The Love You Take

A/N: Subversa FanFic Math® strikes again - two more chapters after this one; the last chapter should post on Halloween. Thanks to the usual crew of Shug, Annie Talbot, MagicAlly, and DeeMichelle!


The Love You Take

Chapter 26: The Love You Take


‘Po-tee-wheet?’

Severus opened his eyes to find himself beak-to-beak with a tiny featherless chick of a bird. The chick had its diminutive head tilted to one side, watching him with beady little black birdie-eyes.

‘What are you looking at?’ he snarled, struggling to sit up.

The chick hopped backwards, demonstrating great presence of mind for an avian of no great size, and continued to watch him as his fingertips felt along his scalp, searching out the source of his pounding headache. ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed as he encountered a protrusion roughly the size and shape of a chicken egg. He glared at the chick, as if it were somehow responsible for his injury. The chick, noting his attention, attempted further communication.

‘Po-tee-wheet?’ it said again.

‘Must you babble?’ Severus demanded irritably, glaring about at his surroundings. To be sure, this was not the first time in his experience that Severus had regained consciousness in a wood, unable to remember how he came to be there, but it seemed to him that something of great import had occurred, and he struggled to remember what it was. As he mulled it over, the fingers of his left hand stole again to probe the bump on the back of his skull, and the sleeve of his robes fell back to reveal his gooseflesh covered forearm.

He stared at the pale white skin, then jerked his right arm up as well, as if to compare the chill bumps present on each—but this gooseflesh had little to do with the dew drenched dawn.

Where was his Dark Mark?

‘Po-tee-wheet?’ the chick interpolated helpfully.

‘Yes, probably,’ Severus answered absently, now running fingertips over the newly pristine skin. He had been Marked since he was eighteen years old; he had believed he would wear the hideous emblem of his enslavement for the rest of his life. He felt his spirit take flight, unlike the earthbound chick before him, and as his hopes soared, a flood of memories saturated his mind. The Dark Lord was obliterated from the face of the earth, and he, Severus, was alive and well—and he was in love.

He had to find Hermione.

‘Fawkes?’ he said, just to make sure he wasn’t mistaking some other, lesser bird, for Dumbledore’s familiar.

The chick hopped closer to him, as if answering to his name.

Severus lifted the nearly weightless Fawkes in the palm of his hand. ‘I suppose you’ve let me grab onto your tail-feathers a time or two,’ he said equably. ‘In payment, I shall let you be the passenger this time around—if you’re agreeable to that, of course.’

‘Po-tee-wheet!’ the newborn phoenix answered with baby bird enthusiasm.

‘Very well,’ Severus said, and he slipped the ball of fluff into the pocket of his cloak before casting a Disillusionment Charm and beginning the hike to the castle.

---

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open. The pearlescent light of dawn shone about the edges of the window curtains. She frowned. Those weren’t the draperies of her bedroom at Prince House—they looked, instead, like the curtains in the Hospital Wing …

‘Miss is awake!’ a squeaky voice said, and Scampy’s face appeared. ‘Scampy is to say that Madam Pomfrey put a spell on Miss to keep Miss still so she can get strong again.’

Hermione attempted to open her lips to ask why, but found that she couldn’t even speak. She frowned again. So, the Restraining Spell impelled her to remain still and quiet, but it did not freeze her facial muscles. Well, that was something, she supposed.

‘Miss Hermione was in a battle,’ Scampy said, sounding awed. ‘Miss Hermione duelled with Miss Morgen and won!’

Of course—she had fainted away after her duel with Morgen. She exhaled sharply. It was really becoming very tiresome, this business of falling unconscious every other day.

Another figure entered her line of sight as Madam Pomfrey appeared. ‘Good, you’re awake,’ she said. ‘I told Professor Snape not to let you duel, didn’t I? Did he even tell you not to do it? I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind the next time he shows his face around here.’ The matron cast a series of spells. ‘You’re improving, but you’re still as weak as a kitten. I’m going to remove the restraints so you can sit up and take your potions, but then I’m putting them right back on you again, Hermione. This is a very serious condition, as I thought I had explained plainly to Professor Snape.’

Madam Pomfrey released the Restraining Spell and Scampy assisted to support Hermione in a semi-sitting position. The matron held the first of three potions to Hermione’s lips, patiently tilting the phial until Hermione had swallowed it all. Simply being raised up made her feel light-headed and weak; she couldn’t deny that Madam Pomfrey was correct about how enervated she was.

When she was finished swallowing potions, Scampy lowered her again to the pillow, and she whimpered in relief.

‘Yes,’ Madam Pomfrey said, not unkindly, ‘you’re exhausted, both physically and magically, but we’ll have you up and about in a day or two—if you do as you’re told!’

‘How …’ Hermione began, wanting to ask about the professor, but her voice was barely a whisper, and Madam Pomfrey promptly replaced the Restraining Spell.

‘No talking,’ she said firmly. ‘You will rest until I am satisfied that will not endanger your health, young lady. Madam Prince sent a house-elf to help look after you, and I’m glad for that, because we’re rather full-up, at present.’

Hermione opened her mouth again, but the spell would not permit her to speak.

‘Rest,’ Madam Pomfrey commanded her before hurrying away.

---

Severus entered the deserted halls of Hogwarts, having trekked back from the Forbidden Forest and walked through the signs of a pitched battle. The grounds immediately around the castle looked as if a hurricane had blown through, judging by the felled trees, fallen branches, and scattered debris which were the result of the magical mêlée which had taken place there the day before. Silently, he climbed the staircases to the seventh floor and walked to the gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office.

‘Canary Creams,’ he said and stepped onto the revolving stairway.

Dumbledore was standing in the doorway when he arrived, attired in a rich purple dressing gown with matching nightcap; he did not, however, look as if he had slept.

‘Severus! Harry said you were all right, but when you didn’t come back …’

Severus swept past the old man and walked to Fawkes’ perch, where he placed the featherless phoenix.

‘Po-tee-wheet?’ Fawkes said, obviously happy to be back home.

‘Fawkes!’ Dumbledore exclaimed and hastened to the bird, placing a gnarled finger upon its head, stroking gently. ‘I am very glad to see you, my old friend.’

‘Touching,’ Severus said scathingly.

Dumbledore turned back to him. ‘I am very glad to see you as well,’ the old man assured him.

‘One of your DA twits took me for a Death Eater and knocked me flat with a Full Body-Bind,’ he said. ‘I hit my head, only woke up this morning when your bird began chirping at me.’

Dumbledore stepped closer to him. ‘Harry told me what you did,’ he said softly. ‘I know you stepped in to intercept a Killing Curse, Severus—how can I ever …’

Severus turned his back on the old man and strode restlessly over to the window. ‘Have you seen Miss Granger?’ he asked tightly.

‘Hermione is in the Hospital Wing,’ Dumbledore replied. ‘She fought in the Death Eater assault on Hogsmeade and was personally responsible for the capture of the leader of the attack.’

Severus turned abruptly from the window. ‘Morgen Singer?’ he asked.

Dumbledore nodded. ‘Tonks was there when it happened; apparently Hermione ringed Morgen in with a wall of fire.’

Severus smirked appreciatively before asking, ‘What is her injury?’

Dumbledore looked grave. ‘You will remember Madam Pomfrey explaining that Hermione ought not to duel anymore, because of her infirmity?’

‘Of course I remember,’ Severus replied impatiently. ‘My grandmother gave her that information.’

‘Apparently, Hermione chose to disregard those instructions, and she joined the villagers in defending Hogsmeade. She collapsed at the scene, and Tonks had her moved to the infirmary.’

Severus’ fists clenched at his sides, and he took a step towards Dumbledore. ‘Don’t toy with me!’ he snarled. ‘What is her condition? Her prognosis?’

Dumbledore held up a placating hand. ‘She is physically and magically exhausted,’ he said. ‘Poppy has placed her under magical restraint to force her to rest. With the proper bed rest and potions, Hermione should be well in a day or two.’

Severus felt relief flood him, and irritation with Dumbledore fell back before the onslaught of an almost giddy cheer. He strode across the room to the door and opened it to leave; Dumbledore’s next word stayed him.

‘You do remember your promise, Severus?’

Severus closed the door and turned back. ‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘The boy is safe—I did as I said I would. What else do you want?’

The old man took a step towards him, speaking soothingly. ‘You did a fine job of protecting Harry,’ he said, ‘but don’t forget your promise about Hermione.’

The soaring, giddy feeling fell away from him like water sliding down a duck’s back; such emotions had never been meant for the likes of Severus Snape. ‘What do you mean, old man?’ he demanded dangerously.

Dumbledore took another step towards him, his gaze sharp, his tone now implacable. ‘We agreed on the night I brought her to you that when the curse was done, you would let her get on with her life as it ought to have been without Tom’s interference. Let her be, Severus.’

Now Severus took a step towards Dumbledore, sudden rage inundating him. ‘You told me she was fond of me! You encouraged me! You said we would make a good pair!’

Dumbledore stood tall now, and power seemed to radiate from him, laced with indignation. ‘I said what was necessary to bring about a favourable outcome!’ he thundered. ‘It was for the greater good, man, surely you can see that?’

Severus recoiled blindly, a sick feeling now pervading him. She had said she loved him, over and again—but surely that was merely the result of the compulsion—if he were to leave her alone, to stay away from her, she could regain her perspective, and she would know that her feelings for him had been tied to the curse which bound her to him.

It would only take a little time.

Turning again, he staggered to the door, feeling as if he had aged ten years in less than ten minutes.

‘Where are you going?’ Dumbledore asked brusquely.

‘My quarters,’ he replied, turning the door handle.

‘Severus, if you need time away—she’ll be gone from here for good after Summer Term …’

Severus did not respond to these words, but lurched out of the headmaster’s office and made his way to the dungeons—where he belonged.

---

Hermione lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for the potions to take effect and make her sleepy. Where was Severus? She wanted him with every breath she took. It felt as if an aeon had passed since last she had been in his arms, and she longed to be there again.

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imagine the smell of him, sated and sweaty after lovemaking; she dwelt upon his physical strength—amazing, really, when one considered his body size; she thought of standing on tiptoe to kiss him, and a physical ache began low in her belly from sheer want of him.

Was he injured? Was he lying somewhere, wanting her and unable to ask for her, much less go to her? Or was he …

Her eyes filled with hot, unbidden tears, and she endured them dripping down the sides of her face into her hair, unable to dry them. An instant later, a freshly ironed handkerchief passed gently over her cheek and down over her temple, to her hairline.

‘Miss mustn’t fret,’ Scampy said, leaning over to dry the other side of her face. ‘Mr Harry Potter says Master Severus is alive; he’ll be here soon.’

Awash with relief, Hermione mentally blessed Scampy’s perceptiveness in all things relating to the professor. He was alive and well and he would be with her soon—which was good, because she had something very important to tell him.

She closed her eyes, hoping for sleep.

---

Harry and Ron came at mid-morning, their faces filled with concern as they sat in the visitor chairs.

‘Wow,’ Ron said, ‘you’re in a little private room—they didn’t even put you in here when Dolohov cursed you at the Ministry.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry concurred. ‘The only time I ever knew anybody kept in here was Mad-Eye, after Dumbledore let him out of his trunk.’

Hermione scowled, unable to turn her head to them. She wished that she could see their faces.

‘Anyway,’ Ron said, after a moment of silence, ‘you helped defend Hogsmeade from the Death Eaters—and you chased down and won a duel with the leader. She’s in Azkaban, with the rest of them! You should be proud, Hermione!’

‘Ron led the DA into the Forbidden Forest to cover my back,’ Harry told her. ‘They battled through about four different groups of Death Eaters before they found me in the Centaurs’ Clearing. They were responsible for the capture of about thirty Death Eaters, all told.’

‘Yeah,’ Ron interrupted, ‘but we had help—someone really fast, who cast really strong Stunners and Full Body-Binds. Harry reckons it was Snape, Disillusioned—what do you reckon, Hermione?’

At that point, it seemed to dawn on them that she wasn’t looking at them. Their two faces appeared over her: Harry looking concerned and Ron giving a lop-sided grin.

‘You can hear us, right?’ Harry said softly.

Hermione blinked once.

‘See?’ Ron said excitedly. ‘She can hear us!’

‘Blink once for yes and twice for no,’ Harry said. ‘All right?’

She blinked once, and both boys grinned as if she had just invented liquorice wands.

‘So, do you reckon it was Snape following the DA in the Forest?’ Ron asked again.

Hermione stared at them unblinkingly until Harry said, ‘Blink three times for “I don’t know”.’

Immediately, Hermione blinked three times, surprised by the exhaustion which accompanied such trivial movements as these.

‘I distinctly told you two fifteen minutes!’ Madam Pomfrey began to scold as soon as the door was open. ‘Now, shoo! You can come back to see her after supper if she feels up to it.’

The boys looked sheepish. With promises to return that night, they beat a hasty retreat.

‘Potion time again,’ Madam Pomfrey said, closing the door behind them.

---

Sitting in his wingchair with the decanter at his elbow, Severus glared into the fire and determinedly kept his eyes off the little evidences of Hermione’s pervasive presence in his rooms. She was everywhere, in his quarters as well as in his heart, and every brush of her memory burnt him anew, as searing as Fiendfyre.

‘Sir is needing food,’ a house-elf voice proclaimed near his elbow.

Severus glanced blearily at Winky, who stood beside his chair looking quite stubborn. ‘Bugger off,’ he said rudely.

Winky plucked the glass from his hand with deft elf fingers. ‘But first, sir is needing a bath, and Winky has filled the tub.’

Severus glared at the elf and picked up the crystal decanter, removing the cap and taking a swig of Firewhisky directly from the carafe. ‘Go ’way,’ he said.

Winky snapped her fingers, and a tray of food appeared on the coffee table: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, his favourite meal.

‘I’ll eat,’ he decided abruptly, sitting forward to reach for the plate.

‘After your bath, sir,’ Winky said, taking the hand he reached forward with and using the leverage to haul him to his feet. ‘Bath first, then food, and sir will feel better.’

Severus yanked his hand away from the house-elf and found he was a bit unsteady on his feet. Winky took the opportunity to magick his robes off, leaving him standing on the hearthrug in his vest and trousers.

‘Does sir wish to have his Death Eater robes cleaned and mended?’ Winky squeaked, as if it were a question she had asked before.

Glaring down at his tormentor, Severus snatched the robes away from her, and plunging his hand into the pocket, he withdrew his Death Eater mask. Triumph blazed like the fire in the hearth when he threw first the mask, and then the robes, into the flames and watched them burn. The Mark was gone, and now the robes and mask would no longer live in his wardrobe under a Concealing Spell.

The thoughts and action were rather sobering. ‘Put the food under a warming charm whilst I bathe,’ he ordered.

‘It is done, sir,’ Winky assured him. ‘And after sir eats, the Aurors wish to see him,’ she added.

Severus glared down his nose at her. ‘I’m sure they do,’ he said grimly.

---

At mid-afternoon, Hermione woke abruptly from a nightmare; she had been writhing and screaming from Morgen Singer’s Cruciatus Curse. Awake, she felt the cold sweat on her skin and the trembling of her muscles, despite the Restraining Spell.

But she’ll never hurt me again, she thought. I bested her in a duel, and she’s in Azkaban now.

The events of the battle played through her mind, and when she arrived at her pursuit of Morgen, it slowed like a slow-motion film: chasing Morgen, dodging her spells, blocking her spells, ignoring her taunts … confiscating and destroying her wand …

Gooseflesh covered her arms as she remembered Morgen’s unearthly scream and subsequent charge. Hermione had faced down the other witch, who had hurt Severus over and over again—the witch who had delighted in attempting to humiliate Hermione at every opportunity—and she had felt the purpose gathering within her to kill another human being. She had stared into the eyes of madness and paused to consider if she would wilfully take the life of another living thing.

Tonks had taken the decision from her hands by casting a Stunning Spell through the wall of fire and felling Morgen in mid-stride. Another layer of gooseflesh covered Hermione’s skin as she wondered: would she have done it? Would she have cast an Unforgiveable Curse and killed Morgen Singer?

She wanted to be able to say she would not—would never!—have done such a thing, but she wasn’t sure. In that moment, she had been so full of rage towards Morgen—as well as resentment, she had to admit—she had teetered on the edge of being forced to make that choice. She could not swear she would not have chosen to end the existence of a witch who, for her entire life, had made it her business to leave a trail of havoc in her wake.

With sudden clarity, Hermione understood that this was the dilemma which had plagued Severus all his adult years. She had, until now, shrugged off that part of his life—yes, he was a spy, and he had to commit acts he would not have done, otherwise—but she had never considered how the commission of those acts might have plagued his soul. Had he struggled to decide what he would do? Had he gone against his conscience to maintain his position as a Death Eater? How could she have been so callous about such a sensitive issue? She, who professed to love him, had thought to herself, ‘He’s Severus Snape. Of course he’s done despicable things.’

And in the silence of the afternoon, Scampy came once again to dry her cheeks—this time, from tears of remorse. ‘Master Severus is fine,’ she said firmly, her fingers gentle upon Hermione’s face.

Yes, he is, Hermione thought.

---

At dusk, Madam Pomfrey came into her room and lit the oil lamps. ‘I’ll release the spell so you can sit up and eat some soup,’ she said, ‘but you must allow Scampy to feed you, and you must not talk.’

Hermione was relieved to be able to move her arms and legs a bit, and when Scampy raised her and plumped the pillows to support her, she did not feel dizzy. Docilely, she allowed the little house-elf to spoon-feed her like a baby. When she had polished off a bowl of broth, Scampy gave her a sponge-bath and dressed her in a fresh nightdress—one of her own, from her bag. She noticed that Scampy used her own hairbrush to smooth her hair before plaiting it, and she saw the figurine of Merlin and Nimüe on her bedside table … how odd that Scampy had packed it with her things—but it had been necessary to pack in such a hurry …

She was dozing when a familiar voice woke her.

‘May I come in, Hermione?’

She opened her eyes and smiled at Professor McGonagall.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, realising that Madam Pomfrey had not yet replaced the Restraining Spell.

Scampy excused herself to eat in the kitchens with the other house-elves, and Professor McGonagall took the seat Scampy had vacated.

‘I’m so pleased to see that you’re on the mend,’ the older witch said, uncharacteristic warmth in her eyes. ‘It was a terrible thing, but it’s over now—finally, really over.’

‘Voldemort?’ Hermione whispered.

‘Have you not been told?’ McGonagall said, sounding surprised. ‘I would have thought Potter and Weasley …’

Hermione rolled her eyes and shrugged, drawing a snort from her Transfiguration teacher. ‘Well, let me tell you about it,’ McGonagall said, and Hermione listened raptly for the better part of a quarter-hour to the story of the defence of the Castle, in which McGonagall had participated, and the story of Harry, Severus, and the golden Shield Charm. ‘Riddle fought to get inside the shield to attack them,’ McGonagall said. ‘He had no idea that it would be lethal to him.’

When the old lady finished speaking, Hermione croaked, ‘Professor Snape?’

McGonagall frowned a bit. ‘Pardon my indelicacy, Hermione, but the curse is lifted now, is it not?’

Hermione nodded her agreement.

McGonagall’s face cleared. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well, Professor Snape has been with the Aurors since early afternoon; I’m sure there are a number of questions for him to answer.’

Hermione felt as if she had been struck a blow to her tummy. The Aurors had him? Why? And who was helping him?

McGonagall sat forward, placing a hand upon Hermione’s arm. ‘Don’t distress yourself,’ she said soothingly. ‘Professor Dumbledore has been with them for most of the time; I do not think there is danger of Professor Snape’s role being … misinterpreted.’

Hermione sniffled, fighting tears for the umpteenth time that day. She wished Scampy had left the handkerchief for her. Perhaps there were some tissues in the bedside table. She struggled to reach over to the knob of the drawer, but the effort required more strength than she had yet recovered.

‘What do you need?’ McGonagall said, rising and walking around the bed to the small table. ‘Don’t tire yourself—Madam Pomfrey will scold me like a first-year if you do!’

‘Tissue,’ Hermione said thickly, sniffling.

McGonagall pulled open the drawer, but it was empty. ‘Take my handkerchief,’ she urged, pressing the daintily embroidered lawn cloth into Hermione’s hand.

Hermione gave her a watery smile of thanks and shakily applied the handkerchief to her face. Her teacher watched her with an indulgent smile for a moment, then she glanced back at the table, her gaze sharpening as she stared at the figurine. After a moment, she reached a marvelling hand, and her fingertips ran lightly over the surface of Nimüe’s gown.

‘I haven’t seen one of these since I was a girl,’ she said wonderingly, ‘and that one was behind glass in the Edinburgh Wizarding Museum—may I?’

Hermione nodded, and McGonagall took the statuette in her hands. With an awe approaching reverence, she inspected the small sculpture minutely, even going so far as to turn it upside down and study the bottom of its pedestal.

‘It’s rare?’ Hermione said curiously, her voice thready.

McGonagall seemed surprised. ‘A Vinculum? Quite,’ she said dryly. ‘May I ask where you came by this?’

‘It’s not mine,’ Hermione explained. ‘It belongs to Madam Prince, Professor Snape’s grandmother. The house-elf packed it by accident, I think.’

This speech tired her; she sagged back on her pillows, feeling ridiculously weak.

Professor McGonagall replaced the figurine on the tabletop. ‘I’ve tired you,’ she said, concerned. She stepped over to the bed and laid a fleeting hand upon Hermione’s hair. ‘You did so well, my dear—we’re all very proud of you. And now, you must get well.’

Hermione was too tired to respond; she simply turned her head until she could see Merlin and Nimüe and fell again into sleep.

---

Deep into the night, Severus sat before the fire and stared into the flames.

The Aurors had indeed had many questions for him. Nymphadora Tonks had been excluded from the interrogation room—they could call it an interview all bloody day long, but it had been an interrogation!—and when Gawain Robards had taken over the questioning, things had begun to go ill for Severus. Robards had been a year of two ahead of him at Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw with a disdain for Slytherins, and he had begun by getting right up Severus’ nose. Severus had become uncommunicative, Robards had become abusive—and then the headmaster had deigned to show up.

After that, things went more smoothly; Robards was persuaded to leave the room, Kingsley Shacklebolt took over, and Severus provided the Aurors with a glut of information. When they finished, at nearly midnight, Shacklebolt had gazed at the numerous rolls of parchment and said, ‘It will take a while to process all of this information, Snape—we may have further questions for you, then …’

‘You know where to find me,’ Severus had replied and exited the room, robes billowing behind him.

Now, in the dark of the night, urgent business taken care of, he longed for Hermione with every cell of his body. He could not bear to go to bed, for his bedroom was desolate without her. He did not dare to drink, for the drink made him dangerously maudlin, and he could not afford weakness now. All he could do was sit, his knuckles white from the grip he kept on the padded arms of the chair, and try not to think of the times she had straddled him in this very chair and driven him slowly from the shores of rationality. Clearly, it would be necessary for him to throw out every stick of furniture in his rooms, to fumigate the place, to erase—no, to eradicate the very memory of her ever having been here.

Otherwise, clearly, he would run mad.

Dumbledore said Hermione had duelled with Morgen, captured her, and turned her over to the Aurors to be sent to Azkaban to await trial. The duel had exhausted Hermione. How was she now? He glanced at the clock over the mantel. Surely she would be sleeping at this hour?

He was on his feet before the decision was clear in his mind. He could steal into the hospital wing now and see her—see that she was well—and then he would be able to rest easy. He cast a non-verbal Disillusionment Charm before he could think of any reasons why he ought not to go.

He traced a path through the corridors and traversed the stairways without encountering another living soul. Slipping unseen through the doors to the Hospital Wing, he frowned to see so many of the beds occupied. Moving silently from bed to bed in the dark room, he searched for the familiar bushy hair upon the white hospital pillow linen, looking for the too-pale face he had seen last in her bed at Prince House.

He was nearly startled into a shout by the sudden grasp upon the fingers of one hand. Jerking away, he stared down into the enormous, concerned eyes of Scampy the house-elf, whom he had never in his entire life managed to evade with a Disillusionment Charm. Scampy took his hand again and led him firmly away from the ward and into one of the tiny private rooms, where she left him, closing the door behind her.

Hermione lay still upon her hospital bed, her hair neatly twisted into a bulky plait upon her pillow. She was still too pale, but it seemed to him that she looked marginally better than she had done when he had left her at his grandmother’s house … had it been only two days before? Stealthily, he moved closer, shoving his hands resolutely into the pockets of his robes to keep from reaching for her. He froze as her head turned upon her pillow, her face towards him, now, her nostrils flaring, almost as if she smelled him. She moved restlessly beneath the bedclothes, then subsided again, her breathing steadying and deepening.

Severus relaxed and paced about the foot of her bed, the low illumination of the oil lamp permitting him to drink in the details of the shape of her lips and the delicate line of her throat. Upon her bedside table were lined the potions with which she was being dosed; he picked them up in turn, noting his own spiky handwriting upon each of the phials. Setting the last precisely back in its place, he saw the figurine of Merlin and Nimüe.

What in the world was his grandfather’s Vinculum doing in Hermione’s hospital room? He picked up the figurine and touched it with his wand. ‘Reducio,’ he murmured and stashed the statue in the pocket of his robes. It had been foolish of him to put it in her room at Prince House, but at the time, it had seemed an appropriate holder for the note he had left for her.

Turning about in a slow circle, he scrutinised the room, looking for her bag; he saw it tucked neatly beneath the edge of her bed. His hands itched to pull the bag from its place and to rifle its contents in search of that foolhardy note. What were the odds that she had not yet read it? Perhaps he could pinch it from her bag, and she would assume it had been lost in the scuffle of her flight from Prince House and the battle in the village.

He bent to reach for the bag, and Hermione shifted again, whimpering in her sleep. He straightened and moved closer; her brow was furrowed, fine tremors of her eyelids proclaiming the dream which distressed her. Severus’ belly clenched; every instinct bade him lie down beside her and gather her against him to quiet her torment. Instead, he laid one hand across her forehead, and at his touch, she stilled, the fluttering of her eyelids diminishing.

‘Severus,’ she breathed before subsiding again into peaceful sleep.

He fled into the darkened castle, ever downwards to his dungeon quarters, the Vinculum clutched in one hand, vision blurred with hot anguish.