Chapters 201-210

A Blissful Happy Smile, Lightly Expended

Yes, Hermione thought. Umbridge had been that evil. That woman had wanted to kill. She had craved power. And she would hurt you simply because she could.

Hermione shuddered at the thought of the letters cut into the back of Harry’s hand. He might have gone a little over the top with those bright tattoos, but she could understand how he didn’t want to live with the message Umbridge’s quill had bequeathed to him for the rest of his life.

But what about those strange Necromancers? If Severus was right, if they were connected with the Church, what was their agenda, their side of the equation?

Hermione leant back in her chair. What do I know about the Church? she mused. Firmly, she shut up the voices in her mind that screamed ‘not enough, not enough’.

Originally, they wanted to kill all witches and wizards. It was a simple as that.

A thought hit her. If they couldn’t do that, what would they settle for? For taking out all half-breeds, only in reverse? To keep bad blood from spreading? Hermione shuddered. To keep magic from spreading. Wasn’t that what the treaties and the Statute of Secrecy had been all about? To contain magic. To keep magical people and magic segregated.

She stared at the big Arithmantic equals sign she’d drawn and redrawn while she was thinking. The third side of the equation.

That would be them. The Order. Harry. Severus. Dumbledore. Death.

And I, she whispered, feeling cold and scared.

In a daze, she drew the pensieve to her breast and raised her wand to her temple.

…how she’d kissed Severus, right after he’d come back, how his lips had been so cold, and how she’d cried when she’d felt his breath on her cheek, so haltingly, so soft, but—oh my God!—so alive…

…how she’d held him when they’d left Draco and Hannah—not just because it was such a recent memory, but because it felt so REAL to her, not beautiful, not important, not at all romantic, but—real—solid…

…taking his hand in the theatre during the ballet…

Her wand fell from her hand, a wooden tattoo on the table.

Now she only remembered that this had once been one of her best, one of her most vital and beautiful memories. The sounds, the sights, the touch of his hand—she was almost certain that there had been his hand involved somehow—all of that was gone.

What remained was an acute sense of loss and swirling silvery shades in the pensieve.

oooOooo

Severus Snape suppressed a sigh. It had been difficult to choose the memories for the potion the first time around. And though he didn’t regret gifting their pale shadows to Hermione, he still regretted their loss. Yes: he was that selfish.

He’d written down their content…and still, when he read his account of the memories he’d lost, he could only shake his head in a bemused fashion. These memories had been a part of him? Such an essential part that he’d chosen them as ingredients for this potion?

And yet, he knew they had been. He had written down how and why he had chosen which memories. He had described them in detail: their facts, but also the emotions they had caused within him.

But to read those accounts…it was almost like reading a story, or poetry—fanciful flights of imagination that seemed to have no or little connection with his real life. Still…there were other memories that supported what he’d written. That told him every word was true. How she…

Severus was aware that he was stalling. Choosing those first three memories had been hard. This time, making the choice was almost unbearable. Memories of Hermione. He shook his head. He hadn’t realised his head and heart held so many of them, or held them dear. Even the earliest ones, those that ought to have faded to grey on their own account by now. Only they hadn’t.

Of course he hadn’t noticed her as a man then—just as a teacher notices a bright and overly eager student. Later, of course, she’d been on his mind as one of the Golden Trio—someone he had to watch and protect.

And then there had been that moment when he’d noticed how she was turning into a woman. He smiled wryly. He might be a teacher, but he was a man first. He did notice when his girls turned into women—except for the odd wallflower or late bloomer. Most of the time, they went away in June as children and returned in September as women; some between their fifth and their sixth year, some between their sixth and their seventh year.

But with Hermione it had been a gradual process. Or maybe he’d simply paid more attention to her. Small wonder, since he’d been forced to keep an eye on Potter constantly. And if you were looking out for Harry at that time, this included looking out for and looking at Hermione.

It had started with Victor Krum, of course.

What was it that Minerva had said about Hermione and Krum? He frowned. And when had they spoken about that anyway? Something about being in love and loving—ah, yes: that Hermione had been in love with Krum, but smart enough not to love him. And that she loved Ron Weasley, but that she wasn’t in love with him.

Well, he remembered how she’d looked at Krum.

Though—that evening—there had been one moment, one short, breathless, meaningless moment—when she had smiled at him. She probably hadn’t intended it. Twirling, dancing, her smile had come floating by, not intended for him, a blissful happy smile, lightly expended upon her blind and breathless game—upon this blind and loveless man.

With another sigh and the strangest feeling of pain and bliss inextricably linked, Severus raised his wand to his temple.

oooOooo

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