Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, and thank Merlin for that!

A/N: Here we are at the end. If I can say anything, it will be to thank you all for the lovely ego boost – this fandom is quickly becoming one of my favourites. You're all so very wonderful. Please forgive me in advance for being such a tease – you'll see what I mean when you get to the end. But in my defence, it was such a delicious moment to leave it at! I couldn't resist. Blame Helen Fielding, yet again. Also forgive me for Hermione's tiny snippets – I started with Severus, and I wanted so badly to end with Severus that it had to be done.

If you have time, leave a review and let me know what you thought of the story. There are over 70 followers, so I'll be waiting for 70 extra reviews. Hahah, Gods, I am kidding. Sort of. ;-) But really, let me know, and I can get onto planning the next story. What would you like? Hermione as a Potions Apprentice? Hermione at the age that she is here? Everything's on the table.

Thanks again! Oh, and lyrics at the top here are from 'Seeing Angels' – John Butler Trio, consequently the same musician that I mention somewhere in the middle of this chapter. Cheerio!

Chapter 4: Listen

My mouth was dry

Only you quenched my thirst

I thought I was last

You told me I was first.

.

It hurts. God, it hurts. Not just the defences that slam down on her almost immediately, but the shock in his eyes that soon changes to anger when he realises just what she is doing. Hermione has endured an Unforgivable, and she knows what it feels like to have her chest on fire from Dolohov's slashing curse.

But this is so, so much worse because it's him.

Somehow she manages to keep her hold on his face, though they are both as still as stone, his black eyes blazing and hers beseeching. Her mind aches; she is surrounded by blackness, by deep heavy walls of separation that he has constructed all around her lonely figure. She can see Severus before her, but at the same time, she can see in his mind – and she is well aware that is a measure of how much he cares for her that he is not just throwing her out on her arse. He is allowing her to stay, but he will show her nothing but the flashes of distress that are puncturing his thoughts.

'Stop!'

Hermione calls out the command, capturing his attention. Their chests are heaving with the effort but she can only see black eyes and strong walls. Her fingertips dig into his cheeks, drawing him closer until their noses are almost touching, and she really could just kiss him but instead she grinds her teeth together and pushes, wishing for once that she was better at this than she is.

'Look!'

And she shows him.

~0~

The intrusion of her feels like a bludger to the head; Severus is reeling from it, and he would stagger if she wasn't holding onto him so fiercely. He can't bring himself to sever the connection, because the intimacy of it is so fucking tantalising, even though she is seeing nothing and she is hearing nothing. They are nothingness, yet they are together in a way they have never been.

She commands him to stop! He knows that there are frantic feelings that break through his walls every now and again, hers and his. Her hands pull him down closer to her; he has no choice but to obey. Slowly, surely, he falls further into her brown eyes and exhales, letting the fear and hurt and anger seep away into the blackness of his mind.

With acceptance comes knowledge. He does not bring down his walls, but there is a nudging there, somewhere… he does not recognise it but it feels like her – pure, innocent, and loving. Loving? There are no images, no clear words – she really isn't very good at this – but the feelings that she is projecting are confusing, tormenting, and it no longer hurts because she wants him in her head, not the other way around. Severus doesn't think that anyone has ever wanted him in their minds.

She pushes again, her fingers digging into him with the effort, and suddenly he is with her, in her mind, no longer seeing her big brown eyes but standing in the midst of thoughts that whirl like orbiting stars and images that flash past in a blur. It's like a slap to the face – it's too much to see at once. But he is at home here, in the vastness of her vibrant, spinning mind, and he reaches out to her:

'What do you want me to see?'

The sense of her relief is overwhelming, and so very welcome. He begins to speak softly to her, gently guiding, telling her what to do. Severus can't help but think that she is about to show him the new wizard in her life, but then he hears the ghost of a chuckle in his ears and shoves his walls up firmly once more, sure that his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.

He sees the memory before he even understands what it is that he is looking at.

She is small, only five or so, a bundle of gangly limbs and wild hair. The beach is crowded; it is the height of summer. Hermione is jumping over the ripples that wash over the tiny pebbles, looking back every now and again to a distant female figure that waves each time her head turns. The water is cool on her skin, but she is scared; she is afraid of this unknown mass, this uncontrollable body of water that could swallow her whole.

Severus tries to reach out to her, this little girl who is the woman next to him. 'What are you showing me?'

The little girl doesn't answer, of course, but there is a low whisper in his mind, and somehow he registers that Hermione the woman is speaking into his ear, even though he is too caught up in the memory to see her.

"Safety."

A brown haired man emerges from the water, stalking towards this tiny little Hermione, growling and roaring like a bear out of hibernation. The girl shrieks and giggles, twisting away until her father bounds towards her and tosses her over his shoulder, then slowly wades into the water, bending her in his arms so he is holding her securely. He carries her deeper and deeper into the water, and the girl is entranced – waves wash over her body, but she is not afraid, she is not scared, she is enveloped with warmth and comfort.

The scene changes abruptly, and Severus is yanked back into the whirl of thoughts, his subconscious self bending at the middle from the force of the movement.

"Sorry," she says ruefully, "I'm not very good."

Any answering reply he could have made is forgotten when he is thrown into the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

Hermione walks deliberately slowly, eyes fixed on the magical ceiling, the joy in her body just about brimming over – she is giddy with it, she thinks it is the best day in her life – the very, very best day. Finally she will be accepted, she will be-

Back Severus goes to the whirlwind, hearing his own laugh at the first year version of the goddess in front of him, sobering when she says quietly, "Happiness."

She is quicker this time, and he is soon in an unfamiliar room, staring at a wall but unsure what he is doing there until he hears a soft groan and turns with dread to see-

They are rolling and fumbling, Hermione and the red haired companion of her youth. He is tugging at her jeans, and she is accepting his kisses with smiles-

'Stop,' he thinks firmly, he does not want to see this.

'No!'

A freckled hand slides under her shirt and she nods nervously up at the boy, but then she wonders – is this it? Is this love? He pulls her clothes away and moves back to work on his own, and all she can think of is that this is not everything she hoped for: this is not the love, the tenderness, that she wanted…

He returns to the roll of thoughts with relief, feeling bile in his stomach that twists with confusion when her soft voice names the memory:

"Doubt."

He has no time to think on it.

The young woman has her back to him, but she throws a smile over her shoulder; it is Hermione at twenty five. She calls out to someone – who? She calls out again, then jogs through the snow, laughter washing over Severus as he observes her thoughts, then suddenly sees himself. She is running to Severus, he is wrapped in a winter coat and cloak; she is bounding up to him as he walks slowly around the frozen lake. Her thoughts are everywhere, and then they're reduced to something that looks like five exclamation marks as the Severus of her memories smiles when he notices her arrival. He lets his eyes run over her figure, and when she squeezes his arm in a gesture of greeting, he tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, hesitates and then draws his cloak over the both of them and continues to walk with her, listening quietly while she talks.

He comes back to Hermione's mind with a start. 'What was that?' he asks tentatively, not sure he wants to know the answer, then gasps when she gives it:

"Happiness."

The sound of her voice in his ear again is like a jolt of Muggle electricity; he blinks, severing the connection for a second but then sees her brows puckered in concentration, and dives back in. He cannot resist.

He is in his study, and she walks in slowly, flapping two small pieces of Muggle paper in the air.

"What on earth are you holding?" he asks, not looking up from his marking. Hermione takes another look at the concert tickets and clears her throat, pushing away the nerves.

"A birthday present. From… from Ron," she says quietly. Severus shrugs indifferently; the action is enough to make her scowl inwardly, then she soldiers on.

"Anyway, there are two tickets and I thought you might like-"

He's out of his seat. He takes one look at the picture of a dreadlocked musician with hair down to his arse and snorts with laughter. "Granger, perhaps you are mistaken. I'm a middle aged man."

Her eyes stray to his hands, and she wonders if he understands just how wrong he really is. A middle aged man would not make her weak at the knees just because his fingers brushed hers when he took the ticket. A middle aged man would not make her want to disappear without a trace just so she could bury herself in the sheets of his bed, never to emerge from his arms.

"Go with someone your own age," he says softly, the decline of her unspoken offer making her wince.

"Right," she mumbles. "Right. I will. Evening, Severus."

Severus blinks. "Hermione, what-"

She is dancing to the music, a cool bottle of beer in one hand and the other in the air. The Australian on stage is strumming the strings as if in a frenzy; the crowd is being whipped along with him and the old concert hall is a sea of writhing bodies. Hermione is standing towards the back, alone.

She is trying to forget that she only wants one other person to be here with her, to experience this with her, but then she'd be pushing it, wouldn't she? She doesn't want to push it… she doesn't know what she wants, but she knows that she wants Severus here, all the same.

There is a group of three younger men who have been eyeing her with interest, taking in the slim cut jeans, black shirt and wild hair, and when they move over to her during a break in the music she hesitates, feeling her wand under her sleeve. She backs to the wall, her heart is thumping as they come ever closer – when one of them licks his lips, she closes her eyes and reaches for him, trying to conjure him up out of thin air-

"Sweetheart?"

The low, familiar voice is laced with anger and she is startled for a second, seeing Severus instantly beside her, his arm tight around her waist and his features arranged into an intimidating scowl. He is every inch the fearsome, powerful man, and the boys (that's what they are next to him, after all) splutter and cough and stumble away, reacting to what their subconscious tells them about this dangerous, black haired man.

"Oh, God," she whispers into his shoulder, then in spite of his easing his hold on her, she turns into his body and rests her cheek on his chest, relaxing when she feels the familiar coat on her skin. "Thank you. You came."

"For you," he answers quietly, smoothing one single hand over her hair before easing away from her embrace. He looks over her head at the musicians, and she grins when she sees that he is tapping his free hand on his thigh. The knowledge that he might actually enjoy himself with her is intoxicating. "He really does have hair down to his arse, doesn't he?"

And just like that, she is laughing again, and even though he "does not dance, not now, not ever," she soon has more beer for them both and he leans against the wall at the back of the hall and watches as she twists and turns, clapping her hands and jumping up and down to the music.

"Safety."

Severus can remember that night. Hermione was beautiful and dangerous all at the same time, and he could not take his eyes from her even if he wanted to. The pull of her dominated any desire he had to stalk after the pitiful excuses for humans who had made her breath quicken with fear; but selfishly, as he watched her and drank from the cool bottle of beer in his hand, he thought that being able to call her 'sweetheart', even though he never would have said the word out loud if his life depended on it, was perhaps the best fucking thing that had happened to him in years.

And she had felt safe. With him.

"Fucking hell," he says, instantly disbelieving.

'Keep watching,' she chides him, clucking her mental tongue, so he grins and allows her to pull him back to wherever she wants him to be.

They are on the couch, only minutes before. Their shoulders are touching and her heart is thudding wildly in her chest, she cannot believe that he has come to her, that he has apologised.

Severus rubs his forehead and prepares for the worst.

"Shut up, would you?" her voice says loudly into his ear. "For once, just shut up."

It's almost painful now, because she digs her fingers into his shoulders and pulls him back into her mind, ignoring his muffled protests.

He is reading the tags on the tea bags, laughing more and more. She's sure that his stomach must hurt – has he ever laughed like this in his life? Of course he has… but he is laughing with her! That must mean something… oh! He looks like he has something to say…

Severus turns to Hermione, and in an instant it all comes out; her face falls and her eyes are swimming before she knows it. She is not interesting? Has she been boring him all this time? What is she, then? Annoying? The little chit from school who couldn't keep her hand from waving in the air?

Severus gives up at that, and pulls himself away from her, from her mind and her hands on his shoulders. "Enough, enough," he says quietly. "I am sorry. I am. But you know-"

"No!"

Hermione's shout surprises them both – Severus most of all. He stares at her and rakes a hand through his hair; he's lost his tongue. "Why not?" he manages to say eventually, dreading that she will admit that he has finally done it – he's finally driven her away, not even safety and happiness with him is enough to forgive him when he's all but said he will always think of her as the little first year, always in a snit over something or other. Severus is a sensational liar, after all.

He stares at her, black eyes meeting brown, watching her breaths come hard and fast. The fire must have died down because for fuck's sake, he can see the peaks of her breasts through the thin singlet, and the outline of her legs in the soft blue pants drives him to internally curse the cruel mistress that is her body, all he wants to do is touch her.

"Severus." She takes a step towards him; her lower lip is captured by her teeth. "Severus, just look."

He shakes his head, backing towards the door as she advances on him until his body hits the solid wall. She comes closer.

"Why not?"

Breathing in, the Potions Master pinches the bridge of his nose. "I do not wish to see how I have hurt you."

The whisper of air in front of him is enough to tell him that she's stopped just shy of touching him, not that he can see – his eyes are firmly fixed on the floor.

~0~

Hermione knows the value of patience. She understands that hard work pays off, that sometimes she cannot charge into something even if she might want to so damn much that it's driving her mad. So she stops just short of touching him, and watches as the pulse at his throat begins to beat erratically, like the drums on the night that he stood by and watched just so she could dance like an idiot. He does not want to see the memory, and she won't force it on him, even though all she wanted to say was "certainty" when the Severus of her memory cupped her cheek and she leant into it, enjoying the feel of him. Hermione knows that sometimes, tactics need to be changed.

For a long time, she does not move. He grows more and more relaxed by the minute, and the moment she senses that his pulse is slowing, she reaches out with one small hand and lets it rest flat on his chest, over his heart.

He sucks in a breath at the contact and his black eyes are dark and wild when his head snaps up. The confusion and disbelief and hope warring on his features would almost be painful to watch if her own face wasn't a complete mirror; there is no way of knowing just how he will react.

Hermione takes in everything of this moment: his dishevelled black hair, still cut so it sits just above his shoulders, the piercing black gaze that almost burns with its intensity, the sharp, defined lines of his face. He is still too thin – perhaps he always will be – but her hand quickly grows warm from his body heat, and there is only a thin layer of material between her palm and his chest, so she can very safely say that she knows without a doubt now that there are subtle muscles under the button down shirt. Gods, she cannot even put into words just how much she wants him. Desire is pooling in her belly and drying her mouth with only the possibility of triumph.

They both watch her hand as it slowly, very slowly, slides up his chest to touch the bare skin at his neck, then his jaw that is clenched. The small sigh that escapes his lips has such an unbearable amount of sweetness to it that she moves closer, keeping her eyes locked on his as her hand moves around to his hair and pulls downwards, not too hard, not too soft. Just enough to-

"Hermione…"

"Severus?"

~0~

She is so close. So, so close. He can read her like an open book; the desire on her face is enough to send him reeling. How has she kept this from him for so long? Just feeling the warm, sweet waves of her breath so close to his mouth has him shaking his head and raising his hands to settle on her shoulders, sliding behind her neck and drawing her to him.

When their lips meet, he cannot stifle a dark groan and satisfaction hits him like a tonne of bricks when she stirs immediately and opens her mouth, sliding her tongue towards his, her fingers twisting in his hair.

He can't even think of anything but her mouth, how soft it is, how she tastes of tea and chocolate and something else that he can't place but might just be uniquely her.

"Hermione…" he whispers her name again, breaking away for the tiniest of moments just to revel in saying it, even though his voice is hoarse and rough.

"Severus…" she responds, low and teasing. The sound of his name travels through his body until she gives a tiny, delectable moan when he pulls her against him and crushes his mouth to hers, knowing all the while that she can feel the hardness of him pressing insistently on her thigh.

It is all too much; it is not enough.

Before he even thinks of releasing her out of politeness rather than anything else, she steps back, tugging on his arms until he steps with her, and soon enough they are repeating the movement over and over, mouths still hot and wanton, until she turns him around and pushes and he falls onto her bed, stunned. He contemplates asking if she got him there by magic alone but quickly decides against it when she crawls like a cat to lie over him, eyes his clothes and shakes her head.

"These aren't needed, are they Severus?" she whispers, one light subtle finger trailing a line of fire from his calf to his thigh, then higher still. He can only swear under his breath and rely on his better strength as he grips onto her arms and flips her underneath him, moulding his mouth to hers again and finally running his hands over her body, over and then under the singlet, grinning against her mouth when she moans as his palm cups her breast, a thumb lightly brushing her nipple before descending lower and lower, past cotton pants, past a tiny layer of lace, until she is whispering his name over and over. He is coaxing, calling her out to play, and by fucking Merlin the way she responds will be the death of him; she hooks her legs around his waist and arches her back so her breasts meet his chest and his hardness is rubbing against her just there…

"Hermione…" he can't manage to say anything but her name and even then it comes out like a choked whisper or maybe a prayer, "Hermione…"

She pulls him back down and kisses him again, long and hard, pausing only quickly just to put her lips to his ear. "Severus," she says quietly, "please."

Fucking hell, the sound of her voice is small change compared to how her hands are dipping under his black button down shirt and tracing his scars, nails scraping over the dark hair on his chest. Please? Please? She thinks she has to say please to this man, this wizard, who has been imagining this moment for over a year and still finds himself floored by the skin under his hands that is like velvet, her wild hair that tickles his cheeks, the folds at the juncture of her thighs that are opening so easily to his fingers that are seeking and searching.

This is the dream that he has been chasing – this open invitation, given so trustingly by the woman beneath him, still fully clothed but gripping onto his body with such blatant possessiveness that it will drive him to madness. Not once does his mouth leave hers; even as she moans, whines and lets out throaty laughs, he swallows them all and commits them to memory.

Suddenly her hands are fumbling with his belt and he is breathless with want, unable to break the surge of wandless magic that leaves them both bare and pressed to each other. Gods, the feel of her naked skin on his… he can't even think, the only thing he can bring himself to say for that is that it is hot, from the nape of her neck to the line between her breasts, her stomach that is soft with a tiny little pouch from their late night hot chocolate indulgences; she is perfect, and she doesn't even realise that they are both naked to touch until her hand wanders and strokes him, and her surprised jolt matches the groan that falls from his lips into her open mouth.

"How did you…?"

"Natural occurrence," he mumbles, descending to her neck and biting in gently, chuckling when one little hand slides behind him to squeeze a buttock.

"And to think, I took you for such a nice man," she teases, breaking off at the end to sigh when his thumb begins to circle that tiny nub that shows her that yes, he might be an older man, but in his defence he will bring her to a writhing mess because he is not one of those boys that she needs to harbour doubts over. "Nice men don't magic away clothes and kiss like this now, do they?"

His response is half eaten up by her mouth when she pulls on his hair to bring him up to her level again, but he gives it all the same, knowing that in a second or two he can push himself into her, to the place that he never wants to leave, so she will forgive his terrible attempt at humour.

"Oh yes," he says with certainty, grinning wolfishly to match her coquettish smile, "oh yes they fucking do."

.

.

.

fin.