The funeral portrait by the French press, Chapter 2 Time was
more than just a universal tick tock of rhythm.
It feels different to her now, as though it is passing faster.
At least, that's how she perceives it.
Ever since Severus revealed himself to her, Hermione feels
like time is slipping through her fingers.
Like at any moment she might blink and it would all come to
an end far too soon. It hardens her resolve.
She intends to spend every second of the extra time they've
been given cherishing the fact that he is here with her.
She feels that she's been in love with him her whole life,
but knows that's ridiculous. They barely knew one another
before their time in the safe house together through the war.
He doesn't reveal himself to anyone but her, which at first
she is thrilled by. The month after he begins living
with her, she brings it up and he tells her that he isn't ready
to be Severus Snape again just yet, so she drops the subject,
willing to let it pass for a little while longer.
Their days are spent with him anonymously writing articles to
submit to potions, periodicals, and brewing a little in the
small kitchen of the flat. Meanwhile, she goes to her
tedious Ministry job. She works as the junior
assistant to the Minister now, but it's a job she never had
expected to be in. She never finished her
schooling, though, and took her Newts at the Ministry following
the end of the war, when everything was still raw and her
life was in shambles. It's still in shambles, she
thinks bitterly as she drags herself through her morning
routine every day. She doesn't confide this to
Severus though, too afraid to burst the bubble of happiness
that surrounds the one good thing she does have in her life.
Coming home to him every night is the only bright spot in this
world that feels so broken now, even with Voldemort vanquished
and his Death Eaters dead or imprisoned.
She has no friends, no family, no goals or ambitions.
All she has is Severus, and luckily for her, he is enough.
Learning to live with him again is like putting on an old, well
worn pair of shoes. They fit perfectly and it's
comfortable. Even with the addition of their
new relationship, she feels that things are going rather well.
He holds her at night when she wakes up crying from her
nightmares, and she pins him down whenever he thrashes around
in his sleep. His body's still suffering from
the after effects of being subjected to far too many
Crusiatus Curses throughout the years.
In bed at night, he reads to her, still working his way
through the catalog of her favorite books that he refused
to read before. They'd made it through several
other novels from the Discworld series before finally moving on
to Jane Austen. Of all the things she loved to
read, she'd never been so baffled as to discover several.
Snape had not read anything by the beloved Regency author.
He'd snorted at her in Division back then, proclaiming of all
the overrated drivel. I don't need to read about
people being rude, miserable, and poor.
I'm living it. Hermione stopped bringing up
books after that, certain that he didn't care for her interests
and found her tedious. How wrong she'd been.
She hadn't been surprised when he didn't really like Emma.
She'd been thrilled when he shyly admitted to liking Sense
and Sensibility, and neither one could ignore the number of
parallels they could draw between he and Fitzwilliam
Darcy. Eventually they moved on to the
Bronte sisters, and Severus chose Wuthering Heights, not
bothering to ease himself into their particular brand of grim
romance with something lighter. Why tug slowly at the plaster?
He argued. She hardly knew what to say to
that. At night, after their teeth are
brushed, they slide beneath the covers and he picks up where he
left off in the book the evening before.
I'm wearying to escape to that glorious world and to always be
there, not seeing it dimly through tears and yearning for
it through the walls of an aching heart, but really with it
and in it. The words he reads out are
melancholic, but his voice is low and soothing, wrapping
around her like a comforting blanket.
Hermione listens with rapt attention as he reads but soon
becomes tired, her yawns punctuating his verse with
increasing frequency. He slides the bookmark between
the pages and sets it aside before shutting off the bedside
lamp and curling around her in the centre of the bed.
Having Severus with her is the only thing she needs to make
this world they live in variable.
A month later and nothing has changed.
Hermione grows frustrated with her own lack of focus and
inactivity. She remembers having lofty
dreams and goals, but she isn't qualified for anything now.
She feels adrift and directionless, with only Severus
as her anchor, keeping her grounded and sane.
Sometimes even that doesn't feel like it's enough.
We need to do something. She announces one night after
they've finished dinner. What do you want to do?
He coaxes gently, knowingly. Apparently he's been
anticipating this conversation, and of course he would have.
I don't know. Hermione admits, staring at the
wood grain of the table. Do you want to further your
studies in anything? What interests you?
He is so patient with her she wants to cry.
She shrugs instead, trying to keep the sadness off her face.
Instead of accepting her silence.
He stands up from the table, taking her hands into his as he
urges her up. She lets him lead her into the
sitting room, waving his hand behind him, sending their dishes
away to the sink. She is astounded still by his
command of wanderous magic. They sit beside one another on
the couch, and he summons a notebook and a ballpoint pen to
them, much to her surprise. Hermione likes to use them
because it's more convenient than having to uncap an ink
bottle and sharpen her quills all of the time.
Start a list of things that would interest you.
He told her, pushing the writing implements into her hands.
Your work is beneath you. Let's change that.
She stares at him silently, grateful for his support and
encouragement. All right, she agrees.
The rest of the night they spend discussing her options, writing
a list of pros and cons, narrowing it down so that she
might have some chance of deciding what to do with her
life now there is no longer a war on.
Later, after they've gone to bed, Severus has set aside a
book they've been reading. She turns over to face him,
running her fingers down his narrow chest.
His dark eyes flutter open questioningly, an eyebrow raised
as her fingers continue their journey down his warm flesh.
She can't help the shrill giggle that escapes her as he rolls her
beneath him and captures her lips with a hungry kiss.
Later, lying amidst the sheeps with their skin slick with sweat
and content smiles, she reaches for one of his magical hands and
kisses his palm. A soft home of pleasure escapes
him before Severus turns over to face her once more.
What is it? He asks.
I know you have something on your mind you're not saying.
She bites her bottom lip. Honestly, she should know by now
that he isn't a man to keep things from.
I know I've brought it up before, but I was wondering,
would you put any thought into reintegrating into our world
again? Her breath is caught in her
throat as she waits for him to respond.
His expression is a mask of neutrality as he ponders her
question. When he responds, she feels like
her heart is able to resume its regular rhythm.
The world has not been kind to me and I no longer owe it
anything. His voice is low and solemn, but
she can tell he has more to say and waits for him to continue.
You are the only reason I am even still in this God forsaken
place. Perhaps one day, when it is not
so fresh, I might be willing, but as it stands, the only one I
wish to know I am still alive is you, if that changes.
Hermione nods, knowing it is time for her to let it go.
I won't bring it up again, she vows.
Come. Severus says, opening his arms
to her so she can Nestle against him.
The space between his chin where her head can rest on his Bony
shoulder is her favorite place to sleep.
Even if through the night they shift and end up with space
between them. She loves to fall asleep like
this, with her nose and lips touching his skin when sleep
claims her. Finally, she feels lighter than
she has in weeks. The hallway between the lift
exit and the ward is eerie. He walks down it, his stride
confident. He's walked this path many times
before and will continue to for however long it takes for him to
fix things. At the healer station, he spies
Padma, who looks up and smiles in greeting.
The young healer is taken to stopping by Hermione's room when
he visits. She never intrudes upon his time
with Hermione, but makes certain he knows that she is invested in
being helpful. Hello Sir.
She greets, joining him as he continues past the station
towards his destination. He Lepatil.
He acknowledges. No changes, but I did shift her
bed around a little so that she is closer to the window.
Padma informs him. He pauses in his step, gazing at
her curiously. It was a very kind thing for her
to do, even if Hermione would not be able to recognise the
gesture in her current state, the extra sunlight would be good
for her, so that her body was still able to absorb some
vitamin D while she was in sentient.
When he reaches the door to her room, he glances quickly inside,
noting that she is indeed far closer to the window.
The sunlight that comes through the window bathes her in a warm
glow, making her comatose form appear incandescent.
His heart clenches at the sight. He's normally far better at
keeping his feelings in check, but seeing her in that way gave
her the appearance of merely sleeping.
The reality was far more disheartening.
Padma places a hand on his forearm and he has jerked from
his thoughts. She gives him one of the usual
sad smiles that apparently she reserves for him and turns to
leave, walking wordlessly back in the direction they'd come
from, leaving him alone to visit.
He wants to tell her that he appreciates her understanding
and discretion, but the words die on his lips.
Surely by now she knows. He enters the room finally
closing the door behind him and setting a ward to alert him if
anyone else should attempt entry.
Once he is settled in the chair beside her, Severus picks up the
book he's left on the night stand beside her.
He drags his chair up close as he flips the book open and
plucks out the marker. He wraps his fingers around her
cold ones before beginning to read.
And I pray one prayer. I repeat it till my tongue
stiffens. Catherine Earnshaw, may you not
rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you.
Haunt me then. Be with me always.
Take any form, drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this
abyss where I cannot find you. His voice rings out in the
otherwise silent room. The book is rather grim.
He knew going into it it would be, having never read it before,
it is interesting to him to learn more about the woman lying
prone on the bed before him through the books she loves.
He understands her better now, and wishes desperately that as
he reads one day she will simply wake up.
But that is folly, he knows. He continues to read until his
eyes become dry and his throat hoarse.
Setting the book aside for a while, he leaves her room to
seek out some tea and stretch his legs.
Making his way up to the fifth floor, he makes himself tea and
slowly sips the beverage while he stares out the window at the
dingy little alleyway it overlooks.
There are two feral cats playing, running around and
bounding over the medical waste disposal and skips visible down
there. It is an innocent diversion, a
needed distraction from the thoughts swirling unchecked in
his mind. He returns to the ward
downstairs, and this time Padma is in the room, checking her
vitals and scribbling some notes onto a chart.
Severus waits for her to complete the task, unable to
tear his eyes away from where Hermione rests.
If only there was some way to reach her, to get a message
through to her wherever she is locked away inside her own mind.
He sighs heavily, drawing Padma's attention.
She's still in there. She says quietly.
There is nothing that any of my spells can tell of me about how
to breakthrough whatever wall it is she has erected around her
psyche. I even went so far as to read
some muggle texts on mind medicine.
Severus nods at her appreciatively.
That is more than any of the healers assigned to Hermione's
case had ever done, admirable though that is.
It's going to take time and a lot of patience to penetrate
that wall. Could you do it?
She asks. He stares at the floor silently
for a moment and shrugs. He has no idea what he is
capable of anymore. I'm not her healer, but if you
were allowed, do you think that there is something you could do?
Padma interrupts, a look of determination on her face that
had not been there earlier. Severus knows he can make no
promises, but every fibre of his being wants to do anything and
everything within his power to bring her back.
I can try. The witch nods.
That's good enough for me. She says, stepping away from the
bed. I'm going to speak to my
supervisor about having you added to the team in charge of
her case. To say that he is shocked would
have been an unter statement. Heela Patil.
He begins, but she cuts him off again.
Padma. She insists.
If we are going to work together, we have to work out a
way to do so as equals. I know it.
That might be difficult change for you, but inside of these
walls, I expect us to work together as a team to get her
back. Surprised by her bluntness,
Severus can only nod. Severus then?
He offers, feeling a begrudging expect for the young healer
forming. Good.
Padma nods and passes him through the doorway.
I'll let you get on with it, and then we can talk some more
later. When she is gone, Severus
resumes his seat beside the bed and cracks open the book to read
a little more. When the sun begins to set, he
closes it once more, and with a final squeeze to Hermione's
unmoving hand, he stands, pausing to tuck some of her
curls behind her ear. His fingers graze over the soft,
smooth skin of her cheek, and he feels a tremble of emotion in
his gut that he immediately suppresses.
No, such thoughts were entirely fruitless in this situation.
As he makes to leave the hospital, there is a bubble of
something like hope in his chest.
After the conversation with Padma about Hermione's case and
her ongoing care. Whatever the curse is that is
keeping her from them, they will work through it together.
Stepping out of the lift into the lobby, Severus feels a stone
drop into his gut as he spies Potter and Geneva Weasley
entering the hospital. Ordinarily, he is able to avoid
seeing them, but as he glances at the clock on the wall behind
the reception desk, he notes it is a little later than he
usually leaves. Fuck.
There's not a single chance Potter and his young fiance
would not recognise him. He tries to walk past them
anyway, hopeful for a quick escape.
Professor Potter's voice in his ears sounds like mocking.
He stops dead in his tracks and scowls to himself.
Mr. Potter? He draws.
Miss Weasley. The pair of them stare at him in
surprise. He doesn't blame them.
He's managed to avoid them for months, a task made simpler by
the fact that they hardly ever visited the hospital at all.
The only one who visited less than they did was Ronald.
There's a strong desire within him to give them his Peace of
Mind, but Severus keeps it to himself.
It will not help with his plans to find a way to heal Hermione,
to have her annoying compatriots around asking all sorts of
vexing questions. What brings you here?
Potter has always been far too nosy.
Consultation work. He answers, keeping his answer
short. The expression that crosses
Jinny Weasley's face tells him that she has picked up on his
lack of interest in jawing with them.
She tugs on the sleeve of her fiance's coat.
Let the professor go, Harry. He looks to be in a hurry.
Potter looks a little reluctant, but ultimately nods.
Severus breathes a silent sigh of relief, damn near grateful to
the youngest Weasley for her perception.
As the two walk towards the lifts, Severus escapes through
the front doors and out to the street, heaving an audible sigh
as he walks away. His hand is rummaging through
his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he is now desperate
to find after that brief, awkward interaction.
When he's far enough away from the hospital, he lights the end
of 1 and inhales the smoke gratefully into his lungs,
instantly awash with the euphoric sensation triggered by
the endorphins rushing in to swamp his brain.
He knows it was a mistake to take up smoking again, but the
situation being what it is, he can't bring himself to care.
The burning in his lungs is currently the only thing he is
able to feel, and he clings to it shamelessly.