Chapter Text
Miss Granger appeared at the doorstep of his secluded cabin looking windswept and angelic. She still had the same rat's nest tangle of curls cascading around her shoulders, the same stubborn look of determination on her face, as though she were about to take over the whole fucking world. He was surprised she hadn’t done it yet to be honest. The gray strands around her temple were new, as were the soft laugh lines in the corner of her eyes. There was also a marked weariness about her, a stoop to her shoulders, that he had never seen before in all the years he’d known her.
She was just as lovely as he remembered however, if not more so. Time had only accentuated her natural beauty. The last time he had seen her had been a few months after the war had ended. He had still been recovering in hospital, his wounds grave, and she had gotten into the habit of visiting, always bringing him something different to help him pass the time. On some occasions there would be a newly published potion’s book that she would then read to him on days he lacked the strength to hold the text himself. Other times, she would bring crossword puzzles or card games. She even managed to confiscate some delicious junk food that they had to eat in small pieces when the nurses were not looking. On that particular day, however, she had nothing save a single, black rose and a glassy eyed, hopeful expression on her face. He remembered thinking … how odd.
She had declared her feelings for him, feelings she professed to have had carried secretly for years – he could not have been more surprised had she said that Voldemort was her long lost brother. She proceeded to spill her heart at the foot of his unworthy bed, the medical sounds of monitors beeping and machine’s whirring in the background giving him a sense of unreality. When she finished speaking he remained silent, staring at her in shock, blinking as though she were a mirage that would soon disappear. He had actually, for several minutes, convinced himself that he was suffering from the cruelest of delusions, that her presence here was a figment of his imagination, the product of an exhaustion filled, desperate mind that had always longed to hear those words.
From her lips.
She had fidgeted at his lack of response until he had finally, haltingly, asked her if this was real. If she were real.
Then he had dithered on what to say, feeling he had little to offer her, especially as his body was so broken and most likely would never be whole again. He knew he would have to refuse her, for her own sake, but out of respect for her tender emotions, he had asked to be allowed to consider her proposition, to mull it over and decide if it were in either of their best interests to make room for a … romantic attachment … at this late stage in their acquaintance. In actuality, he needed time to figure out the best and least painful way to say no.
The painful truth was he was now impotent, as his injuries had caused him to lose all sensation from the waist down. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that though, the very idea causing shame to wash over him. He may have been a shell of his former self, but he still had a modicum of pride left. Just enough to make him miserable.
She had graciously agreed to give him time, all the time he needed.
Be that as it may, time was a fickle thing and no respecter of persons. Just when you thought you had been given a second chance at life, escaped the clutches of death throughout an entire war, it could suddenly become elusive and one day just … disappear.
It happened so fast he hardly knew there was something wrong other than the obvious. His body just started to shut down entirely one day – Miss Granger was blessedly absent at the crucial moment – until suddenly, just like that and without any warning, he was gone. The. End.
Except it wasn’t, the end that is, which aggravated him endlessly. He was still here, and he couldn’t work out why.
He didn’t believe he had any unfinished business, though he never got the chance to turn Miss Granger down graciously. Thank Merlin for small favors. No, there was nothing incomplete about that. He had had no intention of letting her know that her feelings were returned, that he had ached for her daily for years. It was a mute point now, but if it couldn’t have worked physically between them anyway – even had he survived whatever fatal curse had been lurking unseen in his circulatory system – then there was no point in burdening her with his love for her. It would have needlessly complicated things. No, nothing unfinished about that. In fact he was so incredibly grateful he hadn’t told her anything of the sort. How cruel for her to find that out her love was requited only for him to up and kick the bucket immediately thereafter. He always had been a bit of an arse, but even that would have been a low blow by his own standards.
Immediately after he died there had been … nothing, and it was glorious. No pain. No regrets. Just …nothingness. The incredible weight he had carried for so long was gone. He would have liked very much to remain as a big blob of blank oblivion, but he slowly became aware of himself as an incorporeal entity. This lasted an untold number of days after his death during which he found himself floating in and out of awareness for perhaps months before he irritatingly fully materialized of sound mind and spirit. Along with this undesired cognizance came the residual dark emotions that he had carried with him while alive.
For fucks sake.
His first thought had been of Miss Granger, and the empty space where his heart would have been, twinged painfully.
Resisting the urge to find her and reveal himself – to what purpose?! If you felt inadequate with a broken but physical body, how much more so now you fool! – he had soon taken up residence in his very own small cottage precariously situated on the edge of a remote cliff overlooking the sea, having secretly bought the place before the war had ended. He had spent very little time there when alive, but the moments he had been able to slip away from everything and escape to this place had been the most peaceful of his life.
Perhaps it was the constant sound of the sea, or the light, salty breeze that would sweep through the small abode when he left the many windows open that invigorated him. It could have also been the birdsong that had woken him early every morning, their gentle voices like a balm to his tired soul. He wasn’t sure. But he supposed if he were to spend eternity stuck on this earth for whatever reason, this would be the best place to do so.
And now, much to his utter shock, Miss Granger had arrived at his doorstep, holding a travel bag as though she were planning to stay for a while. So many questions ran through his mind, the chief one being: How did she even know of the existence of this place? The only person he had told was Dumbledore, and that was years ago. Which on second thought, explained everything. The old goat just never knew when to leave well enough alone, even after his untimely death. The previous headmaster’s portrait must have directed her here. The question was, why?
Snape sighed and watched Hermione silently, not revealing himself. She suddenly turned and walked in his direction, causing him to freeze and hold his non-existent breath. Could she see him? No, what a ridiculous notion. She merely wanted to take a closer look out the floor to ceiling windows in the main room. He remained where he was as she drew near, and she was now so close he could smell her faint perfume. He inhaled deeply and a lump rose in his throat as he watched her gazing out to sea. There was a sense of melancholy that hovered over her, and he was instantly worried for her well being. She didn’t look happy or well.
After several moments of helplessly observing her silent tears roll over her cheeks, she had come to life as though she had awakened from a trance. She turned to her small travel bag which apparently had an extension charm placed on it, and began to unpack an alarming amount of personal items. Was she … moving in? Snape blinked in shock. What would possess her to do such a thing? They were miles away from civilization. The nearest apparition point several day's walk through hostile terrain. Not to mention the place practically became an icebox after the sun went down, the pleasant ocean breeze becoming sharp as glass and unrelentingly cold at night. He glanced at the fireplace and wished he had stocked it up with firewood before he died. Hindsight.
She grabbed her wand and, humming to herself, began to tidy up the place into something more habitable. Not having a physical body, he had been unaware and unconcerned by the layers upon layers of dust that had covered everything, nor had he paid any mind to the army of insects and spiders that had moved in with him. He gazed in wonder as the place seemed to sparkle with life now, and it suddenly felt more like home than it ever had previously. He smiled his approval, and briefly considered commending her for her efforts but deciding against it.
She had transfigured a large bookcase to cover the whole left side of the study, and that night while she slept, he spent the entire night perusing her personal collection. Brow furrowed, he felt irritation at the haphazard way she had organized her book shelf. She apparently felt it was more beneficial to go alphabetical by author rather than the much more rational ordering by subject matter. In irritation, he grabbed at one of the errant books and gasped when it fell to the floor. It was then that he realized that if he concentrated hard enough, he could focus his energy on an object and actually move it. This was huge, marvelous even, as now he could continue his favorite pastime of reading. Elated, he began the important task of reorganizing her bookshelf the correct way.
As he worked, he was befuddled as to why she had so many texts – some of the quite rare – on dark curses and how their effects could go unnoticed. He narrowed his eyes and glanced back towards the bedroom. The war was over, why did she need this information? Was it for research? As he continued he also found several texts on necromancy, which made him shiver despite his own ghostly identity. In fact, over half of her collection pertained to the dark arts in some way. Even the restricted section at Hogwarts did not have books such as these. After pondering this new mystery, he decided he would just keep an extra eye on her. It wasn’t as though she could hide anything from him, he would just need to be patiently watchful, something he excelled at, and the truth of the matter would come to light on its own.
An errant thought flitted through his mind as the night waned that she would certainly notice and perhaps even be alarmed at his superior organization skills. While he hoped she would not actually be frightened or, heaven forbid, undo the fruit of his toils, he could not be arsed to stop himself. He smirked at the idea of her confusion as she reached for a specific text but couldn’t find it. He knew it was untoward of him, but he wasn’t above pulling a harmless prank. What was the point of being a ghost if one wasn’t allowed to properly haunt now and again?
It was almost dawn when he finished, and he stood back admiring his work.
It was then that he heard a whimper from the bedroom, and he immediately floated through the door to check on her.
Eyes darting around the room, he felt somewhat calmed when there was no sign of immediate danger. Apparently even after death, he continued to feel the effects of the prolonged war he was a part of – that constant alertness, mind always ready at a moment to fight or fly. Moving closer to the bed, his eyes roamed her face, worry etched across his own. Though there was a distinct chill in the room, she had beads of sweat on her brow, and periodically she flinched and kicked her legs. Without warning, she let out a helpless cry that was like a blow to his heart with how anguished it sounded.
He was close by her side in an instant, his hand reaching out hesitantly to caress her cheek. Her head was tossing back and forth on the pillow, but as soon as his shadowy fingers moved softly against her skin, she stilled. Encouraged, he continued to sooth her with both his ghostly touch and quiet words.
“Shhh, there now Miss Granger. It’s just a dream. You are safe and sound. I’m here to make sure of it.”
Her breathing evened out as a tear slipped down her nose and soaked into the pillow. After several moments, he was certain that the night terror had passed and she was once more sleeping peacefully. He rose and moved to leave the room, anticipating choosing a text to peruse in the early dawn hours before the sun and Miss Granger rose from slumber, when he heard her whisper, “Severus.” It was barely audible, hardly more than an indistinct murmur, but it resonated through his entire being as though she had shouted it from the rooftop.
He returned to her side and remained there, watchful and attentive for the rest of the night.
If Miss Granger remembered her nightmare the following day, she gave no sign of it. In fact, she looked well rested and especially chipper, and it warmed his heart to see it. He loathed to think she continually suffered the effects of the war, but he supposed none of them had been able to escape entirely unscathed.
They developed a routine over the following weeks. Every day Miss Granger made the cottage more and more her own, adding little feminine touches here and there, arranging (or transforming completely) the furniture to her exact tastes. As he had rarely spent any time here when alive, there was precious little left behind to show that he had ever stepped foot in its vicinity. However, the few personal effects he had managed to leave about the place remained untouched, and he realized how much it meant to him that she had liked them enough to keep them. His mother’s armoire, the black draperies he had been so fond of, as well as the entire large, ornate four poster bed which included his very own pillow, mattress and bedding that he had used last time he had been there. Most surprising of all, considering the meticulous way she had cleaned the rest of the abode when she first arrived, was the fact she had left the bedding as is, curling up in the stale sheets with a wistful sigh that he could not understand, followed by several sneezes, that he understood perfectly.
Had he still been alive, he supposed they would have had several … discussions … on her artistic choices, some of which he found tacky and frivolous, but he kept his opinion to himself. Other than the book shelf arrangement – which he had considered to be an atrocity not to be borne – he decided to allow her leave to make changes to her heart’s content, unmolested by his old-fashioned tastes. He had to admit, when she was coming to the end of her renovations, that the place somehow looked bigger and much more cozy then it had before. He was also impressed that she had learned a spell to install central heating, which left using the fireplace as merely optional and mostly for added ambiance.
He found himself admiring her work, especially the upgraded cozy looking chairs she had arranged near the hearth. He couldn’t help but wonder, from time to time, how it might have been to share this space with her when he was alive. In another reality, if he had embraced her feelings unreservedly, would he have brought her here? Or would they have settled down somewhere else? He supposed he would never know.
It was a mundane Wednesday morning when it happened. Or, he should say, almost happened. The clouds had been gathering for an hour now and looked quite ominous, which was why Severus was currently following Miss Granger closely as she was strolling along the edge of the cliff. More than ever he was tempted to reveal himself, as his intense glaring had far less dramatic effect when it went unseen. Honestly, what the devil was she thinking? This was no time to be out, especially walking along a precarious edge like that! He looked back longingly towards the cottage, and not for the first time considered hoisting her into his ghostly arms and whisking her back safely inside where she belonged. Merlin’s sake.
The first rumblings of thunder sounded overhead and she finally stopped her walking, and faced out towards the tumultuous sea. He watched her carefully, unsure he liked the expression on her face. It was a look of … longing. Despair? He stepped even closer, wishing now more than ever that he had practiced lifting objects larger than a heavy tome. She was crying now, which only fueled his mounting concern. She took a step closer to the edge and he immediately encircled his arms around her, unsure if they would be any help in steadying her. She stilled at least, as though she could sense his touch, and he breathed a sigh of relief that she didn’t seem inclined to go any closer to the edge.
“Oh Severus. I miss you so much.”
Her voice, hushed though it was, startled him, and he realized that other than that one time she had spoken his name as she slept, he had not had the pleasure of hearing her lovely voice this entire time. She swayed on her feet, and his arms tightened around her, desperately wishing he could provide her with some comfort or at least some warmth from the biting wind. He tried gently pulling her back towards the cottage, anxious to see her dry by the fire and on solid ground. It was risky, as he also did not want to startle her into slipping over the edge.
His heart leapt with relief as she was persuaded –at least on some unconscious level – to go back, allowing him to guide her to safety. She followed his soft prodding as though she were sleepwalking, as meek as a lamb following after its trusted shepherd.
Gods he ached to comfort her, longed with his heart and soul to dote on and care for her in some tangible way. If only he had something of merit to offer her besides his disembodied consciousness.
Once inside, he led her to the chair by the hearth and helped her gather a blanket to cover herself. Once he was satisfied that she was bundled up, he turned to the fireplace and waved his hand. Immediately a fire burst forth and was soon spreading its warmth throughout the room. He turned back to her pale face and stilled for a moment, momentarily lost in how lovely she looked with the soft dancing glow of the flames upon her face. Several moments went by before he shook himself. It would not do to spiral into hopeless sentiments right now. He turned and entered the kitchen, grabbing the kettle from the stove. He filled it with water and set it to boil before he unthinkingly chose two mugs and some Earl Gray loose leaf tea. Turning towards the refrigerator to get some milk as he remembered she preferred it with her tea, he froze. Standing in the doorway, blanket lying forgotten at her feet, stood Miss Granger, looking as though she had seen a ghost.
He watched her with wide eyes and a growing sense of dread at his own lack of thought. How could he be so careless? He stood completely still as she cautiously made her way in his direction, wand in hand. Oh gods, was this fixable? Or would he be forced to vacate the premises for her own peace of mind? He immediately dismissed the idea. He feared for her too much to go now, though moving forward he would have to be much more prudent.
“Wh-who’s there? Show yourself or I shall … I shall unveil you myself!”
Silence.
Snape’s mind raced with ways to do some damage control when he realized he was still holding the tea canister in his hand … which meant it appeared to be floating to her. He immediately – and idiotically – dropped it, which caused assam tea leaves to spill out across the floor. What a downright waste, he thought uselessly. He sighed in irritation at his own bungling thoughtlessness, when he heard Miss Granger whisper Homenum Revelio in his direction. He froze, wondering if it had any affect whatsoever considering he was no longer living.
He studied her carefully and was relieved when he saw familiar irritation scrunch up her face. He was still hidden, then. A hint of a smile played at his lips as a wave of nostalgia welled up in his chest. That was the exact expression she had given countless times in his classroom, just before her hand would fly into the air in demand of answers.
On the heels of those fond memories came … heavy sadness.
He was no longer in any position to answer anything, not anymore. Nor could he save her should she ever be in any real danger. He was wholly useless. No, that wasn’t true, for he was something far, far worse: a damn nuisance. He was now causing her undue stress when she clearly needed tranquility in her life.
As these dark thoughts swirled around in his mind, she had gotten increasingly closer and closer, now standing toe to toe with him … well, she would have been if he still had toes. He blinked down at her in surprise at her sudden nearness, swallowing thickly as he could smell her unique scent, even feel her breath swirl around his hollow form. Circe, how simultaneously glorious that he could still enjoy the physical sensations of her nearness yet torturous at the same time. What he wouldn’t give just to touch her, hold her close to him until they became one.
As though she could read his thoughts, she reached out a trembling hand and haphazardly groped through the space he was currently inhabiting. He stood totally transfixed as her fingers traveled through his phantom body, directly where his chest would have been. Gasping at the sensation – not feeling the touch of her skin per se, but a static electricity at every spot her fingers trailed, making his whole essence feel as though he were glowing, as though her touch was the conduit needed to turn him on. No, wait. That was not what he meant. Not like that. On the heels of that thought and as though to prove himself wrong, a heady pulse of arousal jolted his entire being.
Just then she stepped forward, directly into him and he groaned at the overwhelming sensation of warmth that filled his being, so much exquisite heat , the sensation almost too much to bear. He could sense her tumultuous emotions, feal her rapid heartbeat, flitting delicately like the wings of a hummingbird, and almost hear the many questions whirling around her gorgeous mind and–
“Oh my god!” Miss Granger suddenly exclaimed.
That was all the warning he had before she collapsed.
Before she could hit the floor, he lurched forward and grabbed her, discovering in that moment that he did in fact have the strength to hold the weight of her body. However he had no idea for how long he could do so. Wasting no time, her body dangling limply in his arms, he spirited her away to her bedroom, to soft blankets and safety. He tucked her in gently, overcome with worry.
He lost track of the time as he hovered over her, worrying if she were still breathing and checking over and over that she wasn’t in an uncomfortable position. Already going against his inner decision not to move things around and frighten her, he left a glass of cool water next to the bed, along with some bread and cheese in a basket. Hopefully she would think she grabbed them herself, before walking to bed and promptly falling asleep. Yes, that is how he hoped she remembered it. It took him mere minutes to clean up the mess in the kitchen – she might think it had merely been a weird dream – and then never left her side until she woke, sometime much later in the dead of night.
Around three in the morning she sat up abruptly and then sprung out of the bed, scaring him half to death. She took in the water and food, before taking huge gulps of it. Then she paced back and forth for several minutes, before spinning around, her eyes frantically searching the room. Fuck, what was wrong with her? How could he help!? She spoke suddenly, her words low yet commanding.
“I know you’re here, Professor Snape. I sensed you quite clearly earlier, so don’t you dare think you can continue hiding from me! Show yourself, now!”
He peered at her, wondering how on earth she knew he was present in this very room. He knew he was invisible, for he had to go to great lengths of concentration to remain so. Perhaps, earlier, when he had been overcome with the sensation of her body and spirit mingling with his own, she could also feel his thoughts, feelings, and intangible spirit. The thought was unnerving, especially because he wholeheartedly believed that revealing himself to her would only have detrimental effects to her already fragile mental health.
He stubbornly remained silent.
After several suspended moments, the only sound that of her uneven breath, she suddenly groaned in exasperation and left the room. Following cautiously behind yet keeping a good amount of distance between them, he observed her go to the book shelf, and after several attempts to find what she was looking for, stamp her foot in outrage.
“And I am perfectly aware that you did this, I hope you know. You may want nothing to do with me, understandably, but I insist you put this bookcase to rights. This is petty and --" Her voice broke, making a tinge of guilt course through him, though he quickly suppressed it. "And rude, and if you don't fix it I'll be forced to take extreme measures, Professor. Don't think I won't.”
He scrunched up his face, wondering what on earth she could possibly do to force his hand. There was no way in hell he would rearrange the bookshelf back to the absurd way it was. She would have to get used to it. Several minutes later, after her frankly juvenile outburst, she found what she was looking for and placed the texts on the small desk in the corner.
He continued watching her with more than a little interest as she grabbed a notebook, a hot chai, and began immersing herself into the books well into the night.
After several hours, curiosity finally won out over caution, and he approached her near enough to see what text she was currently muttering incomprehensibly about. He bent down over her shoulder until he could make out the title, and his eyes widened. Shite . The tome was entitled, Poltergeists: The Art of Cohabiting and Manifesting One’s Otherworldly Companion.
He gaped down at the text, absolutely gob smacked. What the bloody hell? Where did it come from, first of all. He had perused the cover of every text in her possession and he certainly would have remembered that rubbish. In fact, he would have ensured the damnable book became misplaced, never to be found again. He glared back at the bookcase, as though it was somehow at fault, and perhaps it was? Was it charmed to produce whatever happened to catch her fancy? He would have to inspect it later.
Turning his glare back to Miss Granger, he couldn’t help but wonder how she could find this cock and bull the least bit enlightening. Pushing down his growing unease, he assured himself it was all nonsense. There was no way that book contained any tangible information on how to force him to reveal himself. That would be disastrous. He had to distract her away from this topic because knowing her, she’d find a way.
Before he could come up with a solution, she put her quill down and stretched, her hands reaching far above her head for several moments. Snape’s breath caught in his throat as he stood directly behind her, and when he looked down he had a birds’ eye view of how her shirt momentarily stretched tightly across her breasts, giving a clear outline of her hardened nipples. He felt dizzy as once more arousal filled his whole person. He bit down a groan and backed away from her, ashamed yet powerless to take his eyes off of her womanly curves.
She rose and, obviously exhausted now, staggered back to her bedroom. He followed her automatically, the idea of being in a separate room from her all at once inconceivable. She walked around to the right side of the bed, and without further ado, slowly started to take her clothes off.
Snape gazed at her transfixed, unable to move or even breathe. First her cardigan hit the floor, followed eventually by her blouse, once she managed to undo all the buttons. Then she pushed her slacks down until she had nothing on but her underthings. She turned down the covers and sprawled herself across the middle of the bed and moaned a sigh of contentment. The sound jolted him from his trance like state, and he blinked in horror at his disgusting behavior. He had no right to observe her in a state of undress! He was better than that. He may have been reduced to nothing but a phantom, but he still had principles. He had lived by them in life, and he would continue to abide by them in death.
He spun around to resolutely face the wall, but he couldn't quite bring himself to leave. What if she had a nightmare and needed him? He knew deep down he was just making excuses to remain in her presence, but at the moment he didn’t care. There was nothing wrong with him remaining in her private chambers, as long as he stopped himself from ogling her in the meantime. I am not a pervert, I am not a pervert, he recited to himself repeatedly, willing the heady arousal that still swirled around his whole ghostly persona to recede. It wasn’t decent.
He heard the sheets rustle as though she were trying to get comfortable, and he realized he could also hear the sounds of her breathing. He blinked, wondering if death had given him extra sensory perception.
“Severus. I know you’re there, I can sense you as strongly as I can feel the sun’s rays on my face at midday.” She sighed. A pause. “Would you … um, join me? While I sleep. I’m just … feeling extra lonely tonight. Please don’t hide from me anymore, it’s … it’s breaking my heart.”
It was then he then heard a sniffle. Then after a pause, another one sounded. Then he heard a soft sob, and he felt as if his own heart were being ripped to shreds. How could he resist when she was quietly weeping because of his reticence?
He slowly turned and approached the bed. Darkness enveloped the room but he could clearly make out her small frame, huddled under the covers and trembling as she wept. He knew this was a bad idea, that revealing himself would keep her rooted in the past … keep her focused on what could never be. She still had her whole life in front of her, and instead of going out there, reaching for it and thriving, she had banished herself and was currently stagnating away in his old hideaway spot. She apparently had come searching for the dead, which was no way to live.
For a moment he almost turned and walked out. And not just out of the room, but out of the cottage and out of her life.
Almost.
Instead he drew ever closer, like a moth to the flame.