Chapter Text
Snape removed his hand from Hermione’s back the moment the door clicked shut, flexing his fingers guiltily, as if only just realising they’d been resting there at all.
Hermione didn’t move. She kept her eyes fixed on the closed door, listening as Harry and Ron’s voices faded into silence.
Snape had pretended to be her boyfriend, or… whatever it would be called, since apparently the relationship was new, she thought exasperatedly. She almost groaned. How long would she have to keep that up? Would Snape have to meet Harry and Ron again, still pretending to be Matty ? Would they need to invent a believable story about how they met? How long they’d known one another? Or would Snape flee as soon as he could, leaving her to make up some fiction about it not working out?
Now, she let out a weak groan.
“What just happened?” she breathed, raising a hand to her forehead. “What just - Matty? You - Matty ? What on earth were you thinking ?”
She wasn’t a skilled enough liar for this. It was too much to ask that she maintain that kind of story with anyone, let alone whilst keeping the far bigger secret that Snape was, in fact, alive - and had been in disguise as her boyfriend under their noses all along. She’d been so caught up in the absurdity of the situation that she’d barely noticed until now, but she’d never kept anything like this from Harry and Ron. A fib or two about her date to the Yule Ball, back when they were teenagers, was nothing compared to the revelation that Severus Snape had survived.
Noticing her face fall, Snape finally spoke.
“My apologies for the misdirection, Miss Granger, but I felt it prudent to take reasonable precautions -”
“I’m lying to Harry and Ron,” she whispered, ignoring him. She began to pace the living room. “Not saying anything at all would have been bad enough, but lying to them about this?”
“I only hoped it would be considered a plausible reason for an unfamiliar man to be in your house on Boxing Day,” Snape continued quietly, keeping his distance. “One for whom you left your - family affair - at the Burrow. A façade I only adopted in the case that your deception failed -”
Hermione barely heard him, shaking her head. “They have no idea that you’re alive. They met you, and I didn’t say anything. Harry even asked if everything was okay. Oh, Harry - do you know how much he would want to know about this? Do you have any idea how much he used to talk about you? And I didn’t - I didn’t say anything!” She let out a sharp breath through her nose and marched to the front door, wrenching it open and poking her head out to scan the street. No sign of Harry or Ron. They were long gone.
“Miss Granger -”
“I just need a minute,” she gasped, tugging on her longest coat and stamping on her shoes. “Just - a minute.”
The cold stung her cheeks the moment she stepped outside, but she didn’t look back. Without paying much attention to where she was going she turned left down the narrow road that sloped gently through the outskirts of the town, through the rows of tall, narrow stone cottages some three hundred years old, their windows alight with glimmering trees and blinking lights, neat front gardens lightly dusted with snow. As she walked she held her phone loosely in her hand, thumb poised over the call button, with Harry’s name waiting on the screen.
It was a dangerous game she was playing she now realised; the whole country would be at her throat if they knew. After all, Snape had been right: he had been Voldemort’s right-hand man, and he had escaped trial as a Death Eater - for the second time. Whatever Dumbledore’s orders, whatever role he played as a spy, he’d been involved in everything from the mistreatment of students to the piles of bodies recovered after the war.
But none of that really mattered to her, in the grand scheme of things; it was little more than background noise. After all, it wasn’t the first time she’d been a fugitive; she’d lied to everyone from the Malfoys to the Ministry to the Snatchers, and even the goblins at Gringotts; she’d kept a Time Turner for a year, and released a fugitive, kept a woman hostage, and scarred another for life. But every misstep, every lie, weak or clever as it may have been, had been for survival, to protect the people she loved - and she’d never had to carry it alone.
Harry would be furious if he ever found out that Snape was alive, even moreso if he knew that Hermione hadn’t said anything. Maybe the entire Order would be. Her best friends. The only family she had left. And for what? Snape could disappear at a moment’s notice, and she’d be utterly alone.
Hermione sighed shakily, ducking into a small park tucked just behind the high street, and collapsing onto a damp wooden bench. In the middle was a round pond, and she watched the half a dozen ducks huddled near the thawed edge, their feathers puffed against the cold, as she turned the problem over in her head.
He’d been clear from the start; Snape had never wanted anyone to know he’d survived. He hadn’t wanted to come to her, or anywhere near the Burrow, for fear of being dragged to Azkaban or locked away for experimentation in some Ministry basement. He’d called it a reasonable precaution , pretending to be someone else today; perhaps in preparation for an imagined ambush, ready to buy himself mere seconds before he had to run, to hide, to fight - to start all over again, hiding, starving, at the mercy of whatever magic it was that cut him apart at the seams…
Where would Snape go, if she turned him in? After his supposed death, Spinner’s End had been cleared out, the house itself demolished with the rest of the derelict street. He wouldn’t return to Borgin and Burkes, not now that he’d told her he’d been living there - it would be the first place they’d look. And then what? How would he earn a living, find shelter, brew whatever potions he needed to stay alive? How long would it take for him to be found, and what would they do with him, if he was?
No, she decided; revealing his secret meant trusting the Ministry, trusting the Wizengamot, trusting the court of public opinion not to throw him in Azkaban - or worse.
Hermione tucked her phone back inside her pocket and rose from the damp bench to set off in the direction of the high street, picked a shop and made it quick. After a brief, faux-friendly conversation with a saleswoman about the veritable joy of unexpected guests, Hermione set off for home - but when she returned, only Crookshanks was there to greet her; there was no sign of Snape.
“Professor?” Hermione hovered in the doorway, straining to listen, but she was only met with silence. “Professor Snape?”
No response. Dropping her bags, she took a few cautious steps into the living room, raising her wand.
“ Homenum revelio .”
Nothing happened. She was alone but for Crookshanks, now perched on the back of the sofa, golden eyes wide and fixed on something that wasn’t there. Something about it made her skin crawl. Hermione stepped forward, toward the empty space. Her hand rose, hesitating for a moment - and then she reached forward tentatively.
Her fingers were inches from brushing it - from brushing him - when a hand snapped out and closed around her wrist. Hermione gasped, but Snape’s grip, though firm, wasn’t painful. His other hand lifted slowly, releasing the Disillusionment Charm, revealing himself like smoke curling off glass.
Hermione let out a sigh of relief, and looked up into his face. He’d retained his altered appearance still, pale skin pulled tight over high cheekbones, the elegant cut of his mouth pressed thin with concentration as his eyes, glimmering curiously, bored into her own.
Flustered, she tried to recall what Harry had said about Occlumency - something about clearing your mind - but her mind seemed to be quite empty of coherent thought already. Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but any words she might have said died on her tongue as he continued to study her. She didn’t know how long they stayed locked like that.
Finally, something in his expression shifted.
“You’ve decided not to alert the authorities,” he said quietly. His eyes stayed locked on her face, as if he were still searching for something - and then, quite abruptly, he released her wrist and stepped away, clasping his hands tightly behind him. “Thank you. For not making good on your threat.”
“No, I - well, I decided -” Hermione shook her head and tried to gather herself, thrown off by the strange energy between them. She gestured vaguely in the direction of the shopping bags. “I got you some things,” she said, gratefully taking the excuse to grab the bags and put even more distance between them. “I, um - I actually went to the shops. I got you a toothbrush, and - some other things.” Crookshanks watched intently as she laid the contents on the sofa. “I just thought that - if you wanted to - you could stay here for a little bit. I have a spare room, and I’d hardly be here anyway once I go back to work after the holidays. I got you some clothes, because you can’t really wear a cloak around here - it’s a Muggle area, after all. I had to guess your size, but I kept the receipts, just in case,” she finished breathlessly, tucking her hair behind her ears.
Snape had taken to studying her bookshelf with deliberate interest, but now his hand paused, one finger resting for a moment too long against the spine of the book he’d just returned.
“Why?”
“It’s got to be better than renting a cellar at Borgin and Burkes,” she joked, offering him a tentative smile that he did not return.
She could practically see the wheels turning, examining her offer from every angle as if to find the catch. He cast a suspicious glance over his shoulder at the gifts, as if he were trying to discern the trick she was playing on him.
“A very considerate offer, Miss Granger, but what must I do in return for such generosity?” he asked, with enough disdain to make it sound as though he considered her offer something else entirely. It was odd to see Snape’s usual expression on such a handsome face.
“In return?” Hermione shook her head, frowning. “Nothing.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, wringing guiltily. “Consider it an apology, for leaving you in the Shack.”
For just a moment an array of emotions flickered behind his eyes - shock, disbelief, perhaps even something like gratitude. He looked away quickly, exhaling through his nose as his fingers flexed pensively at his sides. Then, in a carefully controlled voice, he said, “I see.” Snape cleared his throat. “And if I choose not to stay?”
“It’s entirely up to you.”
He nodded, eyes distant and hands still fidgeting in his lap. “And if I were to stay - I can trust that, at the end of this arrangement - whatever that end may be - there won’t be any expectation to announce my continued existence to the entire wizarding world?”
“To Harry, you mean?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “No, it’s - I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s entirely your decision.” Hermione bit her lip. “But can I ask you something, Professor, just to help me understand? Why Apparate to the Burrow in the first place, if you didn’t want anyone to know that you’re alive?”
There was a long pause, his strangely handsome face twisted in discomfort
“The answer is profoundly unpleasant,” he said quietly. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Hermione nodded; later, she would wish she’d given it more thought. She took a seat and gestured for him to do the same.
“I told you this morning that my healing is unpredictable,” he began. “What I meant by that is that, ever since that night in the Shack, I will re-experience certain injuries. They return without warning, a revolving door of past afflictions, arriving as they please. They cannot be prevented - at least not in any manner that I have found - but they heal faster, or disappear entirely, with the correct regimen of potions.”
“You had all of those odd potions with you last night,” Hermione said slowly. “What’s so different about them?”
“There is something different about how my ailments manifest, and as such that influences the efficacy of the potion. Some of the usual remedies fail to take effect altogether, whilst others work only briefly. I have had to be creative.”
Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “So, what happened last night, if your modified potions usually work?”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth; she noticed that now the charms he’d placed on his appearance were starting to fade, and bit by bit, his usual appearance began to return - from the youthful, handsome features of a young man to his familiar greying hair and hollow cheeks, visible scars, and the ever-present air of irritability - and now, just a faint shadow of stubble that she hadn’t noticed before.
“The ingredients for these potions are expensive to procure, and the potions themselves are rather time-consuming to produce. I continue to work out of the cellar at Borgin and Burkes -”
Her eyes widened. “You’re still selling poison?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, as if the very idea offended him. “I mostly deal with remedies for… personal shortcomings: impotence; complications of certain unwise encounters with women of negotiable virtue. Things that people would rather not be seen buying.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, carefully schooling her face into neutrality. “I see. Sorry,” she said, blushing under his piercing, somewhat disdainful gaze - the same one he’d often worn when as a teacher.
“Because I work out of the cellar at Borgin and Burkes,” he continued snippily, “I am expected to pay for the space, and produce such potions, in order to earn my keep. I must prioritise the clients’ requests in order to survive financially - which means that I must often forego my own.”
“But you had the potions,” Hermione said, frowning, still uncertain what could possibly be so profoundly unpleasant beyond potions for STIs and impotence, and the questionable nature of Borgin’s business dealings. “So what made you come to the Burrow?”
Snape shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He seemed distant, though there was something else beneath the surface that she couldn't quite place.
“How familiar are you with the stages of death and decomposition, Miss Granger?”
Her eyebrows raised. “Not very. Why?”
“You keep saying that I am ‘ alive’ ,” he began slowly, “but the truth of the matter is that I’m not quite sure.” Snape traced his mouth with his fingers, eyes unfocused in the direction of the window. “Soon after the cardinal signs of death occur - that is, the cessation of breathing, heartbeat, and circulation - the blood settles in the lowest parts of the body. At the same time, the body starts to cool, to match the ambient temperature; this is known as algor mortis .” He glanced back at her, his gaze sharp. “It was not a warm night.”
Almost as if she were there, a shiver ran down her spine as understanding began to dawn.
“Do you know how long it takes for rigor mortis to set in, Miss Granger?”
Too apprehensive to speak, Hermione shook her head. He made a small noise in the back of his throat.
“Normally only a few hours.” Snape’s fingers slipped beneath his collar to brush where his scar should have been. “I briefly recall thinking that I must have imagined my death; I questioned whether mine were some peculiar symptoms of Nagini’s venom. I attempted to leave, but my body was too stiff to move.” He glanced at her briefly, as if making sure she understood. “I… lost consciousness, I suppose, at some point - and when next I woke, it was in my grave. I suppose I should be thankful that it without a casket, or I may not have made it out at all.”
Hermione blinked away tears, but she didn’t trust herself to speak until she knew she wouldn’t sob. “The bodies began to rot, after a few days,” she said quietly, sinking her fingers into Crookshanks’ fur to seek comfort. “The ones we didn’t manage to bury in time. Bloating. Smelling. They were taken to the Forbidden Forest; I didn’t hear about it until afterwards.”
“The Death Eaters and Dark Creatures were carted to the Forest last , you mean? And I among them.” His lips briefly twitched into a bitter, knowing smile. “But yes, that is the final stage - putrefaction. However, before any visible or - olfactory - signs of decay, stomach acid can begin to dissolve bodies from the inside. This stage is known as autolysis.” He gestured vaguely to his torso, where only the night before had been the injury which had driven him to her. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, feeling sick - but when Snape continued, his voice was even.
“I woke underground with quite substantial damage to my abdomen, though fortunately this is where my decay typically ends.”
Hermione felt as though she might vomit. She stood abruptly, and crossed to the kitchen. In a strained voice she asked, “Can I get you some water?”
“Oh, please.”
She took her time in fetching it, pressing her shaking hands against the cool counter. The glasses trembled slightly as she filled them, and when she placed the glass in front of him he took the water with a quiet, “Thank you,” and sipped it slowly.
Without a word Hermione sat down again, clutching her hands tightly around her glass. They waited in silence for a while, neither knowing what to say next.
“Perhaps I should continue chronologically,” he said, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “After escaping the grave, my first delirious attempt to Apparate saw me Splinch myself, and I bled out. It took me several weeks to reach Knockturn Alley on foot, and along the way I encountered many such variations on my… condition; subsequent complications included some lingering illness that led to shock, seizures, and choking on my own tongue. Later I starved, and once I’m fairly confident I died of exposure. I begged in London, for a short while - and upon my first full meal discovered the existence of a particularly cruel irony wherein consuming too much food after sustained malnutrition can also induce death.” He smirked. “It’s almost impressive, really, the number of ways a man can die.”
Hermione hesitated, then asked quietly, “And you stay like that? Awake, even once your body has died?”
Snape nodded. “In some sort of… stasis. In the absence of some rather potent healing potions, it can take several days before my condition reaches the stage where I can force myself to wake, to move, and only then can I attempt magic, or consume a potion, if one is available. In the meantime, my heart doesn’t beat. My lungs need no air. My eyes cloud over, and my limbs stiffen, unable to move. I should be dead, and in a way I am, but… my mind refuses to follow. No matter how many times my body fails, my mind remains, and I can feel it: the cold, the hunger, the rot.”
Hermione shuddered as she was forced to consider what it must feel like for your body to decay whilst you’re awake to experience it. She couldn’t think of any words to comfort him; perhaps there weren’t enough words in existence.
She took a gulp of water, and finally mustered the strength to speak.
“So, if I’d left you there, in the field -” she wiped her mouth with a trembling hand “- what would have happened to you?”
Snape took a measured sip of his water, as if weighing how much truth she could stomach.
“Given my condition at the time, I’d have died within the hour,” he said, almost clinically. “Despite the potions you administered, I expect I was already too far gone. Complications from blood loss, shock, organ damage - any one of those would have sufficed. And if not, infection would have finished the job soon after. Once dead,” he continued in the same even tone, “I would have remained in place for several days - conscious, but unable to move. But it had been snowing, at least. That tends to slow the process; the cold preserves things. Still, in my experience, that’s about the time the scavengers begin to take an interest -”
“Stop,” Hermione said sharply. “Please.”
“If you need to excuse yourself, Miss Granger -”
“No! No, I’m fine.”
He nodded acquiescently, and remained silent until Hermione had gathered herself.
“You - you say that autolysis is the stage at which your decay…” She broke off, fighting rising nausea before forcing out the words, “the stage at which your decay typically ends.” She covered her mouth, swallowing deeply. “But is it -”
“It’s getting worse,” he said, his voice so soft that it barely came above a whisper. “The episodes come closer together. I find them harder to reverse. I am trapped in them for longer.”
“So you - you came for help?”
He was silent for so long that she began to wonder if he’d answer at all.
“No. I came because I am frightened.”