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Hermione meanders slowly down the aisles. Every so often she plucks a book from the shelf only to immediately replace it with a frown. When the clock chimes the hour, she startles. Moving quickly, she grabs two books from the nearby shelf and hurries to the counter. In her haste, she fails to watch where she’s going and collides with someone.
Not just someone.
Neville.
Oh, bloody hell, not today of all days.
“Hello, Hermione,” he says with a smile, the warmth of his hands seeping through to her forearms where he holds her steady. She draws back at once.
“Neville! Hi! Sorry—I was in a bit of a rush.”
“Late to the party?”
“Party?”
Neville’s brow pulls together; Hermione follows his gaze and mentally curses when she sees the balloon floating there. The collision must have dislodged it from her enchanted bag, allowing it to return to its true size. At least it wasn’t the cake. He’d probably have her sectioned if he saw that.
“Oh, there’s no party,” she explains. “Well, unless a party of two counts.”
“I’d count it,” he says with a laugh. “Though I’m not one for crowds.”
She laughs with him as she steps around to the till.
“Anyone I know?”
The most frustrating part of Neville Longbottom is how genuinely good he is. From another man, the question would be seen as an attempt to size up his competition, but Neville just… cares about her. Genuinely. Regardless of his affections—that she’s certain he does not know he’s obvious about—he’s committed to being her friend first. Which is going to make his concern all the more unbearable. She sucks in a slow breath, bracing herself for the look of pity on his face.
“Today is Severus’ birthday.”
His eyes widen with surprise before he masks it, his expression quickly becoming contemplative. He looks at her, looks at the balloon, and then the books in her hand. His lips quirk up slightly at the two titles. He clears his throat.
“Oh! I, uh, I hadn’t realized you—Do you still think of him?”
“Every day.”
Her voice is testier than she was aiming for, but she successfully resisted the urge to add dunderhead. But really, would she be standing here with a birthday balloon for someone that wasn’t more than a passing thought? Neville’s ears redden.
“Of course, of course. I mean clearly you do, what with the court proceedings and, well—” He gestures to the balloon that she regrets purchasing more and more with each second. “But I hadn’t realized that you… I thought maybe… In any case it’s been a year and, well, the thing is—”
Suddenly she finds herself incredibly sympathetic to the way Severus had treated Neville in school. This rambling is unbearable, particularly as she can see exactly where he’s headed. She takes a deep breath as she passes her coins to the salesclerk, forcing her thoughts away from how he’d handle this if he were here. Then she turns and places a hand on his arm.
“Neville.”
He quiets at once, his blush deepening. “I’m sorry. I was…” He shakes his head slightly. “It doesn’t matter, but d’you want company? I know how difficult special occasions can be when you miss someone.”
Stupid Neville and his boundless empathy. She smiles.
“I appreciate that Neville, but I think he’d rather I come alone.”
“I suppose he was never fond of me, was he?”
That draws a real laugh from her. “He could be a real arse to the lot of us.”
“Still managed to get you in his corner though,” Neville points out and she rolls her eyes. “Seriously, I’m sure having you by his side made it a lot more bearable at the end. And even now you’re still fighting for his name to be cleared. That’s… that’s a deep love, Hermione”
Stupid, stupid Neville and his thoughtful words.
“Thank you,” she manages around the lump in her throat.
“Of course.” He smiles warmly as he steps aside, clearing her path to the door. “Now go on then, you’ve kept him waiting long enough.”
Once out in the brisk night, Hermione strides purposefully towards the apparition point, keeping her head ducked down. When she arrives at the graveyard, she sighs at its overgrown state. She would write a letter, but with what she knew about Cokeworth, it would be in vain.
Already late, she allows herself the small detour of walking the perimeter of the small, long-forgotten church, etching runes with her wand. The grass recedes back to a respectable length and the weeds shrivel up, blowing away in the light wind. Anyone who takes the time to notice the upkeep will vaguely remember seeing a stranger, some kindly old man, coming to tend to the space.
When she finishes, she makes her way over to kneel at Severus’ headstone. There’s a small stake in the ground that she ties the balloon to and for a moment she just sits there, unsure of what to do with herself. Being here in this spot, looking at the name of the man she loves sandwiched between the two people who caused him foundational harm, it causes something to ache inside of her.
Hermione stands abruptly, turning on the spot and reappearing in the middle of her flat. She flicks her wand, summoning the cake from her bag to the table and her apron from the hook to her hand. Then she busies herself at the cutting board. Barely a minute passes before she feels the warmth of him behind her, but her hands do not still until his arms wrap around her, his larger hands dwarfing her own.
“I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry, I ran into Neville while I was out.”
He stiffens, just slightly. “Infatuated as ever I presume.”
“He offered to accompany me to the cemetery.”
“You went to the grave again?”
She sniffs. “I did.”
“Why do you go there? It always makes you so melancholy,” he asks with mild amusement.
“Pardon me for not liking to think about the love of my life buried six feet under,” she snaps, spinning around to glare at him.
He doesn’t snap back. He doesn’t say anything at all, he just pulls her tightly against his chest. She stiffens at first, but then she breaks. Her hands fist in his robes as the sobs wrack her body. Part of her feels ridiculous; it’s been over a year, she shouldn’t still be reacting like this, but sometimes the weight of it all is just too much.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles as she pulls back.
“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve asked too much of you. I think we need to discuss this arrangement.”
“Discuss,” she repeats. Her eyes widen in horror as her grip on him tightens. “No. Please. Please don’t run. Just give me more time. Just a little more time.”
“Breathe, Hermione.”
She does.
“That’s better,” he murmurs softly as he cups her face. “Now do you honestly think that I would leave you? That I could bear to be parted from you?”
“But you said—”
“Let’s not put too much stock in the harsh words of a bitter man.”
She frowns. “You wanted peace. You deserve peace. This was meant to give that to you.”
“You, Hermione, are my peace. Everything else is just noise.”
“You like the quiet.”
“If you truly cared about that, you wouldn’t talk nearly as much as you do.”
“Git,” she grumbles. Then she looks up at him uncertainly. “So, you would—But what if—Are you sure? You don’t have to do this just because I had a breakdown.”
“You were supposed to tell me if it was becoming too much,” he reminds her. “I was worried we were approaching that point. It is now clear that we have surpassed it. I refuse to be another cause for which you disregard your mental and emotional well-being. Something must change.”
“What about Azkaban?”
“It is not guaranteed I’ll even set foot in there.” He hesitates slightly. “I would, however, if things do not go favorably for me, I would understand if—”
“Severus Snape don’t you dare finish that sentence,” she growls. “I would hope this last year is sufficient proof of my devotion.”
He strokes her face. “And it is far more than I could ever deserve.”
“We can argue that another time. When are we going to handle this?”
He shrugs. “What better day to legally resurrect oneself than your own birthday?”
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow,” he amends, his hands moving to her waist. “We’re not certain of the fall out and it is my birthday. I’d like time to enjoy my present.”
Hermione tilts her head. “I haven't given you your present."
“Really,” he says, deft fingers untying the knot of her apron easily. “Then what am I unwrapping?”