Is there hope in the dark?
Hermione had put her boys to sleep.
Granted, it wasn’t an easy task to do: the locket of Slytherin was driving all of them crazy. Harry and Ron were restless despite their hunger and their exhaustion: they were no more the carefree boys that slept like logs, snoring until she had to hit them with a pillow to let her sleep as well.
And this wasn’t the Burrow; this was the Forest of Dean, cold and uninviting for three young fugitives.
Once she made sure their breaths were evened out, the witch walked carefully around the perimeter of their hiding place: strong wards were in place, protecting them for one more day from Voldemort’s clutches.
When she made sure they were all safe, she stepped out of the protective wards, her hand gripping her wand tightly. She was on the ready.
Usually, she didn’t fear the dark; but lately, the dark was both her friend and her enemy. She feared it more than usual, but it also helped hide her many secrets.
She was certain she could hear the thumping of her heart as she reached a familiar spot; a little nook between two trees that were almost entwined. It almost reminded her of the little ivy-shaped mark on her wrist, that bound her to the last man in the world she ever expected to be bound to.
Her husband.
“I told you not to step out of the wards,” a voice disrupted her thoughts; and for a moment, she turned her wand towards the almost invisible, black-clad form. “I was to leave supplies here for you to pick on another time. When I’m not around.”
“I wanted to see you,” she said, almost apologetically. It was true. Dumbledore, prior to his demise, had made Severus Snape marry Hermione and take her under his wing during those turbulent times. Little did all of them know, that the soulmate mark on Hermione’s wrist was the same one Severus Snape carried for years on his forearm –a mark of ivy wrapped around his Death Mark, as if to strangle the terror. “To know you’re still taking care of yourself.”
Taking one more look around her, Hermione padded closer to Severus. He looked so exhausted. So malnourished. As if he had given up already.
She was on the run, but he was in a hell of his own.
Lifting herself to her tiptoes, she gave him a soft kiss: a press of her chapped lips against the corner of his own, and she felt him tense and then, tremble.
Next thing she knew, he was holding onto her as if she was his lifeline: kissing everywhere on her face, her neck, wherever he could reach, gripping onto her until her skin hurt. And she loved it, it made her feel alive for a change.
It felt as if he had lost his sense of propriety for one short, glorious moment, blinded by both their need for what vaguely felt like love.
“You’re not taking care,” she eventually said when all the kissing, the touching, the hasty joining in the dark was over. She kept on giving little, fleeting touches on his skin as he bundled up again, turning from her loved one to the formidable wizard once again.
“I can’t bother anymore,” he confessed, in a rare moment of vulnerability. “I’m still standing because I need to know you and Potter are safe until the end of the war.”
A soft sigh from Hermione, her hand reaching out for his, and then, one more kiss –full of longing.
“Is this enough?” she asked. “Enough to make you bother again?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said, even though it felt like anything but good. “You should have more reason for living than me. You should…hang on. One day, we’ll be safe.”
He didn’t respond; but the way he pulled her close and kissed her again, told Hermione that they would make it somehow, that there was some hope for them after all.