twenty-three—thirty-five


You're lucky to be alive, everyone said.

You'll be lucky if there's no internal damage, the healer said.

Dry-eyed, Hermione watched her reflection, removing skirt and knickers to face the whole of the damage, the ripples and puckers and angry scarlet of healing skin. Cruciatus wasn't the only curse She had known.

It wasn't that bad, really. She was almost recovered. And she still had her mind, which had always been the most important thing, anyway. More than some were left with. And she'd never really considered her biological functions, anyway.

She needed to go into town for those supplies.

---

Snape was nowhere to be seen when she went downstairs and grabbed her keys. Nor did he answer her hail. She shrugged. She'd apologize for hitting him later. A good-bye hoot from Bubo and she was on her way.

The city's grey granite and the grey sky matched each other and pretty much matched her mood as she searched for parking. The anonymity of the crowded mall and Somerfield grocery was actually a relief. No expectations here.

She treated herself to a generic chocolate pastry and an excellent cup of coffee. And wondered idly if Snape preferred coffee to tea.

---

He used her absence to snoop as thoroughly as possible without magic. An annoying handicap, but he took her proscription seriously. The war was won—that was quite clear—but a few rats always escaped the trap. He'd no desire to set up a beacon for one with vengeance on its mind.

So he searched… and found nothing. A multitude of books, all Muggle. Some knick-knacks. A pair of highly incensed familiars. No hidden caches, only the one disguised cupboard from which she'd extracted the healing potions and robes.

No clues to the tripwire that he'd triggered in Hermione's mind.

---

"I apologize for hitting you earlier." Hermione was embarassed at seeing the bruising on Snape's face.

"It was my own fault," he replied courteously. "I was asking for it."

She added a few disclaimers, but there didn't seem to be much more to be said, for which Hermione was grateful. Instead, she handed Snape the clothes she had bought. She hoped they were the right size. "I stopped by the neighbours'," she told him, beginning to put groceries away, "the McGraths; they're the nearest—to let them know I'm here. I told them you're a colleague—a chemist."

"Very well."

---

Snape studied the mirror critically. Potions—even specific anti-venin—could only do so much. His neck had been left a rather ghastly, mottled colour, almost totally disfigured. Just as well, he thought humourlessly, that he'd no physical vanity to begin with. Perhaps he, too, should grow a ridiculously long beard. No vanity didn't mean he wanted to have idiots staring at him.

These weeks, though unexpected, had proved invaluable. He had healed as much as possible, recovering strength walking along the green-blanketed cliffs. He appreciated their stark, unrelenting austerity.

He exchanged pleasantries with Granger.

And forbore from considering his future.

---

Granger was hiding, and he knew it. Every morning, she was amiable. Every night, she screamed her way through nightmares. When she stopped, he rifled her drawers to discover the sleeping pills she downed.

He couldn't blame her for telling him nothing. Not his business, after all; they barely knew each other, despite the long years.

But she never traveled beyond Aberdeen, never met her friends. A few owls were the extent of her communication with the magical world. Just enough to keep them from getting worried enough to come looking for her.

She was hiding, and he wondered why.

---

It was a fascinating process to watch, Hermione thought, lying in the middle of the slim rock bridge that the millennia had carved high above the ocean tides. Snape had, all unaware, changed in his time here. His perpetual stoop, used to disguise his true height, disappeared as he stalked the near-empty countryside. Skin sallow from darkness and unhealthy circumstances tanned under the sun. The tight, sharp-lined expression relaxed—sometimes even into a small smile as he read his way through her library.

She wasn't egotistical enough to think it was her doing. No, it was because he was free.

---

It was common enough to see her out there upon the stone span. Tempting fate in that small way seemed to fulfill some buried need in her, like a person who walks the ledge of a skyscraper.

But today, there was an all-too-familiar prickle in the back of his skull. He set his book on the table and made his way out of the cottage.

He began to wonder if his instincts had atrophied. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; she was calmly lying on the rock and even her over-protective familiars were elsewhere.

Then he realized that Hermione slept.

---

Snape never felt the blood drain from his face. Hermione slept upon a ledge only a few feet wide. With no pharmaceuticals to stay her dreams. Above a sheer drop to unforgiving rocks only thinly veiled by swirling water.

The girl was mad.

He stepped out carefully, confident in his balance, but uncertain what might trigger her sleeping mind. The wind whipped hair across his eyes and pushed close against a body more accustomed to a buffer of billowing cloth.

After long minutes, he stood statue-still, towering over her. But he knew he couldn't disturb her without risking them both.

---

Mindful of her rule, Snape's wand remained in a drawer. Waking or physically carrying her chanced her reaction and a fatal loss of balance. Legilimancy? A last resort.

He heard a tiny whimper and noticed the first tremblings that heralded her nightmares. He dropped to his knees.

"Miss Granger? Granger?" She remained indifferent and his mind raced through options.

Carefully, he shifted beside, then over her, pinning her limbs down with his weight. He continued calling softly, trying not to wake her, but to penetrate her dream.

"All is well, Granger. You're safe."

He devoutly hoped it to be true.

---

How long they remained that way, Snape never knew. He knew only that she eventually calmed into dreamless sleep without reaching a crisis. Relieved, he released her, moving to sit on the green-cushioned stone.

He never thought to feel that terrified again. He had finished opposing Death. To see that ruined by a careless slip of a girl…

A woman, his mind whispered.

Irrelevant. She had been unforgivably thoughtless. An intelligent girl—woman—like her should act like one. She was not some brainless tart. She was needed; she had no right to risk herself heedlessly.

Snape continued to smolder.

---

Hermione drifted muzzily from delicious sleep, moving her arms to stretch.

"Be still!" a voice barked harshly and a heavy hand weighted her chest. Instinct obeyed the order before she could consciously identify Snape's voice.

"Sir?" She opened her eyes to see his face hovering upside-down and far too close to hers.

"Do you have even the faintest notion of where you are?" he demanded, practically spitting in rage.

"I—" She paused and her eyes widened as she remembered being on the rock arch. "I didn't. Did I?"

The following stream of invective informed her that she most certainly had.

---

Snape was quite capable of berating the chit for hours on end, but knew very well that they needed to get off the damned rock before the rapidly approaching nightfall. With a sour expression and a terse order, he got the girl up and moving. When he noticed her stiffness, he gave her another, equally curt command.

"I haven't waited this long just to see you trip yourself into the ocean," he commented acidly, lifting her easily. "Unless, of course, that was your initial intention?" An eyebrow lifted.

She shook her head violently. "That would be letting h—them win."