Summary: Utter stupidity breeds the coming of the zombie apocalypse.

Warning: Ron bashing (oh come on, this is one of my fics.. duh?)

A/N: Ummmm… sleep deprivation?

Beta Love: The Dragon and the Rose (she finds me no matter where I hide!)

Differences

Because something or someone looks or acts differently from us does not necessarily mean that it is ugly or bad.

Gene Roddenberry

It should have frightened her, but it made so much sense.

So many things made more sense.

He'd survived not one war but two.

He'd served not one master but two.

He'd only had one love, though— Lily Evans.

Harry's mum.

She knew that because Harry had been so very eager to tell Ron off about how wrong he'd been.

How could she possibly hold a candle to that kind of devotion and merit a love that didn't even care if it was returned?

No, she was utterly resigned to the fact that no matter how much she cared for him, how much they had grown to even enjoy each other's company, that Severus Snape didn't care for her.

Neither did Ron, really. Ron was off industriously sowing his oats and offering his broom services to any and all witches that fell for his lopsided grin and ruggedly haphazard ginger hair.

That was perfectly fine, though. She and Ron had been doomed the moment he'd allowed his jealousy to drive him from the tent in the Forest of Dean. She'd never be able to trust him again. And really, he'd never trusted her either.

His talons fascinated her.

Clear, almost crystalline nails that tapered into sharp points, almost like a raptor had mated with a feline. They were beautiful but deadly.

She'd seen them, dripping with blood and gore after he'd eviscerated a werewolf that had tried to capture her and turn her on the full moon.

It'd been all her fault, really.

Gullible, gullible Hermione.

She'd been suckered in by the frantic call for help. There had been so many after the war. She'd decided to study to become a healer and help piece together the gaping wounds left in the wake of war.

He'd been but a frail spectre— terribly gaunt and pale, dressed in his shroud-like robes.

She'd been so relieved to see him alive that she'd hugged him fiercely, wrapped her arms around him so tightly that she hadn't even realised they'd arrived somewhere else until they were already gone from the werewolf's filthy lair.

He'd obviously been so disgusted to have to rescue her yet again from her own gullible stupidity that he couldn't even bear to look at her, speak to her.

She couldn't really blame him.

It had been overwhelmingly stupid to trek out so close to a full moon to some unknown place—

But, could she really have suspected werewolves after all the other things going on?

Maybe she should have.

Maybe she was just a bloody idiot.

She'd have to admit that she hadn't wanted to leave the safety of those swirling black woolen robes or the almost-sunlike warmth of his tolerance to her daring to accost his person. He smelled like parchment and India ink and her favourite toothpaste with a chaser of fresh herbs.

She didn't mind the obviously inhuman characteristics or even the disgust he must have felt for him to force such a grim distance between them after that initial, wondrous, comforting warmth.

She was no one's witch, after all.

She was Hermione Jean Granger, the annoying, unattractive, know-it-all swot whose only real friends were musty old library books.

And she—

She was so pathetic for harbouring such a longing for that warm embrace after that one, unforgettable, singular time.

Sure, he tolerated her company, silently and brooding like he was waiting for her to do something even more stupid.

Sure, he even had a hot cup of tea waiting for her, but he was British, so that was merely proper manners if nothing else.

Sure, he even let her examine his personal library, but that was probably to keep her from yammering on endlessly about— well, anything.

He probably hated how she stared at him. He probably believed her to be a gawker. Insufferably ill-mannered.

She found the points of his teeth fascinating. The rumble of his voice had become even more deep. His words were utterly precise, controlled, and careful— much like the man, she supposed.

Guarded.

She just found him so fascinating.

To watch him brew when he had no one there to vulture over and keep in line—

It was absolutely mesmerising.

She had no idea back when she'd Apparated him to St Mungo's if he'd even survive.

By the time the war finally ended, he was already long gone. Not a single trace left behind. Not a word. Nothing at all.

Until he had saved her from her stupid, stupid, near-fatal error in judgment.

Brightest idiot of her age.

Gullible little dunderhead.

She'd begun to realise that there was something decidedly odd going on in Wizarding Britain when Master Healer Addlesbury told her not to come in to work one day.

That was only a day before the Daily Prophet started talking about some strange, never-before-seen ailment that had witches and wizards literally foaming at the mouth like rabid animals, rampaging around cities, towns and countryside alike, biting and savaging each other.

Healers had been infected in droves too.

Hundreds were dying.

Many had been killed to save others from their frenzied attacks—

Stunners had no effect on them. Only fire and— dismemberment.

The Muggle tabloids babbled nonsense about the coming of the zombie apocalypse.

Some accused a fictional international Umbrella Corporation of setting loose some sort of lethal bioengineered virus—

Britain was rapidly becoming unglued.

Panic and hysteria had other countries threatening to nuke Britain to "contain it" within its borders only to be shot down by those thinking that could possibly result in making "whatever it as" airborne—

All ports of call were immediately shut down.

Floos were destroyed.

Portkey offices were shut down.

Britain was cut off from the rest of the world—

Ireland burned British planes and sank their boats, threatening to sink any ships and shoot down any aeroplanes that attempted to fly into their airspace.

Ferries were unceremoniously sunk into the ocean depths—

She'd never been so glad her parents were in Australia and oblivious to their connection to Britain.

Her second unwise move had been to go to her parents' old house in London and attempt to salvage whatever she could—

It had already been thoroughly pillaged, looted and taken over by some wild-eyed fanatics armed with pump-action rifles.

Snape had saved her again— painting the walls with their blood and entrails in the wake of his rage.

For the second time, she was wedged into his reluctant embrace, crying hysterically.

Some hero.

Some powerful witch she turned out to be.

A few Muggles with hunting rifles had turned her into a babbling, frozen moron.

Idiot.

Idiot.

Idiot!

Somehow being almost killed by a Muggle gun was much more terrifying than her old potions professor tearing them apart with his claws into bloody, screaming pieces.

What was wrong with her?!

He didn't talk to her for nearly a week after that debacle, and he didn't permit her to leave Spinner's End without him, either.

He'd sealed the wards on the place so tight that even a mosquito couldn't enter without being vapourised instantly. She couldn't leave unaccompanied by him, as she had soon discovered.

He didn't trust her not to do something stupid.

Again.

Hell, she was starting to think she couldn't trust herself either. Her track record of late was not exactly exemplar.

Professor Snape, and she really didn't know what else to call him as he had never given her permission to use his first name, had a well-stocked cellar to die for— packed to the rafters with canned goods, dry goods, preserves of all kinds. On top of that he had a fully functioning hydroponics garden that would have had Neville drooling and chomping at the bit for just a quick peek inside it, his infamous Boggart be damned.

Alas, Hermione knew that would never happen, even if there wasn't a zombie apocalypse going on.

She found it truly amazing that Snape even tolerated her being around— it wasn't like he'd ever liked her. They had a horrible track record in the area of basic civility. Was he forced to because she had once saved his life? It was so hard to tell.

The last Patronus she had received from Harry had advised her to hunker down and stay away from high population areas— or any places where she could run into the infected.

Thanks ever so much, Harry. Why not just say "don't go anywhere?" Sheesh.

She really worried about him. Even his new partner, Draco Malfoy, former prejudiced pureblood git extraordinaire.

Aurors were on the front lines just as much as healers were for the aftermath of battles— only most if not all of the healers were dead or— frankly, better off dead.

If it hadn't been for her blindly following her boss' orders to not go in to work, she'd have been infected and either dead or roaming the land attacking people.

So, did she thank the werewolf for kidnapping her or not?

If it hadn't been for that, she wouldn't be sharing space with the dark and brooding potions master. It really wasn't that bad—

Even if he really did hate having to share space with her, he was at least being remarkably civil about it. That was admittedly much more than she had expected of him.

He even tolerated her strange fascination with his claws—

And his delicately pointed ears, normally kept hidden under his long curtains of jet black hair.

She longed to touch them.

Hell, she wanted to touch his hair too.

It always smelled wonderful— like the garden in the cellar— pleasantly loamy with just a touch of petrichor.

She wondered what he was and if he'd always been so, keeping it well-hidden with the same fanatical control that he famously held over his emotions and his memories— the one man who could fool Voldemort into believing he was on his side all along.

As she sat down a mug of tea, her fingers brushed against his, and she held back a gasp of pleasure as magic tingled from his touch like the dance of static from walking across a fur rug.

Maybe she imagined it, but—

She could have sworn that she saw his nostrils flare slightly as his fingers sought to remain touching. His black eyes seemed to grow even darker.

Suddenly, he stood, taking his tea with him, resolutely breaking the contact.

Hermione closed her eyes. She was imagining it.

Again.

Stupid Hermione.

Stupid, stupid girl.

Wishing to the point of imagining things again.

She shook her head and sighed, moving out of the small kitchen into the living room. A little owl was there waiting for her.

Pigwidgeon, only—

He was eerily, abnormally silent, utterly still and not hyper at all. His eyes were glassy, and his beak was half-open. A letter was tied to his leg.

Her wand was in her hand, knowing stuns would do nothing—

Pig suddenly "saw" her, and immediately started to fly directly toward her face, talons spread and his beak open wide to attack.

"Pig, NO!" she cried, guilt hitting her in the gut as the unfortunate owl was engulfed in flames, turning to ash as her spell ended his horrific zombified semblance of life.

Somehow, the parchment scroll fell slowly onto the dining table, completely unscorched.

'Mione!

Heyyyyy.

I was out having a few beers with… I bet you have NO idea!

Lucius Malfoy. Hah! He's really a wreck these days. Bloody wanker deserves it, you ask me.

But yeah—I decided to let him keep a few of his manky old things from his estate during that big investigation, and he rewarded me with an old pureblood spell to help with your problem, yeah?

Yeah!

I know you just can't see that tosser Snape is a nothing but a bloody old gargoyle, and Malfoy agreed that it was the perfect spell to sort him out. You'll finally see Snape as the sodding gargoyle he really is and then we can go get married!

Perfect, right? Am I right? (whisky stains)

All you have to do is let me give you a little pleasure to loosen you up and the little bits about cursed unlife and all that, well, see, it doesn't really matter because you KNOW we're meant to be together!

Just don't keep me waiting, yeah?

Malfoy said bad things could happen if we engage in acts of forn-fort… ah, something-cation before we seal the deal.

So, come right on over here, yeah? You don't want to flood the whole bloody world with drooling undead, right? I know you don't want to be responsible for that! And you don't want to die, right? Only one option, yeah? The best option ever! True luvvvvvvv's kiss.

Yours foreeeeeeever,

Ron (wine splash and lipstick smears)

Hermione's wand dropped as she finished running the scanning spell on herself. The sickly green glow emitting from the end of her wand told her all she needed to know.

The curse was bound to her.

The zombie apocalypse was tied to her life thanks to some horrific, drunkenly cast pureblood spell.

She wondered how long it had taken for the poor infected owl to deliver that message considering how long the plague upon Britain had already lasted. Somehow Pig had retained the need to deliver Ron's missive, but he'd still been a badly damaged zombie bird—

She sat, staring blankly into the fireplace.

There was only one of two ways to free Britain from the terrible curse—

Seal the deal with Ronald Weasley, who was probably one of the shambling dead by now, even as she sat there—

True love's kiss—

Or end her life.

Hermione closed her eyes. It wasn't like she had a true love to kiss, hell, she didn't even have a boyfriend!

The foul magic that was ripping Britain apart — Muggle and magical alike—was tied to her magical essence, her own magic, her very soul.

She'd read about such things during her healer training, seen the victims of it in treatment as they slowly died as the curse swallowed them—

The spells were always selfish in nature. Always centered around sex. Jealousy.

Lust.

Stupidity…

Usually the one who unleashed the curse who wasted away, too, because they almost always didn't read the fine print of what not to do after casting it.

Gods, what an idiot.

What the hell kind of spell did Ron use in his alcohol-fueled, lust-filled stupor?

Turned Professor Snape into a gargoyle so she'd spread her legs for Ron?

What the hell was wrong with him to think that his moronic plan would actually work, let alone that it was acceptable in any way, shape, or form?!

What made him think she was his true love anyway?! Either way, she was screwed. Britain was screwed.

Unless she did the right thing.

She had no true love because her love was unrequited. Imagined. That avenue of breaking the curse was closed to her.

The only thing to save Britain from the zombie apocalypse would be ending her magic— her life— to release the curse from her essence.

She couldn't do it with magic.

She couldn't risk going outside, getting herself infected and start roaming Britain until someone (hopefully) managed to burn her to death—

No, she'd have to do it the old-fashioned way.

The way of Socrates.

Hermione stood.

She knew what she had to do.

She tried not to think of so many quiet evenings reading in Professor Snape's library, the scent of him, the feel of electric from his touch.

She willed herself to think of her pathetic, unrequited love instead.

He'd be fine without her. Better than fine.

He didn't need her to complete his life.

She was only one life— and if her life could save Britain, who was she to be selfish with hers?

She could be brave if she wanted to.

She walked down into the cellar where the hemlock grew.

He was a coward.

He knew it.

The first love of his life had never loved him in return.

The second didn't even know he cared because he was a thrice-damned coward.

From the first moment when she had clung to him, even as the blood of the werewolf dripped from his talons, her scent was imprinted on his very soul.

Her warmth.

Her acceptance.

It was painful just how that one simple thing had moved him so, but he was a coward.

He pushed her away.

A bastard.

He always kept her at arm's length.

He made her think she was unremarkable, ordinary.

Bastard.

He made her think she was something to be merely tolerated out of obligation because he couldn't accept that she might truly care for him in return.

Impossible.

He could not open that door, lest she not return it. She couldn't possibly return it.

He couldn't not have her if that door was ever opened.

Selfish.

Needy.

Contradictory, Severus.

Gods, her touch was electric like lightning and warm as the sun on a perfect spring day. Her scent—

It permeated the walls of Spinner's End and made it a place he wanted to live.

The scent of her fear fanned the fires of a rage he had never known, transforming him into a relentless, murderous beast if only for her sake—

Protect.

Protect.

Protect his—

But she was not his.

Because he couldn't even tell her he cared.

So what if she pulled close to him when he tried to cover her with a throw while she slept on the settee?

So what if he wanted to hear her say his name—

Not "Professor".

Not "Sir".

Just— Severus.

So what if the feel of her against him was enough to make him want to throw all caution to the wind and press his lips to hers?

So what if he touched every book she had just to imagine her fingers having touched the same spot?

So what if the moment he had been cursed with the form of a monster that all he could think of was protecting her? Enfolding her? Loving her?

So what if he had admired her intelligence, compassion and courage long before this?

So what if he shivered with pleasure when she looked at him with that warm curiosity? That warmth. That— longing?

It wasn't longing.

It wasn't.

He was imagining it.

Whatever he had become did not deserve that kind of look from anyone.

Not her.

Not anyone.

Even if she did fit perfectly against his body, under his wings.

Even if the feel of her heart beating against him, beating in time with his—

Even if she didn't cower from his monstrous form—

And still he pushed her away.

Idiot.

Coward.

Fool.

He wanted her at his side until his very last breath, but he still couldn't say it.

Saying it made his desires real, and he had lived a full life of love unreturned already.

Yet—

He could almost taste what love was on the tip of his tongue. Her very skin smelt of his Amortentia: pure spring water, sweet apple with a hint of cinnamon, and crisp autumn leaves blowing in the wind.

How had it even started? When?

It was the scent from his childhood under the willow tree. He'd always thought it was an echo of his memories of Lily, but he had only been lying to himself.

Hermione had been meant for him from the very beginning. She just had to grow up first, become the glorious witch she was always meant to be—

"I was supposed to have a younger sister too," Lily confided. "But she died one day. Mum said it was a terrible accident. Some toys came off the shelf above and fell into her crib. She said it wasn't my fault, but why would she say that?"

Severus' eyes widened in stunned realisation and his chest tightened uncomfortably.

She'd been meant for him all along. Against all odds, he'd been given a second chance, and like a blind idiot he'd kept pushing her away.

HIs heart was beating wildly—

Something was wrong.

His hands were trembling, his talons clicking together with the force of each shake.

Hermione?

She hadn't left the house. His wards were far too strong—

He saw small white flowers in his minds eye—a cluster creating a compound umbel—

Hemlock.

No.

NO!

Snape ran out of the room and into the foyer, looking around frantically. His eyes locked onto the scrawled bit parchment, reading quickly.

No, nononono!

He ran down the hall, slamming into the walls with his hands as he ran, skidded, and staggered toward the cellar door.

His heart was impossibly heavy. On fire. Screaming.

His talons scraped on the wood of the steps as his wings unfurled, bursting from their hidden prison underneath his robes. His hands dug deep into the wood of the cellar door, practically ripping it off the hinges.

He threw himself down the stairs with a clattering thump, thump, thump as he crashed into the cellar wall. He pulled himself off the floor and rushed into the adjoining room.

"Hermione!" he screamed, panic in every syllable.

Hermione stood next to a growing water hemlock, her slight fingers barely touching the base of the deceptively innocent white flowers. She looked up with panic. "Profes—"

He slammed into her, enfolding her tightly with his arms and wings and— ahem, well then, apparently he had a tail too.

His breath came in harsh rasps as he imprisoned her in his powerful embrace, the desperate panic in his heart matching the pounding, erratic beats.

"Professor," she whispered, her voice a question as her fingers delicately touched his face, tracing the tear that was trickling down his cheek.

"Severus," he whispered back, his voice choked with emotion. "Please call me Severus."

Hermione's voice trembled. "S-severus." Her hand was cupped against his chest, tugging lightly at his very real fur. Her finger touched one of his fangs, yet her eyes held absolutely no fear of him. "You weren't supposed to find me yet."

"Don't go," he pleaded.

Pain filled her eyes. "I have to," she said brokenly. "Only true love or my death can break this curse, and I do not love Ronald. I will not condemn an entire nation to become the shambling dead."

Her eyes closed even as she traced the wrinkles on his inhuman face and gently, oh so gently, caressed his ears. "I know you still love her," she said. "I know you will be fine without me. You do not have to lie for my sake."

"It is not a lie," he said, his voice breaking. He carefully cupped her cheeks in his talons. "It is you, my Amortentia. It is only you."

He pressed his forehead to hers. "If you would have a broken gargoyle of a man who is so very sorry for making you doubt him."

Hermione looked deep into his eyes, clearly unsure and dubious as to his sincerity. "You've always pushed me away."

"I'm an idiot."

Hermione's brows furrowed as she struggled with the confession, still not quite believing her ears.

"May I kiss you?"

Hermione blinked rapidly. She tilted her head, wincing as she struggled with a reply. "Please?"

He dipped his head, his mouth covering hers, his rather gifted tongue demonstrating a few more benefits to being— him.

Hermione gasped at the sensation, her hands weaving into his black hair as she pulled him down, eager and hungry for his touch.

The now-ignored water hemlock shuddered as the pair discovered the finer points of having a thick layer of healthy green moss on the garden "floor." A powerful blast of heated magic blew outwards from Hermione's being, shattering the vile curse as her breathy cry of Severus' name was lost to a deep, soulful kiss and a set of wicked crystalline claws pushed out from her fingertips just as she clawed his back during the earth-shattering peak of their mutual passion.

Dear Hermione,

I don't know what you did, but… Merlin, thank you.

Everyone that wasn't outright killed has been restored to normal, good as new. I found some copies of a few obviously drunken letters in Ron's flat when I went there looking for him, and I can't even begin to wrap my mind around it.

He was my friend, but now I feel I didn't really know him at all.

The Wizengamot has ruled that whatever magic you performed to break the curse was a justifiable act of self-defence, but I'm still not quite sure what I'm going to do with Ron and Lucius Malfoy—

I mean—

Well, they are kind of stuck with each other. Erm, in a really weird, messed up kind of way.

I'm not even sure they can pee like that. Draco still hasn't stopped laughing his arse off at them and shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

He says "Tell Granger she's one mad brilliant scary bitch!"

I think that was actually meant as a sincere compliment.

Maybe?

I'm to tell you that you've both earned your Orders of Merlin First Class, and you're invited to Kingsley's and Minerva's wedding next week— or rather their reception because they got married the second the plague finally broke. Invitations by word of mouth because— I can't even remember the whole list of reasons they gave me. Just— bring yourselves. I don't think they really want anything, just the peace of mind of knowing you two are okay.

Ginny is going to be in therapy for her leg in the States for a good month or so. The healers said Lavender chewed it down to the bone and gave her a nasty infection too, so it will take some time to grow the flesh and bone back and ward off septimus-spectus-sepsis? Molly and Arthur went there with her. I can't. Too much to tie up here.

See you at the reception, okay?

We should really get together to catch up without having to worry about being attacked by zombies.

Yours,

Harry

P.S. Draco says he really wants to pet your ears.

Draco,

NO!

S.S.

Severus wrapped his arms and wings around his blissfully warm mate and rumbled lowly, his eyes closing as he pressed his face into her neck even as her wild mane of curls did their best to suffocate him to death.

Hermione purred against him, her tail corkscrewing with his. "Hullo, love."

"Hn."

She thumped his sternum playfully. "Did I make the wrong choice in lifemate?"

He growled his response, attacking her neck with his mouth.

Hermione's eyes fluttered in pure pleasure. "Mmmm, I stand corrected."

Severus looked deeply into her honey-flecked eyes, an undisguised expression of contentment on his face. "Where shall we fly tonight?"

Hermione shifted her eyes rather shadily. "Not too far," she whispered.

Severus narrowed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. "Oh?"

"I'm flying for three," she whispered oh-so-softly.

Severus' eyes widened comically and then he scooped her up, twirling her around so fast that she squeaked a bit dizzily.

He pressed a kiss to her mouth as he beamed at her. He then tilted his head. "Eggs or live birth do you think?"

Hermione shrugged. "More experimentation is required to produce more accurate data, I believe."

Severus' answering smile was decidedly wicked. He took her by the hand and launched them into the air with a crow of delight, flying right by her side, wingtip to wingtip.

Side by side.

Always.

The End

A/N: This short was brought to you by order of Insomnia, Inc. and I-Should-Be-Sleeping-But-Can't-Because-Work-is-Evil-and-So-Is-My-Schedule. Please thank Dragon and the Rose for staying up well past her expiry date to beta this story. Praise her!