LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twelve

They had a lot to catch up on.

He took her through the botany building and back to those hothouses she'd been so interested in earlier – and with good reason, she could see now; from her first sweeping glance, this collection looked as definitive as any she'd ever seen.

"This is brilliant," she said in a low voice, as he led her into yet another greenhouse of rare ferns. "And you say it's wizard-run?"

Neville nodded.

"Well," he said, shrugging, "you didn't think they kept the place open on the 30-franc admission fee, did you? This garden is one of the major suppliers of arcane botanicals to the world wizarding market. Supports itself three times over."

"Huh." Hermione scanned the sunny, humid room with interest. "Fascinating. Most of this stuff I've never seen before, unless it's dried and in a jar."

Neville laughed. "Most people haven't." He shot her a curious look. "What did you say your work was, again? I know you told me, but I can't remember."

Hermione's smile faded.

Apparently, it wasn't just her name and address that was protected, but her profession as well. "I'm a ... a mediwitch," she said, figuring that was as close as she was going to get to the truth without activating the Charm. Neville looked pleased.

"Oh," he said, beaming. "Oh, then you must see this ... we've just got in some new varieties of kelp."

He was already moving back toward the main building, talking as he went. "Fascinating plant, kelp. They say the potential medical uses are endless." He ducked his head self-deprecatingly. "Though you probably know more about that than I do. I just grow the plants, I don’t stew them."

A wry glance over his shoulder. "Potions, as you probably remember, was never my subject."

"You weren't that bad," Hermione lied, and laughed when he snorted.

"Yes, I was. You're too kind." He shrugged. "It'd be different if I had it to do over again. After spending three years sidestepping alligators and another eighteen months fending off sharks, the thought of Snape doesn't hold as many terrors as it used to."

He slid his palm lightly under her elbow to guide her along, and Hermione let him. Clearly, she thought, this was a man who'd found his calling – he was in his element, more confident than she'd ever thought to picture him.

She was happy for him – how could she not be? this was Neville as she'd never imagined him, Neville at Maximum Potential – and yet, as he showed her through a door with an electronic security lock and down a clean-swept corridor into a series of spotless white-tiled laboratories, she had to fight a wave of jealousy so strong it nearly buckled her knees.

Just a few short weeks ago, she'd been this happy, this optimistic, this fulfilled. And now all that happiness was in ashes at her feet.

Watch out, she wanted to warn him – wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until that excited naïve look disappeared from his face, until he couldn't help but listen to her. You think it's forever. You don't know how quickly it can disappear.

Life changes fast. You play the cards you're dealt.

"Kate? Are you all right?" He touched her shoulder tentatively. "Kate?"

Belatedly, she shook herself back into the present. "Hm?"

He was frowning down at her, concern in his eyes. "You looked a bit fierce for a moment there," he said, and shot her a self-deprecating smile that belonged more on the Old Neville than on the New. "You're sure I'm not boring you, then?"

"Boring me?" Hermione shook her head. "Not in the least. I'm just a bit lagged, I'm afraid. I just got into town today – I haven't even unpacked yet."

"Oh."

Neville nodded understandingly.

"I shouldn't keep you, then," he said. "Though I was hoping –" his eyes slid to the floor – "I was hoping that you’d let me take you to dinner sometime, to welcome you properly. I don’t know if you like Vietnamese, but there’s a great little—"

Oh, Christ, Hermione thought, panicked, and held up one hand to cut him off. "Neville," she said, and then paused – what to say? "Um, Neville, I …"

He didn’t seem to hear her. "Or maybe just a drink …"

"I can’t –"

"Or some coffee or something—"

"Neville. Neville, don’t. Stop."

It came out too loudly. He looked at her, startled, then flushed.

"Oh, God, I’m sorry," he said, that telltale shoulder of his creeping up apologetically. "That came out completely wrong; you probably think I’m trying to hit on you, and that’s not –" He trailed off miserably. "I mean, not that I don’t think you’re … I mean … Oh, hell."

"Neville," Hermione said, and put her hand on his arm. There weren’t any words, really, except for the truth – whether or not he’d absorb it, or remember it, it was all she could think of to say. "I was married," she said baldly, and watched his head snap up at the terrible, wavering urgency in her voice. "Up until a month ago. And then he—" she gulped—"well, you see, he – he’s …"

"Yes?" he said, looking confused. Hermione felt herself starting to unravel.

Bad idea.

It wasn’t any use – she could stand on her toes and shout it into his ear, and he’d still have that same perplexed, baffled look on his face a moment later, as every bit of real or pertinent information she’d given him about herself hit the Teflon shield of the Fidelius Charm and splashed harmlessly away without penetrating.

And if he wasn’t going to remember, she wasn’t going to say it.

"I just can’t, that’s all," she said tiredly, changing tacks, and saw the seeming rejection register in his wide grey eyes, where her earlier words hadn’t.

Shit.

"I’m awfully sorry, Neville," she soldiered on miserably. "I’ll come see you again sometime soon, I promise. But I … I have to go now."

"Oh," he said. "Okay." Nothing but concern on his face. "I’ve upset you. I’m really sorry. If you’ll wait a minute, Kate, I’ll walk you—"

She was already halfway to the laboratory door. "No, that’s okay—"

"—home."

By the time she reached the front gate of the museum, she was running.

**

The Montana evening was clear and cloudless and just beginning to show stars. Outside, the first strain of the nightly coyotes’ antiphon echoed distantly from farther down the mountain; inside, the gentle whuffling sound of ghostly snoring drifted out from where Sal was dozing over his book. Severus, at the moment, was feeling more attuned to the wildlife.

She was crying in her sleep again.

It hadn’t registered the first night after the Charm had been performed – she’d still been groggy, he guessed, riding on the wave of whatever magic had fondled its way into her brain and not yet found its way out. The night after that, though, he’d heard her all the way from his mountain refuge – and the night after that, and the night after that; heartbroken whimpering that grated in his head like ground glass.

He didn’t notice the connection so much when she was awake – which made sense. From what he’d seen, she was keeping her subconscious under lock and key, during those hours of the day that she had control over it. In the night, though, her grief was a wandering ghost.

And it was keeping him awake.

Severus made an irritated sound in his sinuses, unfolded himself from his chilly seat on the porch swing, and went in to make himself some tea. Bad enough to share Hermione Granger’s subconscious when they were both asleep – then, at least, he only ended up with nightmares. And he’d been living with nightmares for most of his adult life. But when he happened to be awake for it – that was a problem of a different magnitude.

He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall – seven-thirty here, which meant it was past three in the morning in Paris. He’d been hearing the crying in his head for about an hour and a half; apparently, Hermione hadn’t been in too much of a hurry to get to sleep.

Small wonder.

He closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and tipped his head sharply to the side – right, then left – grunting in satisfaction as the tight muscles of his neck groaned, then relaxed slightly. In the depths of his brain, a girl moaned. He cursed.

No way he was going to get to sleep without outside help, not with this racket going on. He turned off the kettle just before it could whistle – no use waking Sal up – scooped loose tea into a strainer, and set it to steep. The cabinet above his head held the bottle he was looking for – small, unmarked, made of old-fashioned brown glass, it looked like it should have contained vanilla extract.

It was Dreamless Sleep.

He uncorked it, gave it a sniff to make sure it hadn’t gone off, and was about to tip a measure into his tea when Hermione moaned again. He froze.

Wait a minute.

Why should I take the potion, when she’s the one who needs it?

He hesitated, his hand still holding the bottle half-tipped over his mug, then resolutely turned it the right way up again and recorked it. Sal was still snoring.

This’ll be a quick trip. And then maybe we’ll both be able to get some sleep.

Jaw set resolutely, he Apparated.

**

The first thing he noticed was that she hadn’t unpacked – the bedroom was as tidy and sterile as a nun’s cell. Even in the meager light from his wand, everything glimmered white – the walls, the painted wooden furniture, the bed linens. Severus looked around, but didn’t see so much as an opened suitcase. A quick glance inside the open clutch purse on her night-table explained the mystery of her missing personal items – the bag held a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and two toy-sized trunks.

Interesting.

She cried out again, knuckled savagely at her eyes in her sleep, and reluctantly he turned his gaze on her. The bed was sized for two, and from the state of the linens, it looked as if she’d started out in the middle, then rolled to one side, leaving just enough room for one tall slender man to slip in next to her. As Severus watched, she flung out an arm across the empty expanse of mattress, her face contorting. He swallowed hard, but couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.

Just wake her up. Wake her up, give her the damn potion, and get the hell back to Montana, where you belong. Don’t stand here staring. It’s like a rape.

Tentatively, he reached across the empty side of the bed, planting one knee on the edge of the mattress to steady himself, and grasped her outflung hand. "Hermione," he said softly. "Hermione, wake up."

She didn’t wake up, but her fingers tightened on his hand. Severus, alarmed, tried to tug away. Her grip didn’t loosen.

"Hermione," he murmured again, unable to keep the urgency from his tone. "Wake up. I can hear you screaming a continent away. Your grief’s deafening me."

It was as if he hadn’t spoken.

She rolled in her sleep, back over to the side where she’d been settled before, and took his hand with her. "There you are," she murmured, her voice sleep-fogged, as she tucked his arm around her waist and held it firmly in place with your own. "Jesus, you’ve got cold hands. Where’ve you been all this time, anyway?"

"Uh –"

"Missed you. Dreamed you weren’t here."

"Hermione …"

"Shhh. Tired now. Go to sleep."

In her too-large flannel pajamas, with her hair tousled over the upturned collar, she looked too fragile to be believed – but her grip was iron. Severus lay rigid on the bed beside her, trying to maintain a decorous inch of space between their bodies, and was utterly thwarted as she snuggled happily back against him. His mind was racing.

She thinks I’m her dead husband. She thinks I’m Bill.

Merlin’s balls. This is sick.

But she wasn’t crying anymore, either.

Severus wedged his free hand between their bodies and down to his side, until his fingers brushed the end of his wand.

She looks so happy. So peaceful.

She feels so good.

It’s been a week since I had a decent night’s sleep.

He closed his eyes.

Just another minute.

Just another minute and I’ll go.

**