Chapter Text
“Are you comfortable, Mrs Snape?” The young Mediwitch asked her.
“For the hundredth time– yes, Charlotte,” Hermione answered with a playful eye-roll. “How can I not? You pushed so much strengthening potion into my mouth I feel like I could move mountains.”
“Your daughter warned us you might try and play tougher than you are…”
“Well, Ophelia is way too worried.”
“…and your son mentioned you were all too eager to go.”
Hermione was glad she blushed. It made her seem a bit more sane, perhaps.
“If you couldn't move and your magic let you – at best – light a candle, and that's on a good day, you'd think about departing too, sweet girl.”
Charlotte laughed. “Girl? I am sixty-seven years old, Mrs Snape.”
“And I am a hundred and thirty. I was post-menopausal when you sucked your mother’s milk. You are basically a toddler.”
“I see your husband’s wit rubbed off on you over the years.”
“He got it after me,” Hermione said proudly, but the next breath took her into a coughing fit.
Charlotte was at her bedside before the coughing stopped, but Hermione's hand was already up, waving her off. “Don’t you have other patients? Let me sleep. I swear to god, they told me that palliative care in Saint Mungo’s is the best in the world, but you people don’t even let me rest. I need to write a review to the Daily Prophet.”
“And how will you do that when your hands shake like that?”
“Goodnight, Charlotte,” Hermione said, playing her part and punching the pillow with a theatrical grimace.
The Mediwitch pointed her wand at the small lamp at the other side of the room, giving it a faint glow and then dimmed off the other lights. “See you tomorrow, Mrs Snape. Buzz for me if you need me.”
The room fell quiet. Hermione turned her head to the nightstand and looked at the picture of Severus.
It was a candid she'd taken of him at the garden party years ago. He laughed at something Harry said to him and then looked at Hermione with a smile, wrinkles around his eyes.
“Very soon, Severus. I’ll see you very soon,” she said and pushed her cheek into the pillow, closing her eyes.
The sleep had already pulled her in when a loud crack broke the silence. Hermione woke up with a start, pulled the covers up to her chin and looked around. The scan of the room stopped at the big round eyes and floppy ears looking at her from beside the bed.
“Pip?” She croaked. “What is going on? Something with the kids?”
Pip shook his head so hard the ears clapped. “No, Mistress. Miss Ophelia and her children and Master Alex and his children are all fine.”
“Is it something with your family?”
The ears flopped again. “No, Mistress, my family is fine as well.”
The elf had a way of communicating that had to grow on one. Over forty years of his (paid) service to their family, she was still getting there.
“Then what happened?”
“Master told me to bring Mistress his gift.” He held out the wooden box she had not noticed he was carrying.
“Alex? He was here today. Twice. Why didn’t he–“
The ears flopped again.
“No, Mistress. Master Severus.”
Not many things surprised her anymore. And yet.
“Dear Pip,” she said louder, suddenly realizing his old age, “Master Severus died twenty years ago.”
“I know that, Mistress. Before he did, he told Pip to give this to Mistress, when… when Mistress…”
He choked on the words and pushed the box into her hands. It was quite heavy. Or maybe she was that weak? She pulled it onto her lap and swallowed. “How do you know?”
Pip tilted his head. “Pip just knows,” he said without blinking.
Right. She had given up pressing on such things a long time ago.
“Do you know when?”
“Likely tomorrow, Mistress. In your sleep, too. Just like Master.”
She nodded. That was a good way to die. “Thank you, Pip. For everything. Take care of all the kids, alright?”
The ears clapped again. This time from the nodding.
"Of course, Mistress. Always." He bowed so deeply his nose tip touched the floor. Then he was gone.
Sleep forgotten, she glanced toward the desk — but wasn't sure she'd make it back to the bed. Legs wobbly and all.
And she had never once pressed the buzzer. She wasn't starting now. Opening it on the bed would have to do.
A lot of emotions passed through her. Happiness. Sadness. Longing. And then grief — sharp and sudden, the kind she'd spent twenty years believing she was finished with.
“Oh, Severus,” she murmured, her thumb moving across the lid. “Always better than me with gifts.”
The lid opened with a quiet squeak. Inside, a letter lay folded on top of several rows of phials, each nestled in its own groove.
Her wand was lying on the nightstand just out of reach. She reached for it with a quiet curse and lit the tip.
She opened the yellowed letter, but her hand shook too much to read it, so she plastered it to her lap and enlarged it twice to see the letters. She recognised his handwriting at once — tall, angular strokes, sharp cuts, nothing wasted.
Beloved Hermione,
Yes — I am still better than you with gifts. I trust this is my finest yet. Since you are reading this, you will know what it means; I want you to know that I am already waiting.
Pip told me, I think by accident, that I have approximately a month remaining. I shall die in my sleep, which strikes me as an acceptable arrangement. In the time since, I have not stopped thinking about what I might do to ensure you look forward to seeing me again, when your time comes.
I should say — and I am aware I have not said it nearly enough — that I love you. I find, even now, that I cannot write it without immediately needing somewhere else to put my eyes. The self-aware part of me recognizes the absurdity: a man who spent most of his life with you still struggles with those three stupid words. The other part — the part you made inexplicably sentimental — can only think of all the days you allowed me to be your partner, and all the moments my love for you doubled and tripled and kept doubling still.
You were relentless, Hermione. Relentless in the way you moved through the world, in the way you argued, in the way you loved. I watched you for years before you ever truly looked at me, and I was never bored for a moment.
See you very soon, my love.
Yours in life and death,
Severus
P.S. I do hope your Pensieve is within reach as usual. Save the phial with the red cork for the end. I know you will be a good girl and do exactly that.
Merlin be damned. Hermione pressed her hand to her chest, eyes already burning. There was absolutely no time for that.
She fixed her gaze on the Pensieve by the desk and raised her wand.
"Accio Pensieve!" A touch slower than she'd have liked, but it came.
She set the wand aside and reached into the box. Only now did she notice each phial had a small note tied to it — all except the last, the one with the red cork, sitting at the far end of the row like a full stop.
It made her smile. Severus had always been more dramatic than her, too. But yes, she would be a good girl. She would leave it.
The first phial was cold in her palm. Uncorking it was a fight — gnarly hands, barely any feeling in her fingers — but eventually she did, and held it over the bowl. As she did, her hand did not shake one bit.
"Here goes nothing," she said excited, and the familiar pull took her under.