Chapter Text
The human mind is so interesting. It can dissociate so quickly, at the drop of a hat.
Hermione is shrugging into her blazer and automatically reaching for her work bag. She knows Healer Wellen is speaking at her and frowning in concern. He probably wants her to pay attention, but she really needs to be out of his too-goddamn bright office. Why should his office be so bright? That seems like an emotional oversight. Soft lighting would be better.
“Ms Granger? Hermione. Can you hear me?”
Hermione nods and blinks at him but doesn’t really see him. “Yes.”
The older Healer in lime green robes is staring at her with watery eyes that seem… piteous? Worried? Is it practised? He probably tells people they’re going to die fairly regularly. He’s a specialist. Is that the face he always uses? she wonders. Hermione’s lips tick up in the corner at the thought.
“Should I Floo someone? Do you fully understand what I’ve said to you?”
She nods. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
Thank you? That doesn’t seem right.
Her feet carry her to a spot on the Fifth Floor inside St. Mungo’s with a guest Apparition point and she does just that. She then finds herself outside the doors to a bar across London she’d once visited with Evan, early in their relationship. She hadn’t liked it then. How odd that’s where her mind took her now.
Inside, Hermione slides numbly onto a barstool. She knows, objectively, people are probably talking in hushed tones, there might even be music, but everything seems muffled. And it’s blurry around the edges of her vision. Like, all she can do is breathe and move normally. It’s such an odd feeling she should probably be concerned with.
Hermione huffs. Is it self-protection? she thinks. Her psyche. Does it normally shut down other senses while actively in fight or flight like this? Is that what her body used to do when she was on the run from Death Eaters in her youth? It’s been so long now…
Her chest is aching.
“What can I get you, madam?” asks a bartender.
Hermione does hear that. Or, that’s what she supposes he asks. He’s looking down at her like they do.
She shakes herself, rubbing at her chest. “Uh,” she starts, “I… I don’t know,” she murmurs.
The bartender shifts on his feet and waits. His eyes soften. How many times has he seen people come in looking like her? Like a dead woman.
“Relationship, job, or family?” he asks with a slight grin.
Hermione blinks again. Relationship? Oh gods.
“Life,” she croaks.
The bartender stares at her.
She shakes herself and fights a bubble of laughter that is welling up in her hollow chest. “What do you drink on the worst day of your life?”
A shadow passes over the bartender’s face and he slowly nods. He turns and deftly selects an amber bottle of liquid. With practised hands, he pulls the cork and pours two fingers into a round glass. Slides it across the gleaming counter towards her. “Whisky.”
Hermione’s cold fingers wrap around the glass. “I don’t like whisky,” she whispers. She swallows it in one. Her throat sears and she winces. Whisky tastes like burnt things. And stinging.
“Another please.”
***
The booth she now sits in is dark and smells of old leather that has been stained by spilt alcohol, or worse, over the years. She sits in shadow, tucked into a corner of the bench, grateful to be out of sight. She’s never been one for shadows, but they feel welcoming tonight. And she doesn’t want to go home quite yet.
Her lips pucker and another empty glass thuds on the tabletop. She primly lines it up in a row with the other three. Her brows furrow. Shouldn’t someone take these? This isn’t exactly a good look.
The burnt alcohol taste fills her sinuses and she lets out a slow breath. Her mind is blessedly quiet now thanks the booze zinging through her veins. She’s always been a lightweight. Not much of a drinker. Too prim, too uptight. Images and first impressions matter. And, to be honest, she’s a control freak.
She snorts and looks down at her hands. “Not a goody two-shoes tonight.”
Her stomach flutters and she places a hand over the sensation. Dread begins to creep into the base of her brain and she squeezes her eyes shut. She growls in frustration and shakes her head.
Distraction.
Her tired, drunken gaze slides across the bar, and she surveys the motley mix of patrons. As if crawling up from the deep, music floats into her awareness. A tune she recognizes from The Cure. She snorts again. A Muggle-born must’ve requested that one.
“It isn't that it can't be cured, it's just... there isn't a cure yet."
Hermione inhales through her nose and rips her gaze away, squeezing her eyes closed. Nope. Not yet. She takes those words and crams them into an iron box. Slaps it with a padlock. Hurls it into the sea.
Someone laughs off to her left and the tinkling sound of bells above the doorway draw her attention ahead. It’s getting crowded now. People are leaving work and settling in for their night’s enjoyment. Hermione rubs at her increasingly achy chest.
She catches the eye of the bartender before the new couple entering can, and he gives her a wry look with an arched brow. She sends him a pitiful, puppy-dog face and he nods with a sigh. Her fifth whisky floats across the aisle and slips into her cold fingers. She takes a greedy sip, hating every drop. But the burn is starting to feel better.
She swills the amber liquid around in the glass. If it were a bit darker it might be the colour of her eyes. She grins. Does she have whisky eyes? She’d have to tell Evan. The sound of metal clinking against glass catches her whisky eyes and she bends her wrist to better see the gleaming gold band on her ring finger.
There’s rather a lot she’s going to have to tell Evan. She can help him get a jump on refunds for the wedding she won’t make now.
She drops the glass with a heavy thud as her eyes sting. Her jaw trembles. She swallows around the lump in her throat she’s been trying to ignore for two hours. Her face heats in warning of the torrential release of tears that are imminent. Hermione’s fingers form tight fists and she pushes against the table, squeezing her eyes tightly. Nope. Iron box. In the sea.
The tinkly brass bell hanging above the door to Salamandar's Spirits chimes a little too merrily again, and Hermione jumps at the distraction.
A new couple pass beside her, oblivious to her presence. Hermione watches them go by, wondering if she can work out what they do. It’s a stupid bar game she hasn’t played in a while. But she’s feeling nostalgic.
The woman, a very curvy and daringly clad sort, clutches flirtatiously at a tall, lean man dressed in black. Intrigued, she discreetly watches as they make their way in. The man begins to pull her towards a darkened booth, but the woman clasps the front of his robes, and pulls him instead to the barstools. Out in the open. Heedless of privacy. He shrugs, wraps his arms around her, and proceeds to kiss her neck. Hermione smirks and blearily blinks at the display. This man, with dark hair and dark robes, positively exudes sensuality.
Seated, the woman, a fiery redhead, twines shapely legs through her companion's. His right foot rubs slowly along the length of her calf, while a pale, elegant hand rubs lazy circles up and down her bare arm. The redhead is completely enthralled by his attentions - and who wouldn’t be? Hermione swallows at the heat that blooms across her face for an entirely different reason now.
The dark man orders two drinks and downs the first in one go, while the woman slowly sips at hers. Hermione watches, transfixed, at these sexual beings and feels her throat tighten with envy. In her mind, she joins from the sidelines and swallows another burnt sip of her own. Cheers.
Hermione settles back into her seat in the shadows and observes the man. His hair, black as a raven, is shoulder length. His locks sway forward when he leans towards his companion and whispers something in her ear that prompts his date to squeal in delight.
Hermione startles at the loud reaction and clutches her glass.
The redhead leans forward and returns the favour. As she whispers her own sweet nothings, the dark man’s lips find her neck and nips along her jaw.
Hermione’s lips part and she absently raises a hand to rub at the tingles she feels now along her own neck. She blinks and looks away, an uneasy feeling in her gut. Evan had certainly never behaved that way with her before... But, he is a very busy wizard, she tells herself. He has never been overly, physically affectionate. And never in public like this. Her whisky eyes flick towards the amorous couple swaying together while he continues to subtly paw and pluck at his voluptuous partner.
Evan just works so hard now. He doesn’t have time to… romance her these days. Her gaze falls to her engagement ring. And anyways, he proposed and she said yes. So, what is there to woo now? It’s a sure thing.
Her throat constricts again and she grabs for her glass. She can feel her energy ebbing, robbed by too much alcohol and entirely too much stress. She stares into it’s amber depths. Evan is always tired too. Such long days at the office. He works so hard for them. And with wedding expenses piling up… she wonders if he’s home yet.
Another round slides across the bar, and Hermione watches as the second glass is thrown back as quickly as the first. His hands resume petting the wiggling creature beside him just as fast.
A wave of longing hits her square across her aching chest. She bites her lip, wishing she could see their faces. In the weak light, she can somewhat make out enough to know the redhead is gorgeous, obviously. But the dark man is facing away from her giving only the occasional view of a chin and a nose which is leaning forward because he’s now kissing and licking a path to her ear.
Hermione’s hand flies to her throat. She rubs her thighs together and wonders if she should mind her own business at this point. This must cross the line of decency. She cocks a brow. For both her and them. Surely decent people wouldn't behave this way in public. Would they?
She fingers her ring and fuzzily wonders what Evan would say were he here. He would probably scoff and abuse their upbringing or parentage. And then Hermione would rebuke his observation and tell him not to be so judgemental. Her eyes dart back to the show at the bar and her lips part in an ‘o’. The dark man is doing something to the place behind her ear now and honestly, the way the woman arches her back, exposing her neck to the eager attentions of her companion, the way his mouth dips lower and lower until he is practically nuzzling her breasts - Hermione gasps and positively blushes.
The woman grabs the man's face and quickly whispers something in his ear. This is apparently exciting because he calls out triumphantly in a baritone that immediately inspires two reactions: one is that her insides shiver, and two it makes her uncomfortable somehow because she knows that voice…
Galleons are then tossed down onto the bar top and he hauls the squirming witch at his side up off her stool. She practically leaps into his arms and begins pulling him back towards the exit, finally giving Hermione a clear shot of his face -
Her eyes widen and her jaw drops.
She must be delusional. She rubs her cold fingers against reddened eyes. The sight doesn’t change so she is delusional and still in shock and seeing things as a result of the stress of the day.
This man, this very dark, sensual, smouldering apparent god of pleasure she's been watching... could not be her former Potions master, Severus Snape. She blinks again and sags into the back of her leather booth. The whole wizarding world has gone mad, she muses.
His black clad arms wrap around the goddess glued to his side while he purposefully strides to the door, and then a problem makes itself known. Hermione swallows, and slides deeper into her booth, embarrassed to be seen in her current state. If her luck is anything to go by, there’s a more than decent chance he could see her. And she can’t abide that right now. Would rather the world swallow her whole. In an instant. Her breath leaves her at the thought. It might be kinder.
She hunches further into herself and unconsciously grips her nearly empty glass. She tells herself he won’t see her. He's too busy fondling his companion to notice anyone else. Who wouldn’t. She risks a glance to make sure they’re firmly on their way out - and her breath catches in her throat at the thinly veiled look of pure lust glazing his eyes. She licks her lips. Please don’t let him see her staring at that.
As if she’d spoken the words aloud, and because she has the worst fucking luck, he does exactly that. Hermione swallows back a groan when he stops mid-stride and catches her gaze across the room. He blinks, as if startled, and Hermione imagines his lust-addled brain must be trying to work out whose eyes he’s inadvertently met.
Please don’t remember, please.
She knows her name hits his passion-enflamed mind when he frowns. She can feel the back of her neck heat in shame while his gaze sweeps up and down the parts of Hermione that are visible from behind the large wooden table she is hiding behind. He cocks his head slightly to the side.
Fucking great. Hermione nods shakily at him in recognition, hoping he will quickly move on and stop looking at her as if she were a ghost. She isn’t yet, anyway.
He blinks again, and his black gaze flicks to the nearly finished whisky in her hands - and the four empty glasses beside them. He then meets her gaze directly before nodding once, slowly, and then blessedly continuing his way out the door with the giggling woman pulling him out the door.
Hermione exhales the breath she's been holding. Fuck. She’d felt that. Felt his piercing gaze like fingers gliding over her skin. She shivers and runs an anxious hand down her thigh.
She shivers again as she thinks about where this unlikely couple were headed and shakes her head in wonder. How can that be her old Potions master? It’s almost unreal, absurd even. Her lips curve despite herself. The world has certainly been kinder to Severus Snape post-Voldemort. Her grin falls and her eyes prickle. At least someone is enjoying their hard earned freedom.
Right.
Knocking back the rest of her liquor, Hermione wipes her lips on her sleeve and stands up. Then promptly sits back down because the world tipped a little too sharply to the left. She blows out a steading breath. Slowly, this time, she slides out of her booth of misery and rifles through her bag to pay the tab. She needs to get out of this place and go home. She’s drunk. She’s hurting. And honestly, she’s more than a little turned on.
Sex would be a really great next distraction before she has to have….conversations. And face some pretty dark shit. Her breath hitches. She needs Evan. Now.
She quickly takes the change the bartender slides over. Hermione decides to tip generously and avoids the lingering gaze of the man who is radiating sympathy in her direction. You know it’s bad when a bartender is sad.
Hermione carefully picks her way to the exit and the damned tinkly bells, hoping against hope that she won’t see her absurdly now-attractive former professor and his, well, the word concubine comes to mind. She turns down the sidewalk. A sigh escapes her lips. Empty. Thank gods.
She places a steadying hand against the side of the building and looks about for any stray Muggles. Not a one. She focuses on her destination, not entirely trusting she won’t Splinch herself getting home - which again, would just be her luck today.
Even so, she thinks of Evan and her heart stutters. He must be so worried. It isn’t like her to not check in and let him know where she is. He knows she went to see a Healer today. He’s been asking her to go for a week now and she’d kept putting it off.
Hermione inhales a cleansing, smoke-free breath and looks up at the few shimmering stars visible in the London sky. She keeps her gaze fixed on them, appreciating the nature of their otherworldly beauty. She would really like to go somewhere to see more of them soon. Her eyes sting and she lets the tears fall. She thinks she will really miss stars.
When she pops into the foyer of their home, she stumbles and has to catch herself against the coat rack. She knocks over a pair of boots in the process, cursing at the sound. It’s very quiet inside but he must be home. It’s so late now.
Hanging her cloak on the righted stand near the doorway, she slips out of her shoes, mindful of the fact that all the lights are off. He must have fallen asleep waiting for her. Her chest tightens again.
She enters the living room and looks immediately to his favourite chair, expecting to find him sleeping in his clothes. When she does not, she glances around. Everything seems to be in perfect order. Unsure what she’s feeling, Hermione shuffles carefully up the stairs to their bathroom. She winces at the bright light and takes in the haggard appearance reflected in the mirror. She moans quietly.
No wonder it took so long for Professor Snape to recognize me, she sighs. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are practically bloodshot, her cheeks tear-stained. She splashes cold water against her face and runs her fingers through her usually coiffed brown curls. She wants to look nice for her fiancé. She wants to stop trembling. She wants to be at Evan's side, to feel him kiss her neck like Snape had done to that woman tonight. She wants to feel his warm hands on her, comforting her, telling her everything will be alright.
She really wants him to make love to her one more time without that knowing look he will surely carry from now on once she tells him. Her lower lip trembles. Just one more time.
When she finally creeps into their darkened bedroom, she finds Evan sleeping with the covers pulled tight, and lightly snoring. She forces herself to feel grateful that he is able to find peace enough to sleep soundly now despite her odd absence. He does work so hard these days.
Shaking now, she slides under the covers, clad only in her knickers, and slowly runs her cold fingers up her fiancé’s side and over his stomach. Rolling onto her side, she scoots next to him, kissing a trail through his nightshirt from his shoulder up to his neck.
"Evan," she whispers, hoping it sounds seductive and not at all desperate as she suspects. "Evan, wake up," she croons.
He grunts in his sleep. She slides her hands further up his chest until they find his sleep warm face and lightly strokes his cheeks.
"Wake up," she whispers again, trembling now against the sudden tears that threaten to spill over her lashes. Like a dam about to burst in the most horrible way. "Make love to me," she pleads against his ear, voice cracking.
He grumpily swats her hands from his face and twists around to no doubt glare at her in the dark. "For god's sake, Hermione, it's," he glances at the clock on the nightstand, "one a.m. I don't know where the devil you've been but go to sleep. I've got an early meeting in the morning," he chides, his voice hoarse with sleep.
With visions of the sea, Hermione holds her position on her side staring at him in the dark. Her fingers twist around themselves in the absence of anything else to hold. When she finally lays back on her pillow, tears flow freely down her cheeks and stream into her hair. Her trembles become violent and she wraps her arms around her bare chest as if that could force the pain and hurt and fear inside because it will surely burst forth at any moment, ripping her chest wide open.
She turns onto her other side, facing away from him, and crushes her pillow to her face. She hopes the tears she cries and the shuddering breaths she draws aren't so loud that they disturb the sleep of the man sharing her bed. She tells herself that he doesn’t know, or else he'd have accepted her advances this time. He simply didn't know that the woman he loves only has a limited amount of time in which to offer herself to him. He is just tired. Again.
Before darkness and whisky finally take her, she blinks away the last tear because she’s empty now, and wonders why on earth she'd been allowed to survive the war for this.