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The icy dread crept down Hermione’s back and panic closed around her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart fluttered like a broken-winged sparrow.
She had killed Severus Snape.
His body lay beside her on the living-room floor. The explosion had thrown them both down. Strangely, everything seemed intact—except the table where he’d been working on her crystal. Her head pounded; she felt nauseous. But compared to his unmoving, pale form—although he’d always been pale—it hardly mattered.
He looked…
Dead.
“Gods, I hope I’m not dead!” The voice was sharp inside her mind. It was absurd—she could hear him in her thoughts.
“Goddamit girl, what are you waiting for! Check my pulse! You’d better hope I’m not dead!”
She jumped back, gasping. “What… what was that? Am I hallucinating?”
His body didn’t stir.
Then came an exasperated sigh.
“Don’t assume I’m dead without checking! Go, look for a pulse! Move, girl!”
Her eyes stayed glued to his still face—his lips definitely didn’t move—as she crouched beside him. She touched two fingers to his neck. His skin was warm—duh, bodies didn’t go cold that fast!—and beneath her fingertips she found it: a faint but steady pulse. A shallow rise and fall of breath.
“He’s not dead…” Relief crashed through her, and she slumped next to him.
“Thank fuck.“
A smaller wave of relief—oddly foreign—washed through her before an uneasy weight settled in her stomach.
“Why do I keep hearing him?” she muttered. Had she gone mad? Maybe she hit her head too hard after the explosion.
“Small mercies I suppose.”
No! She thought. “You answered me! Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can. You talk to yourself incessantly… curious. But you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Hm, what? Where am I looking…?” she looked around herself bewildered, not having a clue what he meant.
She heard him sigh. “I’m not there.”
“Not where?” she asked impatiently.
“Not in my bloody body, girl! Try to focus!”
“Your body isn’t bloody…” she mumbled sullenly.
“Did you hit your head so hard you became an imbecile like your friends?”
“Hey!” Anger flared to defend her friends—until his words sank in. “What do you mean you’re not in your body? Where are you then?”
She scanned the room, half-expecting his ghost to appear. None of this made sense; her head throbbed harder.
“I suspect, I am in yours.”
Hermione lost her footing and landed hard beside his body. Breath hitched, throat tight. “What—what do we do now? How did this happen?” Her thoughts raced, her mind running through calculations, trying to find the mistake that lead to this disaster. Had she made a mistake? Did her arrogance finally backfire and blow her brilliant idea - and Snape - literally in her face? Or was it him?
“Your frantic thoughts are giving me a headache.”
“Good,” she shot back. “You deserve one too.” Still, guilt lingered. It was her idea.
“Stop berating yourself and get off the floor! You need to undo whatever happened.”
“Me? Why me?“
“You’re the only one who’s in control of their arms! Stop being thick and find your wand.”
Right. He was right, of course. She drew a steadying breath and spotted her wand near the table, the crystal lying close beside it. She snatched both up and examined the crystal, pulse quickening.
It was intact.
“Thank Merlin.”
“Did you make a spare in case it broke?” His tone dripped suspicion.
She hesitated. “No.”
“Brilliant…”
Only he could make a one-word statement so lethally venomous.
Gathering her notes, she murmured, “I don’t know what went wrong. Do you have any idea?” She flipped through pages, too distracted to notice his silence. “I’ll have to check my full research at home—see what might’ve caused the explosion—”
“Wait!” he barked in her head. “You can’t leave my body here!”
“Oh. Right.” She winced. “I forgot about that.”
What should she do? She couldn’t take him to St. Mungo’s—too many questions she couldn’t answer—and she needed him if they were going to try to put him back in his body. That left only one option. She crouched, wrapped her arms around his limp form, and held on tight.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m Apparating us home.”
With a crack, they vanished from Severus Snape’s living room.
Hermione collapsed to the floor as they Apparated into her flat; Snape’s body landed on top of her. She grunted, shoved at him, and discovered he was heavier than he looked.
“How can you be so heavy when you’re all skin and bone?” she grumbled as she wriggled free and righted her clothes.
“I beg your pardon! I’ll have you know I possess lean muscles,” came the indignant thought, prickly in her head. “Muscle is heavier than fat. Also, an unconscious body feels heavier because—”
“It was a rhetorical question,” she cut across, pulling her wand free and pointing at the inert man. “Levicorpus.”
He rose and floated, perfectly horizontal, above the carpet. Hermione steered him onto the sofa and let him down with slightly too much enthusiasm.
“Careful! I’m not twenty anymore.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise you were so fragile.”
“Brat. You’re not planning to leave me there, are you?“
“It’s where guests sleep.”
“Not me. If I lie like that for a day my back will give me hell.”
“Oh! You think we’ll solve this within a day?” Hope filled her heart. “That’s more optimistic than I dared.”
“I was being pessimistic,” he grumbled darkly into her mind. “You said you had your notes here—means you can solve this after a quick check.”
Hermione swallowed, the sound embarrassingly loud. “Well… I thought we could look through them together.”
“I refuse to discuss anything further until you place my body in a more comfortable resting place.”
“I can’t exactly dig a grave in the middle of my flat, Snape.”
“Very funny, witch! Take me to bed!” he bellowed inside her head—words Hermione never thought she’d hear from Severus Snape.
“I only have one bed, and that’s—”
“Well, I only have one body. Perfect equation. Put. My. Body. In. The. Bed.”
“But—”
“Now!”
After some more futile arguing she did as ordered, levitating him into her bedroom—her own bed being the only one in the small flat. She laid him out, arranging pillows under his head and tucking the duvet over his shoulders.
“Are you satisfied?” She couldn’t hide the slight irritation in her voice.
“Acceptable.” He didn’t even try to hide the irritation in his.
She looked at him: the sight of Snape in her bed was absurd and disturbingly thrilling. Without his habitual scowl, his features seemed younger; the worry that had lived in the lines about his mouth at Hogwarts was gone. She noticed his lashes—long and soft, improbably pretty against his pale skin. For a ridiculous second, with his dark hair and pallor, he reminded her of a shadowed fairy-tale prince.
“My own personal Sleeping Beauty,” she heard herself say.
“What?” came the sharp mental retort.
“Oh—nothing.” She gathered her notes from the desk. “Right. Let’s go through these and see what we can find. I don’t want you in my bed any longer than necessary.”
“Good. No one does.”
Her step faltered but she quickly righted herself. His brisk agreement lodged like a stone in her belly. She forced herself to move away, pulled her research to the living-room, and settled on the sofa. She read, cross-checked, and tried to reconstruct the sequence that had ended with a comatose Snape.
She’d been so confident beforehand. Weeks of work, every rune and charm tested in her head. It was supposed to be flawless. Her Memory Anchor. She developed it to protect victims, by taking witness statements in a safer and less intrusive way. The idea was simple and humane: a witness focuses on a single memory—one event—and the Anchor stabilises that recall, sharpening the details without pulling anything the witness isn’t willing to share. Nothing invasive. Nothing forced. A safer way to gather testimony, to protect victims from re-traumatisation and reduce coercion.
It was a noble idea in theory, but in practice it wasn’t ready. She knew the risks—if the Ministry discovered the Anchor, they’d strip it of safeguards and weaponize it. Use it for forced interrogations. The very thing she wanted to prevent. That was why she’d sought Snape. Adding an Occlumency safeguard as a final layer would prevent any unwanted memory leak. If anyone, he should have been able to help her finish the Anchor. But something went amiss and before Snape could finish adding the safeguard the crystal overloaded and magic exploded in their faces.
Now, she had to figure out where her calculations had failed, and how to transfer Snape back into his body.
Hermione had never been so aware of another person while brushing her teeth.
“You gargle far too loudly,” came the gravelly complaint from somewhere behind her thoughts.
She spat into the sink and glared at her reflection. “I’m not used to having an audience.”
“Neither am I,” Snape muttered. “Believe me, the experience is mutual torture.”
By the time she reached the Ministry, she’d recited four mental lists of possible ways to reverse the tether—each of which Snape had dismissed with withering remarks.
Now, sitting in the Auror Department’s briefing room, Hermione pasted on her most professional expression. Around her, the smell of parchment and coffee mingled with the low murmur of colleagues trading gossip and assignments.
“Morning, everyone,” called Captain Daeglish, striding in with a clipboard. “Busy day ahead—three new cases up for grabs. Let’s get moving.”
Hermione felt Snape stir in her mind like a cat waking. “This should be illuminating,” he drawled. “I’ve always wondered what the Ministry calls ‘work’ these days.”
Hermione pressed her lips together and stared hard at her notes.
Names and files flicked past until—
“Granger, Potter—you’ll take the missing person case.”
Hermione looked up. “Yes, sir.”
Daeglish handed Harry a folder. “Former Hogwarts staff member, reportedly uncontactable for forty-eight hours. Last person to talk to him said he was at home at the time. That was two days ago. Check his home, look for anything suspicious. If he’s not answering the door, you have permission to enter and investigate.”
Harry opened the folder, scanning the top page—and froze. “Wait… Severus Snape?”
The world tilted. Hermione’s stomach dropped.
“Oh,” she managed, voice squeaking higher than she intended. “Professor Snape?”
Harry gave a short laugh. “Didn’t think you’d ever be knocking on his door, eh? He’s been a recluse for years, but it seems Professor McGonagall checks in on him occasionally. When he didn’t answer, she raised the alarm.”
Hermione forced a nod, her pulse hammering.
In her mind, Snape’s dark voice coiled like smoke. “Don’t you dare to break down my door, Granger. If you damage so much as a hinge, I’ll make you and Potter pay for it dearly.”
She nearly choked on air. Not now, she thought furiously.
“I beg your pardon?”
Not. Now.
“Everything all right, Hermione?” Harry asked, brow creasing.
“Fine!” she said a bit too brightly. “Just—surprised, that’s all. Isn’t it strange? Where could he have disappeared to?”
“Where indeed,” Snape repeated in disbelief. “I am sitting three inches behind your eyes, you insufferable hypocrite.”
Harry didn’t seem to notice her twitch. “Who knows what secret errands he’s up to these days. He could be collecting mushrooms or whatnot.”
“Mushrooms my arse. I was kidnapped.”
Shut up! Hermione thought, panic and fury rising in equal measure.
“She knocked me out and took me home, Potter.”
SHUT. UP.
“Look in her bed—“
“Shut up!” Hermione slapped a hand over her mouth.
Snape had the audacity to chuckle in her mind.
Harry looked up from the folder, baffled. “What is it?”
“No, I mean…” She flailed for an excuse. “That’s exactly where he would be! Collecting… something.”
“Right…” Harry eyed her, worried now. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly.
“Alright.” Harry snapped the folder shut. “We’ll head out after lunch, check his house, maybe talk to a few neighbours. I doubt he’s in danger, but protocol’s protocol.”
Hermione swallowed hard. “Right. Protocol.”
“You will do no such thing,” Snape said darkly. “You are not setting foot in my home —”
Her quill snapped in her hand. “We must if it’s an order!”
Harry blinked. “What must we?”
Hermione forced a smile. “Enter his house. If he’s not there, I mean.”
Harry gave her a puzzled look. “Right. We just discussed that. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Completely fine.”
Snape hummed in her thoughts, low and sceptical. “You are the worst liar I have ever met. No wonder you needed help with Occlumency.”
Hermione stood on Snape’s front step, heart hammering far too fast for a routine welfare check. They knocked, but there was no answer—of course there wasn’t. She drew her wand and checked for wards. There were none, which surprised her for half a second before she remembered: he hadn’t had time to set any before being knocked clean out of his body.
Guilt pressed tight against her ribs as she reached for the doorknob.
“Be careful and don’t make a mess,” she said quietly.
Harry huffed. “What, you afraid he’ll give us detention?”
“I’ll give you worse than that, you insufferable brat!”
Hermione sighed as they stepped inside. “It’s called common courtesy, Harry. Do you really want to give him another reason to hate you?”
“Too late for that.”
“I don’t think he can hate me more, ‘Mione,” Harry said cheerfully.
She could sense Snape’s sarcastic huff of triumph and rolled her eyes at the pair of them. Then she set to search the house with Harry.
The first thing she saw was the table they’d knocked over when the experiment exploded. Her pulse spiked, fear seizing her throat. She raised her wand, trying to right the furniture before Harry noticed—but too late.
“Hm.” Harry crouched beside her. “Maybe there was someone here with him. They had a fight? Maybe it is a kidnapping. Or worse…”
“Or…” Hermione’s mind raced. “He could’ve just knocked it over himself.”
She tried for innocent, but it was hard while Snape poured insults to her intellect like heavy English rain.
Harry looked unconvinced. “And then what? He went into hiding out of embarrassment? Does that sound like Snape to you?”
“I don’t know him!” Hermione burst out. “I haven’t seen him since Hogwarts!”
“Liar. And a terrible one,” Snape commented dryly.
Shut up! she hissed inwardly.
“Okay…” Harry straightened, watching her closely. “Seriously, you’re acting odd today. Maybe take a few days off after this?”
If only, she thought grimly. The only place they hadn’t checked yet was Snape’s lab. She scanned the door; this time, heavy wards pulsed faintly over the wood.
They worked together to dismantle them—Snape grumbling the entire time—then stepped forward.
“Don’t cross the threshold!” Snape barked, and Hermione froze mid-step.
Harry, however, blundered straight into the second ward. It flared, sent him flying back a good twenty feet, and he crashed into a bookshelf. When the dust settled, his eyebrows were gone.
He groaned. “What the hell was that?”
“Protective charm,” she said weakly, rushing to help him up. “A second one.”
“Bloody Snape… you can never let your guard down around him.”
Neither Hermione nor Snape bothered to argue.
She murmured under her breath, “Any more booby traps I should know about?”
“Not if you keep your hands to yourself,” he said, grudgingly.
She relayed that to Harry, who eyed the room suspiciously. “Right. No touching. Got it. I don’t need more hair-loss today.”
The lab was organised chaos: shelves of potion ingredients, stoppered jars labelled in the tiniest, most precise handwriting imaginable, and stacks of notes written in that same sharp script. Rows of bottled potions Hermione didn’t even recognise. Some flasks bore runes that simmered softly with an ethereal glow.
She couldn’t help herself—curiosity tugged her closer to the shelves.
“You’ll contaminate every sample in the room if you keep breathing on them like that.”
The voice snapped through her mind so sharply she nearly dropped her wand.
Her lips twitched, trying not to move. “I’m just looking.”
Harry frowned. “At what?”
“Nothing! Just—talking to myself.”
When they finally left, Hermione sealed the door behind them, her nerves jangling. Harry trudged down the path, muttering about eyebrow regrowth charms.
In her mind, Snape’s voice came again, softer than before: “You’d have blown your eyebrows off without me.”
She startled at the tone—wry, almost gentle.
“Thank you,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
A faint hum of acknowledgement rippled through her mind. She knew he’d noticed the warmth behind her words. They both went silent for the journey back to the Ministry.
Midnight found Hermione hunched over her tiny writing desk, a half-cold cup of tea balancing on a stack of books. The quill scratched furiously across the parchment as she tried to make sense of the day’s disasters—Harry’s eyebrows, Snape’s wards, her own crumbling composure. And the small matter of sneaking back to Snape’s flat an hour ago to borrow a few of his books—anything that might help them return him to his own body.
“Your penmanship has declined since school,” came the dry voice in her head. “I’d have expected better from the Ministry’s brightest witch.”
She let her forehead drop into her hand. “I am trying to finish this report without strangling you through sheer force of will.”
“Unlikely. Your concentration wavers too much. And that quill is dreadful—blotting at every down-stroke.”
“Maybe because someone keeps commenting in my brain,” she hissed, glaring at the empty room. “And before you say it—there’s nothing wrong with my tea.”
A pause. Then, inevitably: “Over-brewed. Bitter. Probably cold by now.”
She groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Pot calling the kettle...”
For a few minutes, only the scratch of her quill filled the flat. Then, unexpectedly, his tone shifted—still cool, but curious.
“Why did you become an Auror, Granger? You were made for research, not… fieldwork and bureaucracy.”
The question stopped her mid-sentence. “Why?” she repeated softly. “I suppose… because someone has to make sense of the chaos.” She stared at the candle flame. “After the war, there were so many broken things—people, families, trust. Becoming an Auror felt like a way to mend that. And protecting people’s memories from intrusion—it’s like rebuilding the trust, bit by bit.”
Silence stretched. Then she felt it—a warmth blooming through her chest, subtle but not her own. Approval, restrained yet unmistakable, warmed her like a soft blanket.
Her breath caught. “Are you… agreeing with me?”
“A rare occurrence. Don’t get used to it.”
But there was no bite in the words. The warmth lingered, curling low in her stomach. She’d often wandered back at school, what his approval would feel like—the impossible goal of earning a nod from Professor Snape. Except now, the flutter beneath her ribs felt different. Deeper. Risky.
She tried to push the thought away and bent back over her parchment. “I just… want to do something that matters.”
The silence deepened. When he spoke again, his voice was softer—almost a murmur. “You always did.”
Her hand froze above the page. He noticed me?
Then, abruptly, the tether dimmed. The space in her head that had become his went still.
“Snape?” she whispered, half expecting a reply. None came.
For the first time since their unintentional joining, she missed the constant commentary—his muttered sarcasm, even the grammar corrections. The quiet felt deafening.
She reached for her tea and took a sip. Bitter, yes—but warm. And she smiled into the silence, knowing he’d felt it too.
The first knock nearly sent Hermione’s heart flying through her ribs. She felt Snape’s attention snap to the door in time with hers.
The sound was brisk, official—unmistakable.
Her gaze flicked toward the bedroom door. Closed.
She thought of her Sleeping Beauty frantically. This was not a good time for visitors.
Another knock. Louder. “Hermione? You home?”
Harry.
“Fuck,” she breathed.
“Your composure is abysmal,” Snape muttered. “Tell him you’re bathing. Or that you’ve joined a convent.”
Hermione ignored him.
She went to the door and cracked it open. “Harry! Hi! What a—what a surprise.”
He frowned at her manic smile. “You weren’t at the office today. Thought I’d drop by, see if you’d found anything on Snape’s disappearance.”
Hermione’s mind went blank. He’s talking about you.
“Obviously,” Snape said. “Try not to confess.”
“I—oh—yes, well. I’m still following up on a few things,” she stammered.
Harry didn’t look convinced. He brushed past her like he owned the place, tossing his cloak onto a chair. “You’ve been working too hard again, haven’t you? When’s the last time you ate?”
“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” she said, trailing him a little too closely as he wandered toward the hallway. Her pulse spiked as he neared the bedroom.
“Why don’t I believe you?” he sighed, then waved a hand, giving up. “Ginny asked if she could borrow your green dress for the weekend?”
He reached for the doorknob—and she felt Snape’s alarm rise in tandem with her own. In the same heartbeat, something strange happened: the connection between them lightened, the strain gone, replaced by a sudden ease.
There was no time to dwell on it. Harry’s hand closed on the knob.
“NO!” she yelped.
He froze, startled. “What— She can’t?”
“No! I mean—don’t go in there! ” she blurted. “It’s…a disaster in there. Books everywhere. Dangerous books. The kind that might… bite.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
Her laugh came out too high. “I’m reorganising by emotional trauma category. Very delicate system.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You definitely need a break.”
“Tell Ginny I’ll bring the dress round tomorrow,” she said steering him back toward the living room. “I’ve got a headache—terrible one, actually. You should probably go.”
Harry hesitated, eyeing her. “You sure? You look pale. Want me to grab you some food or potions?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, ushering him toward the door. “I’ll eat, sleep, have lots of tea. Promise.”
He sighed. “All right. But do actually rest, yeah? You’re no use to anyone if you collapse.”
“Of course,” she said sweetly, and slammed the door behind him with a thud.
She sagged against it, pressing a shaking hand to her chest. Her heart was hammering—and then she realised, it wasn’t only hers.
For one breathless moment, her heartbeat slipped into rhythm with his—two steady pulses finding the same tempo. The space around her seemed to soften; the air itself felt lighter, clearer. Magic hummed low and sweet, as if the world had exhaled.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“Fascinating,” he said quietly. “The tether… eased. For a moment, I felt—weightless. Almost as if I could step free.”
She swallowed hard. “We were both scared… did that have anything to do with it?”
“A reasonable hypothesis,” he said, softer than usual. “Your panic spiked, and so did mine. It triggered something.”
Her throat tightened. “So… is it adrenaline? We need to be scared?”
“It’s a theory worth testing.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “That should be easy. You fancy horror films?”
In her head, Snape’s amusement rippled like a dark chuckle. The flutter of it hit her chest, unbalancing the delicate pulse of the tether. Her skin prickled, and for a split second she could feel his heartbeat overlaying her own.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the sensation faded—leaving behind a silence so intimate it almost hurt.
Hermione didn’t sleep that night.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the pulse again—that ghost-beat beneath her ribs that wasn’t quite hers.
Are you still awake? she thought.
“Regrettably,” came Snape’s voice, edged with exhaustion. “Your mind hums like a hive. It’s impossible to rest inside a brain that refuses silence.”
She rolled onto her side, facing the shadowed outline of his body on the bed. She’d given up sleeping on the sofa after the first night. He’d been right; it was murder on the spine.
“Sorry if my thinking disturbs your beauty sleep.”
“Very funny,” he said darkly.
They lapsed into quiet. She reached for the switch and lamplight flickered against the wall. Rain pattered softly against the window. Hermione’s gaze lingered on his peaceful face, the long lashes resting against pale skin. Then—a flicker of warmth that wasn’t hers.
“You’re… anxious,” he said slowly.
She froze. “You can feel that?”
“A wash of it, yes.” A pause. “And now—guilt. Over me?”
Her throat tightened. “I dragged you into this. It’s my fault you ended up… here.”
“True,” he said simply, which stung, until he added more softly, “You presented the temptation, but I was the one not being able to resist it.”
The faintest amusement brushed her mind — not a sound, but a feeling, like the curl of a smirk. The tether thrummed in answer, light and curious. Her pulse followed it, syncing without her permission.
Then came another emotion — faint, hesitant, not hers. Something like regret, shaded with shame.
She drew in a shaky breath. It was the strangest thing, feeling his thoughts and emotions. Feeling him.
The tether flared again, bright this time, until she felt his awareness press gently against the edges of her thoughts—not invasive, but close enough that she caught a flash of something buried deep. It reached her like a chill through warm water—the ache of absence made into feeling. A vast hollow pressed against her heart, heavy with the sorrow of a love long lost and the fear of being hurt again, and beneath it all, the fragile pulse of a glowing ember: the yearning to be seen once more.
Her heart clenched.
“Snape—”
“Don’t,” he murmured, almost pleading. “Don’t pity me.”
“It’s not pity…” she whispered.
Her chest tightened with feelings that were half hers, half his—heartache, shame, longing—all folding into each other until she couldn’t tell which belonged to whom. She felt like she was floating, their connection humming softly and then she felt it again: his heartbeat, aligning with hers. Her excitement became his; his fragile hope fluttered in her heart. For one, impossible moment, she felt complete.
By morning, Hermione’s exhaustion had transfigured into a kind of reckless determination.
Parchment covered the floorboards in careful layers; runes chalked in neat arcs surrounded the bed, and the Memory Anchor gleamed faintly in the centre, on top of Snape’s chest.
“I’ve been thinking,” she began, quill tucked into her bun. “If I modify the containment runes and couple them with a transference charm, it should—”
“Detonate?” Snape offered helpfully.
She sighed. “Create a bridge.”
“Or obliterate me.”
She ignored him, sketching a curve of symbols onto the floor. “You could at least pretend to have faith.”
“I reserve faith for deities, Miss Granger, not your… enthusiastic guesswork.”
Her wand flicked and she began the incantation. The runes glowed, and for a heartbeat it felt promising—magic alive in the air, humming like a taut string between them. But then it became too taut, too sharp, threatening to snap. Her gut clenched.
“Wait!”
Snape must have felt it too. His warning came just before the charm exploded with a blinding flash and a low, resonant thud that sucked the air from the room. Hermione was knocked back, clutching her chest. It felt like being kicked squarely in the ribs by a horse—winded and sore.
“Merlin’s—” she wheezed. “—beard.”
Snape’s voice came through like gravel under boots. “I tried to warn you.”
“You could try not to be so bloody right all the time,” she napped, rubbing at her sternum.
“I’m sorry, do you expect an apology?”
“If you’re so clever, why don’t you come up with the solution?”
Their irritation simmered between them, thick and prickly as silence stretched.
Hermione took a deep, calming breath and exhaled slowly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just—”
“Frustrating. I know.” The tension eased around them. “I apologise as well. It was not my intention to sound condescending.”
Hermione exhaled, a quiet, shaky sound. “All right. This wasn’t the right approach either.”
There was a pause. His tone, when it came, was warmer. “It was not a poor theory.”
She blinked. “Was that a compliment, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”
“Do you know me as someone who gives out pleasantries?”
Despite herself, she laughed. The tension broke like a spell lifted. The room felt softer somehow, the air lighter. Her heartbeat steadied—and she welcomed the familiar feeling of his matching hers.
The tether no longer thrummed painfully.
She stepped closer to the bed, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. The Memory Anchor still rested there, its crystal dim and cold.
“I won’t give up. I will solve this!” She promised, more to herself than to him.
“I know.”
And she felt the genuineness behind the words, his belief in her spreading warmly through her chest. Her heart skipped a beat.
She reached out, fingertips brushing the crystal’s surface. It pulsed beneath her touch—a soft, warm glow, as if in approval.
“Did you feel that?” she whispered.
“Yes,” came his quiet reply. “It seems the magic rewards temporary civility.”
“When we’re in agreement…” she mused aloud.
“It felt more than simple agreement,” he murmured.”It felt like—”
“Harmony,” she finished the thought.
He didn’t answer right away, but she sensed the flicker of worry in her mind.
“Am I right to assume,” he said finally, “that mere agreement will not suffice?”
Her laugh was small, nervous. “I believe we need to be a bit more… open with each other.”
She found solace in knowing it scared Snape as much as it scared her.
The storm outside had finally broken. Raindrops pattered against the window in slow rhythm, candlelight flickering over parchment and chalk. Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, her notes scattered around her like fallen leaves.
The Memory Anchor lay cool and dull on Snape’s chest, no different from any other crystal. She could feel him in her mind—quiet now, calm, waiting.
“So,” she said, clearing her throat. “If we’re right, it’s not about magical alignment. It’s… emotional.”
“Merlin help us all,” came his low reply. “Reduced to sentimentality.”
She smiled faintly. “Not sentimentality. Honesty.”
“Even worse,” he murmured weakly.
Silence stretched, fragile. She could feel his hesitation, the way his thoughts recoiled from exposure, even now. She smiled to herself, her own confession on the tip of her tongue making her cheeks flushed. It’s not that bad, her thoughts trying to reach him. She took a deep breath. Alright, I’ll start.
With true Gryffindor courage she opened her heart.
“Severus,” she said softly. The name felt strange and intimate on her tongue. He went utterly still in her mind. She could practically feel him holding his breath.
“I didn’t have to come to you,” she said quietly. “There were others who could’ve helped. But I wanted—” Her voice faltered. “I wanted it to be you. Because I’ve always admired your brilliance and perseverance. Your mind. You.”
The silence that followed was so complete it hurt. Then, slowly, she felt it: not words, but a wave of emotion—surprise, warmth, disbelief giving way to the smallest flicker of joy.
When he finally spoke, it was almost too quiet to hear. “You are—have always been—remarkable, Miss Granger. Hermione… I didn’t have to help you with this project but I was fascinated by what you created. And not just that…With all of you. I still am.”
Her breath caught, heart stammering in her chest.
The air thickened with magic. The tether hummed, steady and alive — a living current between them, brightening like a spell on the cusp of release.
Hermione rose to her feet, chalk dust smudging her fingers. The ritual circle was already drawn—layered runes of protection and focus.
She sat on the bed beside him. “Ready?”
She felt his reassuring steadiness through the tether. “Let’s do this.”
Her stomach fluttered, but she lifted her wand and began the incantation — the ancient, winding words that called for balance and restoration. Magic rippled outward in a low hum; her voice stayed steady even as power built around them. The air shimmered, warm and alive. The crystal on Severus’s chest glowed faintly, pulsing to the rhythm of their hearts.
She felt him everywhere now—his focus, his guarded curiosity, his heart pressing against hers from somewhere deep inside. It was overwhelming and utterly exhilarating.
The crystal pulsed brighter, and yet… nothing happened.
“Why isn’t it working?” she gasped, struggling to hold the spell’s rhythm.
His voice came strained, low. “You might need to try another form of ancient magic in addition.”
“What do you mean?”
“A kiss,” he said. “The one that woke Sleeping Beauty.”
She froze. “You want me to kiss you?”
He hesitated. For a moment, she felt the full weight of everything unspoken—loneliness, affection, longing—and then, simply: “Yes.”
Her heart hammered. Slowly, she leaned closer. He looked so still, so human without that constant frown. One trembling hand rested on his chest, over the glowing crystal.
Her lips brushed his—tentative and soft. The contact was nothing more than a breath, but the world seemed to stop. The crystal flared, light bursting outward in waves of gold—and she felt it: the tether snapping loose, unravelling from her mind like silk falling away.
Air rushed from her lungs. Darkness closed around the edges of her vision, and then—
Silence.
For the first time in days, her mind was quiet.
“Severus?” she whispered. Nothing. Her chest clenched. “No, no, no—”
Then a hoarse voice, rough from disuse: “I’m here.”
She gasped. His lips had moved. His eyes — dark and sharp as ever — blinked open. He looked around, then down at himself and finally at her. “You did it.” His voice warm with pride—and something else.
Relief washed over her. She laughed—half sob, half joy—and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.
He pushed himself upright, wincing, then gave her a scrutinising look. Finally, he took her hand away from her mouth and squeezed it gently.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she said choking on a sob.
“I’m not that easy to get rid of.” He murmured softly. “Despite your best efforts.”
She laughed then, wiping away her tears. “You’re impossible.”
“Indeed.” He tilted his head, studying her. “So, Hermione…” — he trailed his fingers over her knuckles, refusing to let her hand go. The sound of her name from his lips set butterflies through her belly — “now that you’ve successfully resurrected me, are you going to rush to the Ministry to report ‘case closed’? Or…” His eyes dipped briefly to her lips. “Would you care for further experimentation?”
Her heart fluttered. “Further—?”
He smiled, slow and mischievous. “Do you think if we kissed again, it would reverse the spell?”
Unlikely.
Hermione blinked. Then, slowly, she met his smile. “Only one way to find out.”
She leaned forward. This time, he met her halfway.
Their second kiss was not tentative. It was warm, deep, deliberate—a confession of everything they hadn’t said. The Memory Anchor between them glowed once more, then dimmed completely, its purpose fulfilled.
Outside, the storm eased. Inside, the air hummed one last time—quiet, content—and then there was only warmth, and the steady rhythm of two heartbeats, perfectly in sync.