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Happy Bloody Christmas, Severus Snape!	By : mvsanche Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 18962 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I do not make any money off of this story or any of its characters.

Chapter List
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A/N: It has been awhile!! I've gone through some things since I've been gone, a brain tumor for one thing, but I am trying to get back to what I love and that is, namely, writing. Writing of all kinds, my own original work, and my fan-fiction. I am trying to commit to at least one day a week, so expect to see updates and new stories soon! Thank you for your patience and continued reading.

Hermione didn’t wake up as she was pulled from the wreckage of her cell. She didn’t wake up when she was being rushed to St. Mungo’s. Had help not arrived when it did, Hermione would have surely died. Not that the coma she was stuck in was much better. Despite blood replenishing potion after blood replenishing potion, something was keeping her from rejoining the living. Severus speculated it was a loss of hope.

In the time it took her to awaken, Ron had been murdered, Molly Weasley had filed a lawsuit against the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and Harry Potter was on the brink of a very public divorce. Severus squeezed her hand, willing her to wake up, wishing she would just open her eyes and see the wiggly bundle tucked within the folds of his cloak. In her absence, he’d been left alone to take care of the infant (who by all accounts appeared as stubborn as either of them) and had, by some miracle managed to survive being cut from her mother’s body. She was tiny to be sure, and her first few days of life had been spent in the medical wing, but despite any odds against her, their daughter had done well. She was a strong little thing; she had been born with a large thatch of black hair, as dark as his own, but she had her mother’s warm, inquisitive eyes. Severus wished he could see those eyes open.

“Hermione” he said, “our daughter is alive. You have to wake up.”

The cries of their infant made him squirm uncomfortably in the seat. He hated to hear her cries, it made him think of the way Hermione had cried in that cell before she passed out, that long uncontrollable cry. Severus had heard it a thousand times in the last couple of weeks, and he knew there was nothing he could do to make it stop. He’d changed diapers, fed her bottles, played with her, tried to make her sleep. There was no way the baby could know of its loss, but in the night when he was at his wits end, Severus truly believed that the baby was mourning. Perhaps that was why, Severus rationalized, he had the strangest desire to lay the flailing bundle next to her mother. When Hermione’s fingers began to twitch however, the idea didn’t seem like such an insane one.

“You feel her don’t you?” he whispered.

There was no response, but the way the baby quieted was more than enough for Severus. In the morning he would go about brewing, for now he was content to listen to the happy cooing of his child.

                                                                        X

It was dark. Hints of red mixed with swirling shapes danced behind her eyelids. Heavy, so heavy, her eyelids felt like steel doors. It was days before Hermione had returned to consciousness, or at least enough to hear whisperings of the outside world. Voices mostly: at first it was just a mediwitch, and then Harry, and eventually Severus. Hearing the silky tones of her potions master brought great relief to her spirit, at least, when it wasn’t causing her pain. Moments before Tom had issued his final punishment, ripping the child from her body, she remembered that voice. She remembered wishing she could hear it one last time before she died, and then there was nothing. He whispered to her sometimes, in the dark, sweet nothings—promises he would keep if only she would open her eyes.

He talked of their child too; a little girl, with his black hair and her eyes, but she couldn’t believe him. She had felt Tom cut the baby out of her, felt him kill their child. And each time Severus mentioned their baby, like it was still alive, Hermione felt herself grow weaker.

            “Hermione” he said. “our daughter is alive. You have to wake up.”

            The tears wouldn’t form on the outside, but Hermione wished they would. She wished she could express what each lie, each attempt to wake her up, was costing them. After so much lost time in this dark world, in the unconscious portion of her mind, Hermione could finally feel anger. So much anger, and pain. Anger at Ron, at Tom, at herself—she wanted to scream, but nothing about her body was in her control anymore. The despair welled up inside her and for a moment Hermione considered letting go, truly letting go. And then in the distance she heard it, she heard the mewling, felt the warmth, of a small body. It wiggled against her, and she could smell the pink baby smell that had haunted her dreams for the past eight months. Her fingers twitched then as she strained against her own mind, willing her body to move.

            Hermione nearly did cry then.
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Happy Bloody Christmas, Severus Snape!