A/N: Prompt by orlando-switch – a progression of Hermione's feelings in The Lilac Tree and how she came to recognise her love for Severus.

Thank you to the fabulous Banglabou for whipping my grammar into shape.

This is the last chapter – thank you to everyone who has been a part of this universe, from The Lilac Tree, to this.

Part 5: The Descent

I do not see him again.

Do I? Have I seen Severus? I don't think I've seen him since that night that I went to the castle.

The castle…

Yes, I went to the castle… Of course I went to the castle…

Didn't I?

There was a man behind the Headmaster's desk, it must have been Severus, he looked just like him—

"Hermione?"

I shake my head and rub my eyes. "Sorry, Ron. What?"

He stares at me from across the table at Shell Cottage. His eyes skim over my face; he is frowning, and I instantly realise that I have done it again.

"Where were you?" he asks under his breath.

I take a deep breath in; my fingers tremble. "Here," I say quietly, daring him to take it further. "Here. Nothing's wrong, I promise."

Ron's concerned gaze moves from my haggard face to where Bellatrix carved those letters into my skin. The new scars are tucked firmly away under my jumper, but they tingle, as if sensing his observation. "Are you sure?"

I stand and smooth damp palms down my denim covered thighs. "Of course. Come on. Let's get back to the books."

I have a secret: unfortunately, it seems that I am losing my mind.

…

"Hermione!"

"Come on, Ron! We've got to get to Harry!" We are running for our lives through the halls of Hogwarts. It is madness, here – the cacophony is almost deafening, and we dodge spells as we streak along the stone floors.

The end is nigh.

"Hermione!" he shouts again, this time coming close enough to grab my arm and pull me back, closer to the shadows. "You're not… dammit," he swears, bending down so our faces are only inches apart. "Hermione," he tries, "you're not – it's not…" Ron's shoulders sag. "You can't go. You can't fight. What if she finds you?"

"Then she finds me!" I exclaim, tugging on his hand to try and break his grip. I do not reach for my wand – I cannot; this is Ron, this is my brother. "This is it, Ron!" I hiss as we crouch down to avoid a wayward hex. "Nothing else matters now!"

Ron's resolve is firm. He shakes his head and draws breath. His hands move to my shoulders and out of the corner of my eye, I watch as pale, freckled fingers clamp down over my jumper. "You matter," he tells me, his blue eyes bright and clear. "You matter. It's too risky. Stay here, Hermione. We're at the end, you're right, but there's nothing you or I can bloody do now! It's up to Harry!"

"He needs us!"

"I know!" he cries out. "And I'll go! But please, 'Mione, stay here! If you get cursed again, you won't have a hope in hell of coming out good again. Think about Neville's parents!"

I crumple against him, not weeping, no, but out of sheer hopelessness. He is right, I know this, but a tiny voice whispers: 'But what if Severus is hurt? What if you can help him? Fight beside him? Fight beside your… husband?' so instead I reel around and push away from Ron, ignoring his cries, and hurtling down towards the mayhem with my wand at the ready.

How long I fight, I cannot say – it feels like hours, perhaps it is only seconds.

But when it ends, it ends, and it ends with the cackle that I know all too well.

I fall into nothingness.

Nothingness—

Nothing.

…

…

…

…

There are sounds here – where is here?

A beep here and there; a sigh; the clinking of cutlery.

I try to toss my head; it feels like lead. I desist.

…

...

...

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I try to swirl it around, try to feel all of my teeth.

Teeth.

Teeth are important, yes?

Yes.

They must be brushed twice a day and after meals, if at all possible. At the very least, one should floss after a serving of particularly crunchy lasagne. The mince has an uncanny ability of getting stuck at the back of one's mouth, and then what does one have?

A mouth of rotting meat.

…

"Hermione?" The voice is soft and low. I know this voice. I turn my head, searching for the speaker. "Hermione…"

Everything is black.

Why?

"Hermione?"

Am I Hermione?

'Yes, yes!' I hear, in a sharp, almost shrill voice. 'Yes, you are Hermione! Yes! Wake up, Hermione! Now, now!'

Somewhere within myself, I recognise that this voice is mine. But then, hearing voices is a sign of madness, and I'm not mad, I'm just—

"Hermione," the voice says tiredly. I hear another sigh. "Wake up, sweetheart. Please – please, won't you wake up?"

Who is that?

Who?

I open my mouth. I hear the creaking of a chair. I feel warm hands rubbing my arms. The man – yes, it is a man! – is so close that his breath wafts over my cheek. I smell caffeine. I should remind this man to floss. "Hermione!"

'Who are you?' I want to say. But then I remember that there is only one man that would be at my side if I were incapacitated.

Or perhaps…

No, I don't think so. Only one man.

"Dad?"

The man does not answer.

I think I hear him weep.

…

There is a soft and familiar female voice now. I hear it all day, every day. She never leaves.

"Good morning, Hermione," she says softly; this is always at the same time that I feel cool liquids being tipped into my mouth. "Swallow, please." I do. "You're doing well," she tells me.

I believe her.

Yes, I am doing well, aren't I?

'Yes, you are. Not long now, and you can go home.'

But where is home? Do I have one?

…

"Any changes overnight?"

"No, sir. She hasn't woken at all—"

"She did. She said: 'Dad'. She called me 'Dad'. She tossed her head and called me—"

"I know what she said, sir."

"She doesn't know me at all, does she?"

"I think it's too early to worry about that. Let her awaken first."

"What if she doesn't know me at all? What then?"

"Then we'll deal with that when we come to it, sir. One step at a time. Now – come to the staff room, and I'll put the kettle on."

…

The first time he comes to me, I turn my head away. "Piss off." 'What is that? What sort of language is that? How dare you speak to a Professor with such language!'

"He killed Professor Dumbledore! He shouldn't even be alive!" I hiss at myself as I stare with narrowed eyes at the black-haired man in the doorway. He is watching me, his face blank.

A thought comes to me, and I relish in spitting, "He doesn't even like my teeth! Poncy, whey-faced bastard!"

'Jesus Christ, you don't even like your teeth!'

I do not understand why Professor Snape's endless eyes shine when I mention my teeth. And when he runs a hand over his face and smiles, I huff. "What?"

"You remember," he answers. "You remember what I said about your teeth."

"Piss off."

He looks uncomfortable. "May I come in?"

"No."

Another thing I do not understand: why does his face crumple when I deny him?

Why do I care?

Git.

…

"Oh, god." Oh, god. Oh god, ohgodohgodohgod—

"Hermione!" He tosses down a small stack of parchments and hastens to my side. I am shaking; how long have I been here?

"Is – is—" Oh, god, what if we lost? Where is Harry? Ron? But Severus is alive! "You're alive!"

Severus reaches for me tentatively. His hands touch mine, and I look down at them; from here, lying in the hospital bed, our skin is the same shade of sickly white. Why? "How long have I been here? What's going on? Severus?"

Why does he look so sad?

"This is the first time you've—" He swallows thickly, his eyes firmly fixed on our hands, then he meets my gaze again. The familiar frock coat looks slightly wrinkled, and it makes me smile. Has he slept here? Has he been waiting for me?

And then I close my eyes, remembering.

He is mine; this man is mine. Mine, mine. Oh, mine!

"Oh," I breathe in wonder, staring at his lips, remembering when we kissed underneath a tree – what tree was it? – and he lets out a short, "Ah!" of disbelief.

Our gazes stay connected for a long time. He opens and closes his mouth, searching for words, and I feel—

I feel…

"Do you remember? Do you remember when I kissed you?"

'Do you remember when he kissed you? Do you?'

Yes!

What?

A kiss?

With—

Snape?

Horror bubbles within my belly, and I howl with disgust. Red mist falls around my eyes. I want to be—I'm going to be—

"Get out! Get out, getoutgetoutgetoutgetout! Help!" I scream, scrambling out of the bed, looking for my wand but my wand isn't – it's not –

Lavender – Lavender? Lavender Brown? – comes running into the room and tosses one concerned glance towards the Professor, who is sitting on the chair beside the bed, hunched over himself. His long hair hides his face – good!

"Hermione?" Lavender approaches me slowly, one hand hidden behind her back.

"Where is my wand!"

She looks relieved – the bitch has my wand, I'm sure of it! – and turns again to Snape, who merely shrugs. I scowl at her; all she does, in her disgusting grey robes, is smile benignly. "Hermione," says Lavender, "why don't we go through your homework schedule? I believe there are some new books here." She pats a pile on a small table near the Professor. He is staring at his feet. "Would you like to see what we have?"

Oh.

That would be nice.

And that's funny—

"Hullo, Professor Snape," I say politely, edging towards the books. He looks at me sharply, and then relaxes in the chair.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he returns blandly, his eyes tracking my hands as they trace the spines of the books. "How are you feeling today?"

"Well, sir. Although…"

"Although?" he prompts, waving one hand vaguely towards the door. There is a faint tap-tap-tap as Lavender's heels take her out of the room.

"I am wondering why you're here, sir," I admit.

Again he stares, as if he were looking right into my very soul. We have not been alone in such close quarters before; I find myself returning his gaze, shifting on my feet when his black eyes soften. He looks… he looks… There is a tenderness about him, and it makes me wonder just how on earth Professor Snape came to wear such a face, and who on earth inspired it.

Something else I do not know: why do I feel envious of the woman that gives him this softness, this fondness?

Lucky cow.

He clears his throat and stands. "I am delivering your assigned readings, Miss Granger."

"Oh. That's rather nice of you." 'It is. Why is he being nice to you? Has he ever been nice to you? I rather think he's a bit of a prick, actually. Do you remember when he threw Ron down the stairs?' "You didn't throw Ron down the stairs."

"Excuse me?"

'He did, he did! And he choked the life out of him – his greasy hands, touching Ron, now giving you books!'

I back away. "Leave," I demand, searching for anything, anywhere, an escape route—something! "Leave!" I cover my eyes and retreat blindly to a corner, any corner – "Leaveleaveleaveleave!"

…

"Do you have a favourite colour, Hermione?"

"Lilac," I answer immediately. "Lilac. I like it. Lilac."

"Any particular reason?"

Is there?

There might be…

But…

"No."

"All right."

…

The next time Lavender comes to check if I am still sans a few sheep in the top paddock, she is wearing lilac robes.

"Nice," I observe, reaching out with two fingers to feel the soft material. "I like lilacs."

"Do you remember why?" she whispers kindly, setting her clipboard down and picking up a brush to start working on my short hair.

I exhale as she begins her work; her hands are deftly moving through the knotted curls. "No," I mumble, arching towards her touch. "Should I?"

"We'll work on it."

I fancy that I hear sadness in her voice.

…

I open my eyes.

It is dark.

I am alone.

"Severus?" I whisper into the night air, squinting in the darkness. It was the strangest dream – that I was stuck in St. Mungo's, having tea with Alice Longbottom. She gave me a paper cup full of sweet wrappers. Very strange, indeed… perhaps I should call Tink and go and see if Severus is downstairs. He'd be marking, still, I am sure of it…

"Tink?"

Nothing.

My mouth is dry.

"Severus?"

He does not answer.

He is not here.

…

I wake to find a cup of crinkled sweet wrappers beside my bed. I smile and brush my hair. I think I shall visit Alice today.

…

"Good morning, Professor! Isn't it a lovely day outside?"

"Morning, Miss Granger. It's rather glorious."

"You're so positive when you visit me, sir. I wish you'd show this side of you to the rest of the students. They'd love to see it. It's a real treat."

"Yes… I'm sure that they would adore it. But I don't think that I will."

"Oh. That's a pity, sir. You know, perhaps it's for the best. You can't really control students who are working with volatile ingredients when they're all batting their lashes at you now can you?"

"Ah… no. Why would they be batting their lashes, Miss Granger?"

"Well, you're quite handsome, you see. Don't scowl, it's true. You're striking. Not conventionally attractive, but certainly arresting. You'd wreak havoc on the seventh years if you showed them you were charming, too."

"I am most definitely not charming."

"True, true. That was the wrong word to use. Hmm… witty? Yes. You're quite witty. Arresting and witty – an interesting combination."

"Miss Granger - are you quite all right?"

"Oh – good morning, Professor! Sorry. I don't have time for another extra study session with you today, though I am very appreciative of your efforts in helping me with the private tutoring. Could we perhaps reschedule? I have this pressing assignment, you see – I need to work on translating these medieval texts. My Potions professor thought it would be a good idea. So I'll need to give the extra DADA revision a miss for the day."

"Of course. Do you mind if I work here while you do your research? I have some marking to complete."

"It's much the same to me if you stay or go."

"All right… I shall be here on the couch if you require assistance."

"I assure you, I am quite capable. You do not need to coddle me. Why are you here again? Isn't this inappropriate, a teacher in a student's private room?"

"Quite."

"Then aren't you going to leave?"

"In a moment."

…

"Oh, god, Severus…" I drop the heavy book and moan; it is a wretched, hopeless sound. Like a wailing, Mediterranean grandmother. [Mary1] [AMM2] [AMM3] My husband sets his marking down on the couch and moves to sit on the bed; he is awkward, perched on the lilac covering – oh, the tree! – but it endears him to me even more. My constant, steadfast husband. Mine. My own.

Oh, mine.

Horrified, I take in his new wrinkles; the paleness of my skin. I try to speak, but my tongue feels too thick and I need to know—

"Two years, eleven months and fifteen days, sweetheart," he tells me, his baritone voice gentle.

I groan and cover my face, sure that if I am alive, that if it has been so long, then everyone else—

"It will be all right, Hermione. The Longbottom trial is days away. It's promising."

Longbottom? Neville? Neville Longbottom has created a… Neville Longbottom is helping to fix me?

"It must be terrible if you're telling me that Neville Longbottom has created something promising," I say and he laughs, a strained, painful sound. His arms come around me and I fall into him, sighing and crying and sobbing because—

"I'm sorry to have done this to you, Severus. I never wanted to tie you down. Not ever." And let God be my witness – I never wanted this! How could I have been so stupid? How could I do this to him? I cry louder, ashamed for my thoughts, my ungratefulness.

"You haven't. You are my wife, Hermione. No matter whether it is solely on paper or not. I will take care of you until you order me away." His arms are firm and warm and I burrow my face into his neck. He smells of soap and sharpness – that strange, unearthly tang that permeates the air in the dungeons.

"Then I w-"

"No," he says clearly, "not like this. You need me. Stop being so self-sacrificing. It is what it is, and I am here. When this ends, you may… decide what it is you wish to do."

"I just want you to be free. I can't bear to think of you like this, tied to someone when you had no real choice. Tied to me."

"Hush," Severus orders. "Do not speak of it. These are the cards that we have been dealt. Give it time."

It is mortifying, this helplessness. I fumble for words and latch onto a distant memory.

"I had a dream last night…"

"Oh?" He tenses.

"It was…" Oh, god, I'm losing it. I'm losing it. A dream, merely a dream, and I'm already forgetting—

No!

With flushed cheeks, I hide my embarrassment. His frock coat aids me, the blackness swallowing the debilitating thoughts that come with almost forgetting a simple dream. I cannot afford to be shy; I wind my arms around his body and sigh when I feel him shift to take me into his lap.

Oh, gods… Oh, but I have wanted this, needed this…

My fingers curl into his austere clothes; his armour.

"I dreamt that… that the war was over, and you took me away from everything. You kept me safe."

"Me?"

"Yes…" Would it make him angry? To know that I do care? To know that I wake in the middle of the night sometimes and feel his lips upon mine? The air between us is fragile, and I breathe out, sinking into his hold. This is the way we should be: as we were under the tree – lilac! It was a lilac tree! – and as we are now. But I am scared, now, to ask him to keep me always… I am a burden. "Does that bother you?"

"Should it?"

"I don't want it to…"

"Then it doesn't. It doesn't bother me at all."

…

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Severus?"

"I would do that."

"Hmm? Do what?"

"Take you away; keep you safe. I'll do it. When this is over, if that's what you want, I'll do it."

My stomach rolls. "Do what, Professor? What are you talking about? What are you even doing here? Get out! I despise you and your forked tongue – you have no right to be here! Out! Now! That's right – leave, leave! You're a coward, Snape. Always hiding behind your big, bullying ways. Get out! Off you go. That's the way. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

…

There is another trial. Apparently there have been others before it.

It will fix my mind.

There's nothing wrong with my mind.

…

Lavender tries to pour the potion down my throat; I thrash and whimper, searching for a man in dark clothes – who is he? Will he save me? Come and save me! – but there is no one. I want my parents.

I want my mother.

Dad?

And I want—

Him.

Who is 'him'?

I don't know.

"You're all right, Hermione," a male voice states from the other side of the bed. "You're all right. I've got you – we're here."

Yes, but who is we?

"Who are you?" I beg him to answer, thinking that perhaps this is Death; He is coming to claim me after all.

I close my eyes, accepting my fate.

"I'm Neville," Death says. "Neville Longbottom. I'm going to take care of you, Hermione. It will be well."

I giggle, and the sound is completely inappropriate. Why? This is another thing that I do not know, but it just seems as though I should not be laughing now.

But it's funny, really, that Death should choose to call himself such a name.

"Neville," I say, sounding out the name. "Hmm." I hear Death chuckle. "Interesting choice." 'That's the way. If you're going out, do it with a bang.' "It's a bit bland, don't you think?"

He laughs and says, "Close your eyes, Hermione. Let go. I've got you."

And I do.

…

I swim in the darkness; bright colours flash behind my closed lids. Sometimes they burn me with brightness, and other times I feel… cold.

Someone is missing, I think…

I know…

Do I?

…

There is a low voice… it is rich and deep, like the bottom of the ocean, like digging through the sand at the beach and finding water at the bottom of the hole.

I swim within it; I lose myself within the sound.

…

Is this what dying feels like?

If it is, I do not want it.

I want to go back.

I want—

Severus?

'Yes, you want Severus. Ask for Severus. Demand that he come to you.'

'Yes, yes, but who is Severus?'

…

I think, if I should wake, that I will find someone waiting for me, and I think that it is—

…

…

…

There are more voices now; many. They are whispering.

Honestly, how rude!

…

I can hear Lavender muttering under her breath. I groan and turn over, punching the pillow. "Cast a Silencing charm, for goodness' sake!" I tell her shrilly. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

And Parvati should chime in right about now, exclaiming just how annoying I am, for interrupting her sleep, when really it was bloody Lavender talking in her dreams like she always does.

But Parvati does not say a word.

Curious.

…

I burrow further into the blankets when someone prods my arm. "Lavender, please," I beg, "it's still dark! I was in the library until eleven, so could you please just stop waking me up—"

Oh.

No!

Oh.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Severus!

…

I open my eyes and scream.

Part 6: Knowledge

Instruments poke and prod; a light shines into my eyes; Lavender's wand moves furiously above my body as she casts spell after spell. The runes are almost too bright for me to concentrate on, and so I don't. I am at a loss when she gasps and gives an unprofessional whoop.

Unprofessional?

I frown and push my thin body up on my elbows. "Lavender?"

The face that turns to me is the same, though I do not recognise the calm, mature eyes. I know her, and I do not know her. On the surface, I recall her as easily as if I have just seen her, fending off Greyback and throwing herself back into the fighting. But simmering under the surface, suddenly I am able to grasp that she is someone else. She means something else to me now, and—

"You!" I point one undignified finger at her chest. "You-you—" What do I want to say? I don't know how to put it into words, this natural recognition that I have for Lavender Brown, of all people, but all she does is blow out a noisy breath, wave at her face to stave off tears, and smile with wobbly lips.

"Me," she says simply. "Yes – me."

"You… and me? Here?" At this, she casts another diagnostic spell; I crane my neck and see that she is checking my brain and whether the diagrams light up in the right places to show that I can, in fact, speak. I bristle and huff. "I'm all right."

And I am, I realise. I'm all right. I'm here; Lavender Brown is here; I must be all right.

A smile spreads itself upon my lips; my heart picks up until it is thrumming, taking flight. "I'm all right!" I exclaim, voice quivering. "I'm all right."

"You are." Lavender takes a moment and sits down heavily on the bed. I roll over with effort and use my hands to guide me into a sitting position beside her.

"I don't remember anything else," I tell her quietly, leaning close. Instinctively, I know that I can trust her, that she is on my side. I look at the other Healers with suspicion as they bustle in and out. "Won't you… Will you tell me what on earth is going on?"

She turns to me and takes my hand. "Tell me the last thing you remember, Hermione. The very last thing."

"I remember… I remember…" I cast around, searching… "I remember…" My head aches, but still I… "Ron!"

Lavender snorts, and I wonder who this woman really is – this dry, sarcastic woman. Where is my bubbling roommate? "Ron?" she asks, having returned to Healer-mode. "And what happened in the memory?"

Now that I have it, I can feel my frustration and anger and sinking understanding as I recall the moment when he asked me not to fight. "He told me to… ah," I sigh, shaking my head. "He told me not to fight. He knew—"

"Oh," she dismisses, making a sharp wave with her hand. "No one knew. Ron suspected, but no one knew for sure." Later, she will tell me of speaking to anyone and everyone who saw me after the Manor as she tried to get a hold on whatever had a hold on me, but for now I accept her unassuming authority.

Her words sink into my skull. I ponder them, taking them apart, analysing the inflection of her voice. Lavender is speaking as if… She almost sounds like… "You're speaking of it as if it happened a long time ago," I comment, making a mental note to investigate whether she has a staff member above her and whether they might be more appropriate to speak to at the moment. "How long has it been?" She watches me silently, one thin eyebrow arched. She measures my strangled gasp and the furrow of my brow. "Weeks?" I ask, hardly able to breathe. I throw myself off the bed and search for a mirror – somehow I know that a mirror will tell me. But there aren't any sharp surfaces here; a rather chilling discovery. I whirl around and clap my hands to my mouth. "Months?"

I can't—

I won't—

Oh, I just want—

Lavender stands and clears her throat, but I cut her off with a frantic, "S-Severus! Where is he? Is he—"

Oh god, is he dead? Is Severus dead? Has he died?

Is what why he's not—

No, no.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, remembering the feel of his arms around me; his comforting voice as he murmured endearments; his fingers as they traced circles on my back. I feel him as acutely as I feel my hysteria, my confusion; he will anchor me, I know it.

And besides…

There is no one else.

"It isn't that!" I shout into the air, used to chastising and yelling at myself; it takes me only an instant to understand that perhaps this is why I've been in here for so long…

How long is long?

"Bring him to me," I demand, moving away from Lavender, back to the bed. "Bring him. I won't—not without—bring Severus. Bring him."

Her lips give a tiny twitch. It's as if she is approving my petulance, although I can't think of why Lavender Brown would be agreeing with my mad outburst to contact my—

More Healers come into the room, attracted by my raised voice. They watch me, breathing rapidly – like dogs, I think viciously. Like predators.

I decide then that I am not safe – not without him.

He is the only one I want.

He is the only one.

Mine.

Oh, mine… Oh…

"So, to confirm, Hermione," Lavender says briskly, cutting off my spinning thoughts. "You'd like us to contact your next of kin before proceeding any further?" Her left eye closes for a minute, then reopens.

Did she just—

Did Lavender Brown just wink at me?

Smart.

"Yes," I say clearly, glaring at the whispering staff members. "I want my husband."

Oh, I want my husband…

…

I wait for hours – or it feels like hours. It could be minutes from when Lavender orders everyone out and gives me one last nod as I ease down onto the bed and curl up on my side. I sleep, slipping into it so easily that when I hear the door open again, it feels like I have merely blinked and had a tiny little dream.

…

The room is dark; it is near dawn. The door creaks again. "I told you, I don't want anyone to be here unless it's my husband. Severus Snape is my husband, and if you don't get him, then I'm not going anywhere." I am doing my best to seem haughty and utterly pissed off, but my throat is sore from crying and from the way the visitor pauses, it is clear that my intentions are irrelevant.

The floor complains in one soft squeak. My body tenses; there is a faint charge to the air, an electric note, that I think I should recognise—

"Hermione?"

You!

Oh, you!

It is you!

The sound of his voice makes me gasp and moan; I recognise Severus and it is painful because—oh, because, because—

My shaking legs find their way over the bed. My feet hit the floor.

And with one silent and sharp intake of breath at the man standing in the shadows, his body tense and his eyes shining in the blackness, I throw my body into the air.

…

I am alive.

I am alive, and I am here.

He is alive! My anchor; my hope; my… oh, mine…

Severus—my husband, my protector, my Professor, my very own everything—stands before me, his mouth opening and closing, his watery eyes running over my face, my nightgown-glad body, my own quivering lips.

I can hardly believe that he is real. To look at him—to truly look at him, to truly see—is near blinding.

My hands lift into the air, searching, seeking, looking for hard evidence.

Proof. I need proof. I need to believe that it is over; that he is here with me, now and always.

My questing fingers make contact with his soft, ivory skin. His cheeks are flushed and my heart races as I feel him, solid under my touch. Oh, how I have wanted this, needed this…

One single tear snakes down the left side of Severus' face. I follow it with my eyes, then dare to swipe at it with one fingertip. His mouth opens; his tongue wets his thin lips.

I have the tear. Here, with me, I have it. His tear. The proof that he is present – that this is not a dream.

When I bring my finger to my lips and taste the salty liquid, he gasps though he does not know it – he is transfixed; his mouth is slack.

And let all the gods be my witness, because he has found me.

"You came for me," I whisper reverently, returning my palms to his warm cheeks. He swallows thickly and bends down until our faces are level. I want to kiss him – to drink him in, to feel him within me, to lose myself… But he is dishevelled and exhausted, this much I can clearly see, and so I swallow his words instead.

"I-I did."

He is disbelieving, and I resolve to bring back and repair his broken faith. I feel determination blooming inside of my stomach. I can—I will do this for him.

"Severus Snape," I tell him without hesitation.

He sighs and nods, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. I run my fingers over them, revelling in the trusting way he closes his eyes again. "Hermione," he counters, joining with me in this strange little game, "Hermione Gr—"

I scowl and cover his lips with my fingers. "No," I protest, brooking no argument. No – this is us and this is now. This is who we are and I shall give him happiness; I shall give him everything.

"Hermione Snape," I say firmly, my voice catching at the look of wonder, of painful hope, in his bright black eyes.

I am Hermione Snape, I think to myself as I bite my lip and smile at the man who anchors me to life, and I love you.

fin.