminine. All things of herself she hoped hadn’t been lost to the war. 

She took a breath and with the confidence of her house, knocked on the partially ajar door.

“Enter,” Professor Snape called, his normally smooth voice rough but otherwise absent of any indicator to his mood.

Last she had seen, his room had been rather stark. White walls, practical tiled floor, a white partition, and white curtains covering a rather small window. Aside from his potions, there hadn’t been much in the way of well wishes atop the night table. Only a small plant from Professor Sprout, a box of chocolates from Professor McGonagall, cheery balloons from Madam Pomfrey, and a lopsided blanket Hermione had knitted at his side when her voice had grown tired from reading.

However, a front page article in the Prophet had changed all that. The space was bursting with color in the forms of flowers and plants. On the night table, sweets were stacked haphazardly one on top of the other. And on a second night table that belonged to the unoccupied bed that shared the room, was an overflowing basket of unopened letters and cards.

The sight of it all brought a smile to her face. For too long Professor Snape had been mistrusted, hated, and utterly alone. If there was anyone deserving of the public’s love for their efforts in the war, it was him.

The man in question sat propped up in his bed, hidden behind the morning’s issue of the Prophet. Across his lap, was her blanket and the latest issue of the Quibbler, his place marked with a strip of ribbon that had a radish charm at the end of it. 

From behind the newspaper he asked, “So, what’ll it be today, Minerva? Wizard’s Chess? Gobstones? Exploding Snap? Runic Riddles?”

“Actually, Sir, Professor McGonagall is in a meeting with Kingsley this morning. I do however have a deck of Muggle cards in my purse if you’d like.”

The paper rustled as he brought it down and folded it. His dark eyes fell upon her and she became rooted to the spot. They searched her face, cataloged her stance, and examined her body from head to toe. It was critical to be sure, but the slow, methodical way he studied her made her heart kick up. Though given how her face felt suddenly flush, she suspected it was for an entirely different reason than that of what occurred in the hall. 

“Miss Granger.” It wasn’t a particularly warm or bright greeting, but his acknowledgment lacked scorn or scathing which was more than she’d ever received from him over the last seven years.

Hermione beamed at him. “Professor Snape.”

His hand briefly caressed the dark blue fibers of the blanket and drew her attention to it. “I believe it is you I am to thank for this.”

She fully came into the room and approached his bed. There was hesitation in her steps as she got to the now cushioned chair at his side. However, a quick, single nod of his head banished the unease of believing she may be unwelcome. She deposited her purse to the floor and lowered herself into the seat—her ankles crossed and tucked to the side, hands softly in her lap, and her back straight.

“I made it for you,” she replied dumbly. “Which of course you already knew.”

That’s when it happened. The thing Tillie had said Hermione would have to see for herself to understand.

Professor Snape smiled. Not a sneer or malicious curl of his lips. An actual—albeit small—smile that was accompanied by a soft and amused exhale that she could almost classify as a chuckle. And Merlin, did it look devastating on him.

There was still an air of fragility to him as he convalesced. His already fair skin was frightfully pale from the blood loss and slow replenishment. His cheeks and jaw were a little too sharp, his robe slightly too big, and the corded tendons of his neck a tad too prominent. All signs that pointed to him having gone too long without proper nourishment as she had. And like her, dark circles were smudged beneath his eyes—though thanks to a few rather clever cosmetic charms, hers were hidden.

But his smile—or rather the whisper of one beginning as if he were learning the action for the first time—thawed it all. It brought a sparkling warmth to his eyes and a softness to the harshness that ordinarily clung to him like a jumper that had shrunk in the wash. Before her eyes, he de-aged and she was certain that if he ever unleashed a full smile or gave into genuine laughter, she’d be ruined.

She touched the lopsided corner of the blanket and said, “It’s baby alpaca wool. It’s supposed to be warmer than cashmere and more durable but just as soft and luxurious. It always felt drafty when I’d be here in the afternoons—”

“When you’d be here in the afternoons?” he repeated. It was the only sign of curiosity, his face maddeningly stoic as if he still had to conceal all thoughts and emotions. Which, after nearly two decades of having to master all thoughts and reactions, Hermione assumed was maybe the case. That he possibly didn’t know how to act now that he was well and truly free. Further reason she believed he more than others deserved the public’s awe and the chance to experience the new peace that was settling in. 

“Um, yes. I hope that’s alright. After…” she trailed off at the mention of Nagini unsure how he’d react, if it would trigger something within him.

She needn’t have worried though. Confined to a bed as he was, Professor Snape was mentally as strong as ever, the name and events coming far easier to him. “After Nagini was set on me.”

Hermione’s vision began to blur and her breath stuttered as she took in a sharp inhale, her lip quivering before she bit it. She nodded her head and ran a finger under her eye to brush away a rebellious tear. Then, against her own volition, she quietly confided her own reason why. “I see it every night in my dreams, only… I’m unable to save you and Harry, he doesn’t come back. We fail. I fail and that failure follows me throughout the day.

“I go to help repair the castle in the mornings and all I can see while there is what happened and what it looked like that morning with the covered bodies in the Great Hall and the devastated families. I go out to do the most mundane of tasks and people stop me on the street. They want to say thank you or ask to hear our story. Some even want to see my scar. And it’s like they’re unaware that they’re asking me to relive the worst months, the worst moments, of my life for their entertainment and profit. They didn’t see the cost, they don’t understand and it makes me so…”

“Angry,” he quietly filled in.

Hermione looked up from where she had been yanking on the sleeve of her shirt until the hem covered all but the tips of her fingers. She met his dark, knowing eyes—her own having lost their battle against her willfully defiant tears. “I just want to scream at them. Hex them, jinx them, even curse them, and demand why they weren’t there; why we had to pay the price; why didn’t they stand up and fight before it came to this; why were we deemed expendable. The anger it’s—”

“All consuming.”

“Exactly and the only time I don’t feel it, is when I’m here.”

“I will never apologize for the role I played, the things I had to do, and the words that left my mouth. But, what was asked of you all wasn’t fair or right. We made the errors that paved the way for what became of our world and then dropped it upon your shoulders. It was a lead crown your head was never meant to wear and for that, I am sorry. We failed you. We should have been better, should have done better, and your anger with us, with everyone is more than justified.”

“Professor, you were only twenty, twenty-one.”

“And you, Hermione—” her name on his lips ceased her fidgeting and garnered him her unmoving and rapt attention “—are hardly eighteen.”

“I’m nearly nineteen,” she corrected. “September birthday.”

“And far more wise than any of us had been at that age.” His mouth ticked up in a smirk. “And nearly as intelligent.”

“Well, I did miss an entire year of school,” she retorted with a tartness that was sweetened by her blush and smile. 

“Truly unacceptable, Miss Granger.”

Her hand came over her his, her fingers wrapping around two of his as she often did when he had been in his coma, and she murmured, “I prefer Hermione, Professor.”

She wasn’t sure what shocked her most: that she had done it at all, that she hadn’t immediately let him go once she realized she had done it, or—and most likely—that he had, and continued to, allow it. However, neither option was as shocking as what came next. “As you pointed out, you’re no longer my student. Therefore, you should call me Severus.”

Hermione couldn’t help the smile that took over her face. Nor could she stop the subtle shift of her body that drew her closer to Professor Snape, Severus. A shift that didn’t go unnoticed by him as he took a deeper inhale with her movement.

“Are you wearing perfume?”

The hand that had fingers wrapped around his, flew to the pulse in her neck. “Is it awful? I can step into the corridor and cleanse it if it aggravates you.”

“Quite the opposite. I think…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” he dismissed. “You mentioned Muggle cards.”

“I did!” Hermione grabbed her purse up from the floor and rummaged through it, producing an unopened deck for his inspection.

Severus took the deck from her hands and opened the seal. His fingers were nimble as he flicked the unneeded cards out and began to shuffle. “Do you know Gin Rummy?”

“I do.”

“Good. We’ll play to 500.”

She recalled Tillie’s request about the pain potions and added, “And when I win, you take the additional pain medicine.”

“I’ll take the bet because you’ll most certainly not be winning.”

Hermione offered him a sly smirk and shrug of her shoulders as she picked up the cards he had dealt her and began organizing them. “We’ll see.”

And thus went the rest of their morning. They played cards, discussed the rubbish within the Prophet, and when his eyes began to droop in the late morning, she read to him from the potions journal she still carried in her purse until he was fast asleep, whereupon her fingers wrapped back around his and she too drifted in and out of a quiet slumber.

Tillie had been right. Severus Snape post war was an experience not easily explained, and Hermione wanted every minute of it.