A/N: Wow... did I *really* need to take a poll? LOL I guess not! So, as promised, here's the final part.

I'm sorry I didn't respond to reviews for part two, but I have a good reason: there were so many so fast! lol I figured you nice readers would rather me spend those hours writing, and so I did. I *do,* however, want to thank each and every one of you who read, and especially those who reviewed, part two.

I also want to give special thanks to: mamacat83, Pearle, Bella, Rainbow, DADA_Mistress, and PlaidPooka. Thank you, ladies, for sharing your stories and giving me lots of loving support!

The title comes from the song "Inbetween Days" by the Cure. No lyrics in the fic this time, though I will do a snippet so folks can see why it's appropriate.

This is a little angsty, a lot sappy, a tiny bit cliched... but I hope you like it.

Disclaimer: JKR owns all HP. I'm just a fanfic loving sap.



Inbetween Days

"Come back, come back, don't walk away,
Come back, come back, come back today
Come back, come back, why can't you see,
Come back, come back, come back to me."

"Inbetween Days," the Cure



Tonight, he was ready.

He’d seen her other times, of course, in the past three months. But those times…oh, blast it, he’d just have to come out and admit it: most of their previous encounters hadn’t gone over very well. He only had to look at his “Hermione” journal to confirm that.

Number of times I have seen Hermione since she left me: nine
Number of arguments we had during those times: six
Number of times I asked her to come back: five
Number of times she told me she was too unhappy to come back: five
Number of times one or both of us lost our tempers: five
Number of times she cried while we fought: three
Number of times I cried while we fought: one

One is enough. One is the loneliest number. We’re one but we’re not the same. Maybe you and I should be one.

He snorted. Three shots of firewhiskey and ten hours worth of muggle music did odd things to him. But he’d known he had to do something, or he was going to lose his wife: one of the few people who’d ever really loved him. He'd been listening to muggle music, especially that band the Cure, to try and understand Hermione better. It was a part of his great new plan, simply titled: “Get My Wife Back.”

Severus Snape was many things. Most of the names he’d ever been called fit, to some degree or other. They had hurt just the same. He knew he was no great prize. He knew his arrogance had only been exceeded by his potions knowledge where Hermione was concerned. The reality of his crumbling marriage had been the proverbial ton of bricks that had smashed through all that.

It was the next morning after she’d left that it had finally dawned on him: she wasn’t coming back. The fire had died, and he was slightly hung over from the brandy. She’d come by that night, and in typical fashion, he’d assumed she was over her “fit.” His biggest mistake, he reflected, had been to tell her that, in those words.

“Over my fit?” she’d snapped. “This isn’t a fit, Severus. I’m leaving you. I can’t take this anymore.”

“What is so wrong that you’re so unhappy?” he’d asked.

“What isn’t wrong might be a better question,” she’d retorted.

“I am trying to make sense of this,” he’d told her.

“I figured the song I left you would have given you a clue.”

“So you’re leaving me because I’m not romantic? That’s absurd!”

“It is not absurd!” Hermione had screamed, what control she’d had on her temper snapping neatly in two. “It’s not just about the romance, Severus. It’s about you being closed off from me, not giving me support, never telling me you love me… hell, I don’t even know if you do love me!”

“I love you,” he’d said softly.

“You’ve a funny way of showing it,” she’d told him, a sad smile catching the tears as they trickled down her cheeks.

“How am I supposed to show it?” he’d asked, exasperated. “I show you all the time, Hermione: you just don’t understand the ways I do.”

She’d shaken her head. “It won’t do, Severus. This chasm is too far for you to jump across. There are things I need, and the way I need them is too hard for you.”

“I can—” he’d begun, only to see her shake her head again.

“What, you can change?” her face looked as though she’d been kissed by a tempest, so copious were the tears. She’d given a small laugh. “Severus, we both know you can’t change. And really, you shouldn’t have to. If you have to change to make me happy, we don’t belong together.”

“I wish to try,” he’d said simply.

It had taken patience and persistence on his part, but it had paid off. Hermione had finally agreed to come over for dinner, so they could talk.

Now here he was, pacing about the living room of the manor, robes billowing around him as he checked to make sure everything was perfect. Satisfied that things were as he wanted them, he took his robes off and hung them up, checking his reflection in a nearby mirror. He’d foregone his usual frock coat, and instead of the plain white linen shirts he usually wore, he’d donned a silver silk shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. He’d used a charm on his hair, and avoided cauldrons that day like the plague: the result of which was that his normally oily hair was dry, soft, and fell in a shining curtain around his face.

He nodded at his reflection in cautious approval. There was only so much that could be done to improve upon himself, he believed: but this was good.

Next stop: the kitchen.

He peered into the various pots and pans, making sure nothing was boiling over and burning. Muggle cooking, he’d discovered once he’d actually studied it, wasn’t too dissimilar to potion making. There was measuring, dicing, chopping, slicing, boiling, and simmering. It was, to his great surprise, actually enjoyable. And heavens knew the results smelled much better than any potion usually ever did. He’d kept it simple, though: he was still very new to this cooking business. It had taken some doing, getting a muggle stove and refrigerator set up in the manor. He imagined that his father was rolling over in his grave: not that Severus really gave half a damn about that.

According to the Muggle books he’d read, he came from what was known as a “dysfunctional family.” He snorted. No surprise there, that bit. His father had been one of the most vile, abusive bastards he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. His mother, who tried to be absent in her room as much as possible, had blossomed into a new woman after his father had died. Her last years of life had been happy ones. She’d departed peacefully in her sleep seven years ago: no one could explain why. Severus believed that she’d simply decided she was ready to go, and left.

He pulled himself out of his maudlin reflections. Hermione, his wife, would be there shortly, and he had other things to inspect to make sure everything was right.

The dining room. What had once been so large and sterile was now small and welcoming, thanks to some transfiguring. The table was set with the Snape family bone china, silver, and crystal. In the center of the table (which now seated four instead of sixteen) was a small vase filled with flowers Severus had picked himself. One of the books he’d read had told him women adored that sort of thing. It seemed that women adored all sorts of things that once he’d seen no use in: poems, flowers, candlelit dinners, soft music, slow dancing. Five books had shown him that, although those things seemed small, they meant a lot to a woman who wanted to be romanced. He had no experience in these matters, so he’d accepted the information as truth and moved on to the next step: effective communication.

This part was trickier. He’d bought both wizard and muggle books to assist him. After all: his wife was muggle-born, and he didn’t want to risk missing any vital information. Chapter six of What Witches Want had been immensely helpful: after taking a few quizzes, Severus was able to determine that his communication style up to this point had been what the book called “The Ice Man.” He had never made small talk with her, asked about her day, shared any of his feelings with her except anger and disdain. This would not do, he’d realized.

Ironically, the best assistance he’d gotten with this matter was from Ginny Potter. He’d gone to Ginny, putting his pride aside, and explained his part of everything to her. To say that she’d been gobsmacked was a vast understatement. Once she’d realized that Snape truly cared about Hermione and wanted to try and make it work, she had been invaluable to him. Harry had grumbled a bit, but even he was impressed by Snape’s determination to be a better husband. So he’d kept their secret, even giving a few comments here and there himself.

And now, the time had come to put everything he’d learned to the test. To show Hermione the “softer side of Severus.”

He heard the sound of the floo in the living room. She was here.

Hermione stepped into the living room. Her brown eyes widened as she took in the changes he’d made. The room was smaller; it wasn’t so dark and dreary anymore. It looked more like part of a home than a museum. She was shaking off floo powder when she heard his voice.

“Hello, dearest.”

Dearest?

She turned, eying the man who stood a few feet away from her in puzzlement and appreciation. This was Severus Snape? Her estranged husband? This man with the sensual shirt and the sweet smile? And fantastic hair that she instinctively wanted to run her fingers through? How the heck had this happened?

She smiled. “Hello, Severus.”

“Thank you for coming to dinner,” he said, his voice soft and warm.

Hermione swallowed hard. Her throat was suddenly very dry. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He waved his hand, and handed her a glass of champagne. He held his own glass in one hand and gestured for her to follow him. “Dinner is almost ready. Please.”

Hermione took a big sip of champagne and followed him to the dining room. She stood in the doorway for a moment. If the living room had surprised her, the dining room had her almost in shock.

“You look lovely, Hermione,” he said, stopping and turning to her.

She blushed slightly. “Thank you. You, you look fantastic,” she told him, and it was true.

He inclined his head. “Thank you.” He pulled a chair out for her, and she moved to sit down. Her eyes went to the flowers, and he noticed this.

“Do they please you?” he asked. “I picked them a few hours ago.”

“They’re beautiful,” Hermione said softly. She brought them to her face, inhaling their sweet fragrance. He smiled at her again.

“Severus… what have you done to the manor?” she asked. “It’s so…” she trailed off, uncertain of how to continue.

He shrugged, as if they were talking of something of minor importance. “I realized it was time to make some changes,” he said quietly, hoping she would understand the dual meaning of his words.

It seemed that she did, for she looked down, face deliciously pink again. “Please excuse me for a few minutes, I need to check on dinner,” he told her, sitting his glass down and heading for the kitchen.

She sat in the chair, numb, trying to take it all in. She sipped from her glass again. Dinner. He was actually cooking; he who’d been used to house elves his whole life. He’d picked flowers for her. Told her she was lovely. Made an old unwelcoming manor into something homey. Was this really possible? Had he truly changed so much in just three months?

Severus came back shortly, took their plates, and disappeared to the kitchen again. When he returned, the plates levitated to the table, gliding to their places. Hermione looked down at the china dish. Roasted herbed chicken breast, wild jasmine rice, and butternut squash. It was one of her favorite meals. How had he remembered that? She liked it because it was not too difficult to fix, and reminded her of things her mother cooked.

“I hope this suits you,” he said casually. “I know you like roast chicken.”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you,” she said.

He refilled their glasses, then raised his in a toast. “Salud, amor y tiempo.”

She stared at him for a second, then clinked her glass to his. “Salud.”

He took a long sip, studying her covertly as he did. She appeared floored by everything. Good. A little more work during dinner, then dessert: then they’d talk, and she’d be ready to come back to him. This was a lot of effort, but it would pay off when he had Hermione again. He was, after all, a Slytherin: he knew tactics and how to manipulate. The fact that he was being manipulative about the situation didn’t particularly bother him. He was simply doing what was needed to get Hermione to come home.

Hermione was astounded by their dinner conversation. He asked how her week had been, told her about his, and even offered some suggestions on her newest research project at the Ministry. She laughed a few times as he recanted stories about some of his “latest batch of dunderheads.”

“They make Longbottom look like a Potions Master,” he said dryly.

When the meal was over, he switched their drinks from champagne to a smooth blackberry merlot, then brought out dessert: thick slices of dark chocolate cheesecake. Hermione would never have thought blackberry wine and chocolate cheesecake would go so well together, but they did. She felt full and flushed: from the alcohol, the rich dessert, and the newly intoxicating presence of her husband.

After dessert, they went into the library, sitting next to each other on the black leather sofa. Hermione gazed at him affectionately, and, on impulse, took one of his hands in hers.

“Severus, this has all been so wonderful, it really has,” she said softly. “I can hardly believe it. It means a lot to me, all the work you’ve obviously done because of me.”

He smiled at her. “I’m glad to hear that, Hermione.” He squeezed her hand. “Now, do you need me to help you bring back your things?”

She frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

His fingers stilled on hers. “To get your things back here, of course. So we can start being together again.”

Hermione’s frown deepened, and she pulled her hand from his. “Severus… I’m not coming back to stay tonight.”

She could have knocked him over with a feather, so great was the look of surprise on his face. “What do you mean, you aren’t coming back tonight?”

“Severus… as wonderful as tonight has been, it’s just a start. You can’t expect one perfect night to erase three years. This is going to take time and work—”

“You mean I have to keep doing things like this all the time?” he asked incredulously.

Her eyes widened. “Do you mean that you would never do anything like this again after tonight?” she countered.

“Of course I would!” he scoffed. After a moment’s pause, he added: “Once in a while, I suppose…”

Hermione sighed. “So this was all an act? Just something to dupe me into thinking you wanted to make me happy?”

“I do want to make you happy!” Severus shouted, losing control. He immediately recoiled, curling up into himself as she stared at him, shocked by his outburst.

After a moment, he said quietly: “I’m not good with these things, Hermione. I’ve had no guide. My father tore my mother apart while he was alive. What few lovers I’ve had, things didn’t last long. They got fed up with me and my snarky habits, and I was cruel at times. I’ve read books, but they only tell me specific things to do. My heart wants to give you the things you deserve, but the rest of me doesn’t know how.”

She was looking at him: really looking at him. Encouraged, he took a shaky breath and continued.

“I’ve slept with our wedding picture under my pillow every night,” he confessed. “To see you, so beautiful in your gown… it makes me miss you less.

Tears spilled out of her eyes. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to go on, knowing that if he didn’t tell her now, he might never get the chance again.

“I was the classic fool, Hermione. I was complacent, I took you for granted. I figured if I was happy, you were too. The night I begged you not to go..”

His voice broke. His eyes filled with tears, and he blinked them rapidly to clear his sight. He felt her take his hand again. After a moment, he went on.

“I wanted so badly to tell you I loved you, but I was afraid. Afraid you’d be disgusted, or pity me. You didn’t seem to take it seriously, so I was too ashamed to ever bring it up again.”

“I thought you were just afraid of being alone,” she said softly. “I didn’t think it had anything to do with you wanting me for myself.”

“I’ve wanted you since the first year we were married,” he told her.

She opened her eyes wide again, and moved slightly closer to him.

“Did you know I hexed Draco on our wedding day?” he asked.

“You what?” Hermione gasped.

“It was before the ceremony,” Severus explained. “I overheard him saying you were not a bad looking bride… to be a dirty Mudblood.”

She drew a sharp breath. He squeezed her hand as he had done moments ago. “What did you do to him?” she whispered.

He smirked. “Let’s just say that, after telling Draco that he needed to keep his stupid, foul mouth shut, I made sure he didn’t have a choice in the matter for a few hours.”

Hermione stared at him in wonder. “You mean you…”

“I zipped it,” Severus smiled. “Literally. Nice little lock on the end and everything.”

She howled with laughter. “Severus, that was brilliant!”

“I rather thought so,” he grinned.

Hermione gazed at him in adoration. “You hexed Malfoy for me! You hexed a Slytherin for me, and you didn’t even love me then!”

He looked at her as if it should have been obvious. “You were about to be my wife. I’ve always respected you, Hermione. And I’d be damned if I was going to let Draco spoil our wedding, even if at the time it wasn’t something we wanted.”

“You hexed Malfoy for me!” she repeated, eyes bright, a beautiful smile lighting up her face.

He was about to ask her if she had made a new habit of repeating herself when Hermione flung herself into his arms, hugging him tight.

“Hermione?” he asked, pleased but alarmed by her behavior.

“My hero,” she whispered, and kissed him fiercely.

When she finally let him up for air, he chuckled. “Does this mean you’ll come back to me?”

“How about we start slow,” she replied, running her fingers down his shirt, unfastening the buttons leisurely. “How about… I stay tonight, and we go from there?”

“Just tonight?” he teased, running his fingers through the bushy brown mane of hair he’d been aching to touch for months.

“Well,” she breathed wickedly into his ear, “if you’re really good, I might be persuaded to stay a bit longer…”

“Like… always?” he asked, taking her hands and kissing them.

She smiled in the way that melted his heart. “You’d better be really, really good for that.”

“I’ll do my best,” he murmured. And he meant it with all his snarky heart.


FIN