Tomorrow
for NaomiJameston

May 3, 1998

He hadn't planned on there being a Tomorrow, after the Battle. He didn't know what to think when he opened his eyes and saw the pale yellow curtains of the infirmary. He didn't know what to think when he saw Hermione Granger slumped over in a chair next to him, dark circles under her eyes and looking very old for her seventeen years. He didn't know what to think when he saw a copy of the Prophet in her lap, announcing the defeat of the Dark Lord.

He particularly didn't know what to think when she opened her eyes and gazed at him with apparent relief.

"At least that's one thing I've done right," she whispered. She was so forlorn and sad. "I should have known better than to assume the worst of you, sir."

He tried to harumph at that, but only retched.

"Don't speak," she said, stumbling to her feet, "the damage is quite bad, Madame Pomfrey says. Just rest."

He wished he could tell her the same as she staggered towards the healer's office, muddy trainers squelching repulsively.

…

He might not have known what to think, but he knew what to do: pretend this had been his plan all along. Pretend he'd wanted to survive. Pretend he hadn't been passively resigned, allowing the gods to determine his fate.

Pretend he wasn't shocked that someone had cared enough to come back for him.

She fell into the category of exactly zero other women in the world, past or present. This was a terrifying fact that made him deeply uncomfortable. What did this… teenager see in him worth saving?

The possible answers to this question terrified him.

"Professor?"

She was back, and brought with her a tray of biscuits and a desperately-needed pot of tea.

Well, Severus Snape liked to think he wasn't a coward, so he indulged her offerings with mute appreciation. Trying not to let her see how bloody unnerved he was at her presence.

…

"I don't know what you want to do, now," she was saying, and her eyes were wide and honest. "But I won't tell anyone you're alive if you don't want me to."

He shrugged, not believing her.

"Even Harry and Ron," she added, correctly reading the assumptions in his eyes. "It's your private business what you do with the rest of your life. From what I hear, you've done enough sacrificing of your own needs."

This kindness did surprise him. He was so astonished, in fact, that he had to turn his head away so she wouldn't see his tears.

When he looked back at her, the somber and empathetic gaze she gave him was enough to stir up old, uncomfortable feelings he thought were dead forever.

Bloody, bloody hell.

…

She walked him to the edge of the grounds a week later.

"I hope you find the life you want," she wished him, her face reflecting the light of the moon. "You deserve something better than what you've had."

He didn't believe her, and he just grunted. Talking still hurt after his injury; healing from necrotizing toxins was slow even with magic.

"Just try, Professor." And she raised one hand in parting as he grasped the portkey she'd acquired for him, and he spun away to a new Tomorrow.

…

She was the only one in his old life, other than the professionally-sworn Pomfrey, to know he was alive. As such, he periodically sent letters to her.

At first it was just for necessities: he needed access to his bank funds, and so he wrote up a haphazard will bequeathing it all to her. It was a magical link and only the Gringott's Goblins would ever know he'd left his whole estate to a student. And they were not typically in the habit of looking askance at such things.

He also needed her help to set up a new identity of sorts. With her advice, he determined it was simplest to just magically forge Muggle papers and incorporate his new mail-order apothecary business under Muggle laws. She helped him find the right barrister and all that rot, and he was surprised how smoothly the process went.

She even helped him with the purchase of his small cottage up north, where the prices were not as exorbitant.

But once all that business was settled, it was November. And dammit all - by then he'd become accustomed to having her on the receiving end of his post.

…

So, he still wrote to her on occasion. That winter was cold, but it was the happiest one he'd ever spent.

He would trek around his snow-covered property, admiring the weighted branches of trees and picking up stray bits of wood to burn in his stove. He would simply sit with a warm mug of coffee and stare out the windows, and make a pretense of reading a thriller. He would journey on foot into town once or twice a week for some decent steak and kidney pie.

And once in a while, the postman (or an owl, according to her mood) would bear the gift of an epistle labeled with her careful, all-too-familiar penmanship.

These letters warmed his heart rather more than anything else. He would respond cordially but somewhat formally, and to some extent with every one he sent, he knew he was tempting fate. She would notice he no longer had a real reason for writing to her. She would notice when his responses were filled less and less with actual task-related discussion. She would notice when he began to indulge his more maudlin musings.

Surely she would realize he was a lecherous old wanker who fancied her from afar. Then, this would be over.

…

And through it all, she still responded. Every time he sent her a new letter, he reminded himself that this most recent letter from her would surely be his last.

But every time, she surprised him, and he got a response. Moreover, in her writings to him, she seemed unusually willing to be earnest and vulnerable in a way he'd never experienced with another human being other than Lily Evans before their tumultuous school days.

Hermione told him how she and Ron had tried to date, but it was mostly one-sided (the infatuation lay on Ron's part, not hers) and they weren't well suited for each other. She told him how she'd taken care of her parents during the last few years of the war. How she went back to get them from Australia after the end of the war, only to discover her father had died of cardiac arrest a few months after moving there. How hard it was to get her mother's memories back to normal, even with help from St. Mungo's healers.

And she told him how despite everything, she did complete her final exams with flying colors, and she started work in a charitable legal organization with the goal of becoming a barrister.

He found himself crying at the suffering she underwent during the war, while theoretically she was under his watch. The girl was far older than her years. It reminded him of his own adolescence, and he tried to ignore the tug of discomfort he had at this realization.

…

Springtime came, and they were still writing each other. She slowed down somewhat in pacing, but Severus made up for it in his promptness. At this point, he had to find another crate for all her letters, since his first box was completely full.

He tried to keep the conversation as light as possible. He described how he watched birds, and which ones he saw most often and named. He regaled her with the story of how he adopted a stray cat that followed him home from town, and then couldn't watch birds anymore because the cat was rather too good at catching them. He mused over cat names, and finally settled on Garçon, since that simultaneously was an accurate description of the cat while also not being too fanciful.

Garçon, a large and long-haired black cat with a dark-sounding yowl, soon proved himself an exceptional mouser, vole-r, and gnome-r. This more than made up for the inconvenience of his refusing all food except that which he ate off Severus' plate. And truth be told, Severus rather liked how he always woke up to the cat contentedly asleep on the comforter, pinning Severus' feet in place under the cover.

He told her about his garden: how he planted peas and carrots, and horehound and lavender, and aconite and a special variety of dandelions, and all manner of other kinds of medicinal herbs. He told her about the orders he received from Muggle clientele for 'magick potiones' that he advertised in esoteric magazines, as well as wizarding clientele for more legitimate needs. He started sketching, mostly trees and herbs but sometimes the odd drawing of Garçon, and he folded these into his letters to her.

He wasn't sure what he was trying to do with these frivolous things. Was he trying to prove to her that he'd made good on her request for him to 'just try' and find the life he wanted? Was he trying to entice her curiosity and appeal to her perceived craving for domestic bliss? Was he trying to seduce her from afar, and invite her into his life?

He asked he what she thought on the matter, and she just acknowledged his need for human connection. That was it, in her view - plain and simple. He needed someone to talk to, in his own way.

That just filled him with despair. She pitied him. Anything else, he could cope with - but her pity hurt more than he ever thought could.

But he couldn't ask for much more than that. After all, she was far better a person than he deserved. He would never ask her to squander her youth on someone like himself.

…

She finally completed her mastership in legal studies, and ended up working at a firm in London that dealt with magical animal conservation. As a result, her letters slowed down even more, which was an inevitable disappointment, and every time she wrote to him she was all apologies.

"I'm so sorry I haven't kept you updated more frequently, I just came home from three weeks in Bangkok."

"Azerbaijan is beautiful and magnificent, but I am so glad to be home finally. Apologies for not being more regular with my correspondence."

"I've scarcely had time to breathe. We're preparing for a trial that you'll see in The Prophet on Monday. It's big news. I'm sure you know how it is. I'm sorry for not writing. I can't believe I last sent you a response in March !"

He thought about delaying his own responses accordingly - a petty, passive-aggressive move that every time he attempted it, he regretted it before twenty-four hours. And then dutifully, sedulously, and pathetically, he would thread together an answer from the half-written drafts he'd already sketched out during the past month's wait.

It was absolutely maddening, waiting for her to get back to him, and Severus was only patient to a certain extent. He caught himself feeling hungry for her words, and he gathered together all her best, most kindly letters in a book for his reading pleasure. Every night he curled up in bed and closed his bedroom door to keep Garçon from watching (and judging). Then, taking out the book from under the bed, he allowed himself to savor one old epistle after another with great attention and relish, despite feeling incredibly silly.

Phrases leaped out at him, and he'd peruse the words over and over, seeking to memorize the way they might sound in her own voice.

"Thank you for always being there. I take great comfort in knowing that I can trust your confidence."

"I appreciate the way you are always so honest with me. I hope I do justice to your willingness to share."

"I understand you're a reserved and careful type of person. It's an honor to know more about what's going on with you, personally."

"I just want to affirm to you - I think what you're doing is extraordinary . I think it's very brave of you to carve out this new life."

He would be mortified if she (or anyone) knew, of course. Even Garçon, he felt he couldn't trust to witness his ridiculous, love-besotten behavior. It reminded him of the way he'd been with Lily and that old photograph he'd found at Grimmauld Place, but it was even worse - because there was so much he could use to fan the flames.

And the girl was alive, this time. And she seemed to have a kind of fealty that rivalled Lily's own. Lily was careless and forgetful, making too many promises and never keeping them. He was very accustomed to her apologizing for letting him down time and time again.

But Granger - he wouldn't let himself call her Hermione, even in the privacy of his own mind - she didn't ever let go completely. She always did send the volley back of her own volition, without requiring a reminder.

That's what made the intensity of the experience a thousand times hotter. The attention she paid to him, and the honor she paid to her promises? The fact that she never failed his expectations, even if belatedly achieved? It stirred something in his heart that he couldn't quite articulate. The fascination seemed to take on a life of its own within him, and he went to sleep thinking of her every night.

But it also made his skin crawl, the way he obsessed. He didn't approve one bit. He hated himself for the way his mind wandered sometimes, where it would devise plans to try and see her. Fantasies where he would 'run into her' in London. Imaginary 'accidents' leading to them sharing an elevator, a table in a restaurant, or (in his most ridiculously contrived fancies) a hotel room. She let slip just enough details of her life that once he got fairly good at using the laptop he begrudgingly purchased for work, he could find out quite a lot of information about her with a few simple clicks. And so his imaginings got quite intensive indeed.

It was perverted and wrong to think such thoughts about a former student, he knew - but he did it anyways, with great shame. He was exactly like everyone always said: a slimy git, a pest and a nasty wanker, and a creep. Same as when he'd been accused of giving inappropriate attention to Lily Evans by James Potter.

But all this went on far beneath the surface. On the outside, he was just a simple potions' brewer who managed to balance delicately between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. No one, least of all Hermione Granger, would ever suspect anything was amiss.

…

Then one day, he realized he'd been waiting for over three months for a letter. It was his birthday, actually - a morose and bitter one that he only commemorated with a couple shots of firewhiskey after dinner. The sky was dark, his in process potions were all in a state of needing minimal attendance, and the holidays had floated past with scarcely any recognition. Garçon had gone out for the day and hadn't been home since dawn.

Severus was bored out of his skull. He was too restless to sleep, too angry to write one of his many drafts to Hermione, and too depressed to do much of anything else.

"I need a bleeding hobby," he told himself miserably, staring out at the darkness of the garden. It was still far too cold to do much of anything, even pruning. Snow was thick on the ground.

The shadowy branches of the trees answered his unasked question in a sigh of frost. He was lonely, plain and simple.

Snorting at the thought of a girl wanting to go out with him , he opened his computer and, in a fit of suspended disbelief, he clicked around the web until he found himself a dating website. He typed his name, then his approximate location, then his age.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he scowled aloud as he clicked 'submit.'

…

Severus, I'm so sorry that I have been so neglectful in our correspondence. I suppose I was feeling ashamed about my spectacular failure in November. The trial went bloody pear-shaped, as you probably read, and I'm mortified. I froze up, started crying, and couldn't stop sobbing right there in the Wizengamot. The legal journalists were thrilled. So was the opposition. I am beginning to admit to myself that I'm depressed, clinically, and have been for a long time. I think I've been painting a rather rosy picture for you in my letters. I'm ashamed to confess I'm not Exceeding Expectations - much less Outstanding. The girl I've presented to you is a lie. I understand if you don't want to communicate with me further. I wouldn't want to bare my soul to someone so untrustworthy as myself.

-H.

Severus, naked and wearing nothing to speak of but a towel, stared at the letter for a long time. He hadn't been paying attention to the news for several weeks, being distracted by the strange and enticing woman who owned the Bed and Breakfast three towns over.

They'd met on the internet. She had auburn curly hair, very thick glasses, floral kimonos, and was pleasingly plump. After thirty or so careful messages and five phone calls, he (due to procrastination more than anything else) had journeyed to her by taking a long hike through the hills. She'd been exceedingly flattered by the effort, and talked a bit excessively about his earthy Capricorn spirit. It charmed him, despite himself. She was sweet, and lovely, and made him feel warm all over when she fussed over him nearly catching his death of cold.

She was a bit of Molly Weasley, and a bit of Sybil Trelawney, mixed into a warm and comforting Hufflepuff. He could make a life with a woman like her and be very happy, he supposed.

So ever since, they'd been an item.

But then just as the memory of Hermione was starting to fade, he saw that letter, left carefully on his table by an owl that doubtless made use of the open kitchen window. He recognized the handwriting at once, and with a single-minded flare of passion rising from the pit of his stomach, he forgot about his current romantic interest.

The tea-kettle began to whistle, which stirred him from his reverie. Aurora (for that was her name) was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, a frown on her face, her faded kimono gently tucked around her middle. "Love, I've been calling you?"

"So sorry," he rumbled back, his face heated with shame. He rubbed a hand over his brow and seated himself hollowly at the table.

He should have known Hermione was suffering. And instead, he had picked up and started romancing the most convenient nearby thing.

He didn't deserve happiness. Whatever had he been thinking ?

"Are you alright?" Aurora bustled over to him and made as if to rub his shoulders. He winced and tried not to lean away from the touch.

"I'm afraid I've been called away very suddenly on business." The words felt flat. Aurora, being an infernal type of busybody, plucked the letter from his hand and read it.

She threw it down again on the table, a snarl etched on her face. "I see. Business ."

He didn't even protest. The woman wasn't right for him anyway, with this kind of obnoxious behavior. Shame on her - he'd been trying to spare her feelings.

It didn't matter either way, though. A life with Aurora would be settling for less than he wanted - and what he wanted was impossible to obtain. As was usual, for him.

Why couldn't he be less of a dunderhead about these things?

"Right," Aurora said, gathering her lapels closer over her chest (as if he cared to look at this point). "I'll just be getting my things, then I'll be off."

He heard her slam his front door and drive off, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Garçon seemed relieved too, crawling out from under a rack in the pantry and stretching lazily. She wouldn't be back, and he certainly wasn't going to try and date anyone else anytime soon.

Not when he continued to be hung up on Hermione Granger.

…

She ended up going for a change of scene to Barbados, where there was an international magic school that was in need of some legal advice as they were struggling to incorporate. Severus did his fair part of encouraging her to take the job - going as far as to scour the legal classifieds for weeks until he found the perfect thing to restore her sunny disposition.

"Get out of England," he admonished her via the most persuasive letter that he'd ever sent her. "Get your head back on its shoulders. You're a Gryffindor, not a mop. Soak up some sunshine and don't come back until you're ready to get back in the fight."

The words, while they felt harsh under his pen, seemed to do the trick. She sent him a postcard at the port-key office, and then another confirming she'd reached her destination. This latter she sent via regular mail, not being willing to send an owl or other bird on a cross-ocean trip.

"There's Muggle birds for that called Aeroplanes, if you aren't familiar."

He was privately amused at the assumption he wouldn't know what an aeroplane was, but didn't say so. He maintained his phlegmatic, neutral cordiality with her in order to keep his poker face, since he'd come rather close to showing his hand. Encouraging people was definitely not in his nature, and he was desperately afraid that he'd shown how much he cared.

But ultimately, it didn't matter, because slowly over the course of her more regular writing to him from the tropics, he watched her disposition brighten again until she was fairly as light-hearted as her old self.

Perhaps even more so, if he wasn't imagining it. There seemed to be moments of flirtation in her writing, that he just couldn't let go of. They were so subtle, but every time he saw one it danced around his head for weeks afterwards, making him smile in private moments.

"I wish sometimes I'd been sorted into Slytherin. It seems as if I might have learned more there than Gryffindor, which only played to my strengths. You've been instrumental in showing me how much I missed."

"I always admired the way you spoke with such confidence to my class. It would have been so easy for you to take advantage of us with that self-assurance! Especially with certain know-it-alls with low self esteem, hah."

"I'm sorry to hear how things went with dating for you. But I encourage you to try again. I can't imagine someone like you would have difficulty in the realm of seduction."

This last statement was in response to a question she'd posed, about what friends he'd been making in his new home. He was embarrassed to admit the answer was none, so he'd made a gesture of mentioning his flirtation with Aurora.

It was surely a mistake, for him to try and read deeper between the lines. But in order to console himself that he wasn't just wasting his life getting older and grayer all on his lonesome, he entertained the idea that she might be interested. At least a little bit.

But then there was the inevitable fall of the other shoe.

…

There was a sudden hiccup in her normal pace of correspondence, and then radio silence for several weeks. Severus sat on his hands, trying not to jump to the conclusion that she'd fallen into another depressive episode.

She's just busy , he told himself. It's not personal. Stop working yourself up for nothing .

But his worst fears were confirmed by a letter smeared with suntan lotion and sand.

"I'm sorry again. I'm sure you're tired of hearing me say that. But I'm sure you can understand - I've had the good fortune of becoming distracted by one of my colleagues. Here's a photograph of me and Jal. Grant me your blessing!"

The picture fluttered to the ground in the kitchen, landing smack in Garçon's food bowl, upside-down.

The cat stared at the photo, which was now covering up his filet of tilapia. Severus crouched down beside the animal and stroked him affectionately from head to tail.

"What say you, old boy?" Severus asked, his heart heavy and sad.

Garçon just glared. Human shenanigans were not to be mixed up with his food.

With a groan, Severus grasped the photograph with his thumb and forefinger and plucked it out of the fish.

He was shocked to see a photo of Hermione - a softer, older-looking Hermione indeed - but she was hoisted piggy-back style upon the shoulders of a strapping, muscular woman in a lean teal bathing-suit.

Jal, apparently, was short for Jalencia.

This shattered poor Severus' heart into a thousand microscopic pieces.

"I never had a chance," he murmured, and with great despondency he laid down flat on the floor. Garçon tried to comfort him by walking on his back, after he'd been there several minutes.

…

"Of course I grant my blessing to you and your newfound partner, Hermione. I hope you know I will always appreciate you for who you are, no matter what path you may take or where your journey will lead you. Forgive me for keeping this short - I'm on my way out to see the doctor. I recommend you avoid aging. This body leaves nothing for tomorrow that can be pained just as well today. Garçon sends his affection and greatly appreciates the toy mouse you sent last month. -S."

…

The depression hit him now, terribly badly. He couldn't remember feeling so despairing since his teenage years, and his body seemed bound and determined to compound the problem by aching everywhere. All of a sudden, his knees hurt, his fingers hurt, his back hurt, his feet hurt. Nothing seemed to work as it should anymore, and Severus was resigned to the idea that his body was folding up and preparing for a quiet early demise.

He lost weight, and his hair was starting to come out in concerning clumps. He wouldn't have cared too much except that Garçon enjoyed chewing on it. Severus found it disgusting to find clumps of hair around the house in odd places, courtesy of cat. So he did go to the healers, and they just shrugged.

"I don't have a definitive disease diagnosis for you. It's just possible to suffer from failure to thrive," Poppy Pomfrey said gently. They were in a soft sage-colored room at St. Mungo's where Severus sat with bowed shoulders. Breathing was difficult for him at the moment - he knew there was something deeply wrong with him, and honestly he was expecting the worst. "Now, Severus, I'm curious if you've given any thoughts to who you would name as a medical agent in the event that you are unable, for any reason, to make decisions on your behalf?"

"Hermione Granger." He felt her name rush out of his mouth before he had time to think, and then it was uttered and irrevocable.

"And… what should I put as relationship?" Poppy quirked an eyebrow, too neutral for her own good. It made her seem like she suspected his true feelings towards his former student.

"Friend."

That was all she would be, he had to acknowledge, and he needed to be all right with that.

…

Finally, though, it started to get better. He started an iron supplement on a whim, after it was recommended for by an animal husbandry book he'd been perusing for Garçon's benefit, and that seemed to help. No one ever told him he was anemic, but he supposed he might have been on the borderline.

Garçon also helped directly, too. The sly old cat started waiting to begin eating his food until Severus started to eat something himself. If Severus dared leave the kitchen without at least some tiny snack, Garçon would mew incessantly until Severus came back and put something in his own mouth.

"You certainly know on which side your bread is buttered," Severus teased the black shadow creature, scratching behind Garçon's ears until he purred like a lorry's motor. "Keeping me alive keeps you well fed, hm."

But it was more than that, Severus knew in his heart. Garçon started sleeping near his head at night, and at moments Severus could swear the cat's gleaming eyes were staring at him in the darkness, as if to make sure he was still breathing.

Through this all, Hermione's letters were sparse and short, though always effusive and spirited.

"I wish we could celebrate my most recent victory together. The civil court approved the amendment to the charter, so we only have another round or so to go before we have been successfully ratified!"

"I am loving this peaceful tranquility. But it is so dreadfully hot. I never wear long-sleeves anymore, though I am embarrassed of my fat upper arms. But Jal says 'the better to hug me with, my dear' in such a tone as to make my concerns dance away in peals of laughter."

"I got the worst sun-burn you ever saw. Severus, I wish you'd have seen it! Only my naughty bits went unscathed! As far as Jal says, at least."

Every mention of Hermione's lover made his blood run cold, and it always took extra effort to respond to those letters that mentioned her. But dutifully Severus did so, knowing that whatever connection he maintained to her, it would be the last bit of sunlight to directly shine upon his own life.

One day, after working for hours in the warm sun, of the garden, he decided on a whim to tell her that he'd made her his healthcare agent. Of course, though, this required him telling her more details about what was going on with him medically, which he hadn't planned on doing. But the letter couldn't make sense except with at least the barest details of his illness,

And so, in that moment, Severus allowed himself to be truly vulnerable. There was nothing worth hiding from her, after all. She was far away, in love with a beautiful woman, and he likely would never see her again. There was very little risk in telling her all, he felt.

"...I know it may seem strange, Hermione, but I feel as if I have no better friend in the world than you. It's rather silly, I suppose, for a correspondence to mean so much to a person. But I will confess something else, as well - before you came out to me as being… lesbian? For lack of a more elegant word… I was deeply in love with you. Those feelings are muted now, of course, and I say this not to make you uncomfortable but to let you know what significance you have played, and still do play, in my life. And so I hope it does not offend you for me to ask that in the event that I am incapacitated, I want you to make whatever decisions need to be made. I trust no person more on this earth. You gave me the gift of a Tomorrow, which I never was prepared to have. And so I thank you for that. That's all for now. -S."

The response she sent back, thankfully, was swift.

"I'm running out to dinner now, but I didn't want you to have to wait for a response. I honor what you have shared with me, Severus, and it means the world to me. I will reply later with more detail and thoughtfulness as warranted by your deeply moving letter. - Love Hermione."

The Love Hermione bored deep into his soul, and he wept over it piteously, like a little boy.

…

But terribly, horribly, she didn't elaborate further in writing. He was on tenterhooks waiting for her response, and expected her to write back as soon as she possibly could. However, day after day passed, and finally two weeks later, he had to acknowledge that a response was likely not forthcoming. He'd spooked her by laying himself bare, and she'd just been kindly letting him down in that last missive.

He would have just curled up forever in his misery if it wasn't for Garçon's starting a campaign of leaving dead mice on the bed. The bloody cat was damned infuriating, catching and eating just the heads of mice from out in the field behind the house while leaving the rest neatly near Severus' face.

After one too many mornings of feeling sorry for himself and his lot in life, Severus swallowed his self-pity and got back to his routines. Begrudgingly, but reliably. He'd keep living by default, if only because another life did hang in the balance.

It was summer again by this time, and he needed to tend to his marrows.

So that's what he did - for hours upon hours a day, he worked on the garden. It kept Garçon from complaining, and trying to tend to Severus like a dying kitten.

Despite the sun and heat, he'd wear long sleeves and a fishing jacket with innumerable pockets to carry all his seeds and other gardening notions. He worked slowly and methodically, never setting anything to the side until it was perfectly potted.

While he wasn't always a fan of herbology, somehow this work felt soothing in his older age. He was making things grow, instead of squashing them down with his depression. It did make him happier, despite everything.

Even so, he was bound and determined to be lonely, knowing he was too much a creature of habit to let go of his admiration for the intelligent young woman who used to be his student

…

One morning, he was in the process of filling up his plant pots. It was August, and he needed to finish germinating the final crop of pumpkins for autumn. The potions business was starting to pick up again, and the daytime light was beginning to shorten, so he knew he wouldn't be able to spend the long luxurious days in the yard for much longer. So he crouched on his knees on the ground, scooping up soil from a spilled bag.

Garçon was beginning his daily stroll on top of the back fence, his nose in the air and tail curled daintily. Severus heard birds in the tree behind the house, and he felt the high humidity in the air that foretold rain.

There was a click at the garden gate, and Severus looked up in surprise. The post was not due for another hour.

What he saw made him drop the trowel in shock.

Hermione Granger stood there, her curly hair loosely tied with a velvet scrunchie that was nearly about to fall out. She had a small beige suitcase that looked the worse for wear, and she raised a cautious, timid hand in greeting.

"Hi," she breathed, standing respectfully just inside the gate. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"I…of course," stuttered Severus, feeling his heart pounding in terror. He felt as fragile as an ancient stained glass window in an earthquake.

With great effort, he grasped onto the raised planter and stood, trying not to show how much he was shaking. "What are you doing here?" The tone of his voice sounded surprisingly harsh, and he dropped to a murmur, "Not that I mind seeing you, of course."

"I've come home from Barbados." Hermione shrugged, and her backpack began to slip off her rounded shoulder. "I thought I would swing by up here on the way back to my London flat. But would you mind sharing a spot of tea? I'm quite famished."

"Of… of course." Severus raised a hand in gesture to the door, and Hermione began to walk down the path, her little suitcase rolling ahead of her.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked, stopping as she made her way up the front steps.

"I will," Severus answered, staring down at his cheerful-looking marrows. "I'll be inside momentarily."

She nodded, seeming to understand his need for a moment of privacy, and graciously she opened the door for an eager Garçon then allowed herself inside.

Alone again, Severus briefly considered what this might all mean.

She just wants to see her friend. That is all .

So resolved, he took a few deep breaths then headed inside.

…

"I want to apologize," Hermione started once she had a cup of cool tea in her hand.

Severus, too awkward for words, just raised a hand to stop her and sipped his own tea in defense while he chose his approach.

"No, I do." She seemed determined, so Severus just nodded and began to rummage in the biscuit tin for something edible. "I left you hanging for far too long. I am so sorry about that. But as you might imagine, it was a bit surprising seeing my feelings for you suddenly reciprocated like that. It shook me rather deeply, and I didn't handle it in the most graceful way."

Severus' eyes widened, but he said nothing. Surely he'd misheard something.

She seemed to expect a reply, however. "It is of no consequence," he uttered, and took a bite of biscuit. The crumbs fell onto his chin, and he grasped a napkin in a vice-like grip to get them off.

"I would hope it would be of some consequence," Hermione answered in a rather acerbic tone. It was unexpected from her, and Severus raised his eyes to regard her with incredulity. "You just told me you love me, if I understood you right, and now I'm here."

He put the biscuit down. Surely he was missing something obvious in her meaning. "I don't follow."

"Bloody hell!" She thumped down her glass and leaned forward to stare him straight in the eyes. "Severus fucking Snape. Are you interested in me, or not?"

"I…" He swallowed. His throat felt incredibly dry. "I cannot lie," he croaked out, and sipped his tea again. It didn't seem to help. She was still staring at him with an accusatory glare. "I… I do. I mean, I am." He felt like a schoolboy standing in front of the class, not knowing his lessons. It was a terrifying experience he'd had once in elementary school, and he'd never completely gotten over it.

She still kept her eyes trained on him, looking every bit the ferocious legal maven. "You are not acting much like it."

"I'm…" He paused, and the only thing he could utter was "...stupefied."

She was waiting for him to continue, so all he could do was rushingly utter, "Did I hear you right, in that you were trying to… court me? And thought your feelings were not returned?"

It was her turn to feel awkward, and she put her face in her hands. "I feel like an absolute idiot right now. It's possible that I didn't make it clear enough to you."

"Believe me," Severus breathed, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he was certain she could hear it. "I have read every letter you've ever sent me at least half a dozen times each. Not once did I read anything that sounded remotely like you had any significant interest in being anything beyond sharing letters."

"Bloody hell," Hermione murmured. Her velvet scrunchie fell out of her hair, and Garçon was quick to pounce on it, grab it in his mouth, and retreat to the shadows to play with it. "I… I could have sworn…"

In a sudden burst of energy, she slipped from her chair, grabbed her backpack, and poured it immediately out upon Severus' floor. A flood of papers emerged, and they all fell to the ground. Many were bound in reams, many were loose-leaf, and some were tied together with ribbons.

Severus couldn't help but recognize - the ones in ribbons were his letters to her. Spanning several years, at this point, it was strange to see them stacked neatly together, amidst the tide of disorganized papers. It seemed clear from the incongruity of these that his letters were meaningful and particularly special to her.

"Is it possible I never sent it?" Hermione asked herself, threading her hands through the mess and looking harried. "Or perhaps it was lost in the mail?"

The sight of all this made Severus begin to chuckle despite himself. "You were so upset," he said, feeling a bit tickled at the idea she'd been secretly pining after him for a long while, same as him. "And you're not even sure you sent it?"

"I… I don't know." Hermione frowned, and raised both hands in the air. "Now that I think about it, I might have tossed it. Ugh. It was just after that miserable trial ended. I didn't know what to do with myself. My head… I don't know where it was."

He smiled faintly, feeling a tentative hope beginning to blossom in his heart.

"So." He tried not to smile too much. "What of Jal?"

Hermione shook her head. "She wasn't going to leave Barbados. She made that abundantly clear when we started dating. I was thinking of staying there with her, but then you sent me that letter, and I began to question everything."

He nodded, feeling ashamed. Hermione was just about to have a life close to the one she deserved. "I'm nothing like her, I hope you know."

"I do." She cast him a shy smile, and it made his entire body glow with pleasure.

This .

This was what he had always wanted .

"And I should hope you're a bit different," Hermione went on, a little bit tickled. "I cared for her a lot, but there was always something missing."

The image that first arose to his mind made Severus feel incredibly awkward, and he crossed his legs succinctly.

"Aside from the obvious," Hermione laughed at the reaction, and it made him chuckle too. "She just didn't feel like she knew me, really. She saw some version of me that never really passed the superficial level. It bothered me a lot, but I figured it was just a feature of the tropical lifestyle, and I should just roll with it."

The implication was obvious here, and Severus found himself returning her smile.

"So," he breathed, only willing to let her drive the conversation, "where do we go from here?"

"Well," Hermione answered, matter-of-factly, "I suppose we should finish our tea, and then perhaps we can talk some more, and then perhaps we should get to snogging or somesuch. I don't know. What do you think?"

"Let's… skip some of that," Severus murmured, and in an instant he was at her side, pressing his mouth into hers and tasting her lips with the tip of his tongue.

…

They sat together outside, looking at the fire in the pit and the stars above them.

"I love what you've done with the place," Hermione observed, "it looks much improved from the real estate listings I remember seeing."

It made him feel a buzzing of sensation in his chest, an awareness of her awareness of him that extended far back to when they first were beginning their correspondence.

"Thank you," he breathed, and then not able to resist, he leaned in and kissed her again. She reciprocated in kind, earnest and warm and smiling when he pulled away. "I thought of you often while I worked on it."

"I suppose you did," Hermione acknowledged with a widening grin, and kicked a pebble to distract Garçon from the judgmental way he stared at them. The cat stared at the rock for a moment, then raised his nose in the air and pretended not to notice Hermione's wiggling fingers beckoning him come.

"He'll get used to you," Severus reassured, offering his hand to her in a timid fashion. His heart filled with such powerful gratitude when she took it, in such a common-sense way. He wondered why on earth he'd waited so long to give it to her. "He is just a bit reluctant to… let himself be known."

"Not unlike a certain potions master I know," Hermione retorted, and she rested her head on Severus' shoulder soundly. "I really do love you, by the way. I'm sorry that things didn't work out earlier. I feel like such a dunderhead."

He chuckled at that, his mood so light he could scarcely hold anything against her.

"I would like you to stop apologizing," Severus said, and he turned to stare Hermione fully in the eyes. "We have years upon years of tomorrows, thanks to you. So let's focus on that, and not on our misadventures of yesterdays."

"I think that sounds about right," Hermione answered with a sigh of acceptance. "I will do my best, Severus."

He pulled her closer, settling a hand on her waist and answered, "You already do that well enough, my darling...Hermione."

Garçon mewed with jealousy as they kissed again under the rising moon.