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Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 21
- 22
- 23
A/N: Thanks to Havelocked for the title suggestion, DSxx
Kvarta: ‘Through, be prepared for lot of complaining on my part about this chapter’ – don’t worry, you’re not the only one ;) ‘you are after all "the Mistress of cliffhangers" and we know it’ – this is true, and yet you return for more - you are gluttons for punishment :) ‘is it a lie if you conceal the truth’ – well that all depends I think . . . it’s probably at least deceptive. ‘Now we really do need his POV!’ – okay, okay, I heard you . . . coming up in this chapter . . . finally! ;) xx
OO: ‘This is so fucked up! I love it, but I'm dying’ – Things do tend to get a bit fucked up along the way for these two. ‘he is something--maybe not Hermione's kid, but something’ – Aha! All will be revealed in this chapter. ‘Then she can be the queen bee of Evil Voldie offspring, popping out snakey little babies’ – holy shit, now look who’s fucked up! ;) ‘I honestly thought she'd been "innocently molesting" him.’ – well, I suspect she probably had been having an innocent feel-up here and there. ‘This is like the fucking Omen and Rosemary's Baby all rolled into a Harry Potter burrito.’ – hahah, ‘Damien’ and ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ did come up in a few other comments. ‘How're they going to get the stink of essence d'Riddle out of their bodies?’ – exactly, I don’t think Voldour-eaters are quite up to the job ;). ‘My evil side immediately thought of a nice tumble down the moving staircases’ – OMFG. And I thought I was evil . . . next you’ll be asking her to ‘put the lotion in the basket’. ‘And I'm guessing you successfully scared off your no-more-drama reader with this chapter’ – hahah, I hope so, this was all for them, after all ;) x
LissaDream: More delivered :)
Discord The Lunatic: ‘And props for coming up with a plotline I've NEVER seen in an HP fic before’ – Really? I wondered if anyone else had done something similar. I’m quite happy to be the first. Thank you x
Luna8: Your comment was wonderful and I was so happy to receive it. Thank you so much for your kind words. I would be happy for you to translate my stories into Portuguese – do you have a particular story in mind? You can contact me through my email address: DesertSea9@gmail.com

Chapter 22 – Round and Round
Severus holds Hermione locked against him, arms stiff with fear. Trembling, he contemplates the painfully slight burden of her body, limp in his embrace, and yet encumbered with an entity so monumentally sinister, so ominous that he feels he will surely drop her.
A baby . . . there is a baby. Even without words, he is certain of it . . . A new life—one of their own creation—protectively buried beneath the hand that still braces her belly.
But could the Dark Lord even be considered in such terms? Surely his existence, his bitter immortality, didn’t allow for it—didn’t allow for one to entertain even a sense of new, of life, of wonder, of hope. His existence—that of a malevolent parasite—should never be deemed anything other than an abomination.
And yet that’s not what captures him now. Surrendering his head to her chest, Severus listens, not for confirmation of life but reassurance, the gentle breaths, the rhythmic flutter of her heart, all a wilful stance against that which had all but consumed her. Despite it all, she still fights, she still exists. They both do.
But could the same be said for the baby? His baby. Could it fight? Or was it already condemned. Even without what would normally constitute a body, had it already been occupied by the withering black soul that had tainted so many others? Had it already become just another vessel?
Standing on leaden legs, he carries her now to the bedroom, laying her on the bed before resting a hand against her cheek, grasping her cold fingers with the other. Waiting.
He’d thought it best to maintain his distance from her . . . to fight the maleficent will that was driving him, driving them both. And yet they’d both suffered as a result. This was the inescapable torture— a need so desperate, a union so perfect, and yet any true desire masked by the incessant tugs and jerks of the puppeteer.
He’d previously read of a case in the natural world—that of ants parasitised by fungus. The fungus would release mind-controlling chemicals to manipulate the brains of the ants, rendering them little more than zombie-like slaves. The end for them was, of course, death but that mercy was only granted once the ant had executed its master’s desires, relocating to a place of fertility to ensure the continued survival of the fungus, and the continued infection of further ants.
What was the truth of their own condition? Were they, too, zombies? Did they possess any free will—any choice in the matter, whatsoever?
And was the pain in his chest—the one that hadn’t abated since he’d begun to slot the puzzle pieces together—and that had ached terribly as he’d considered the loss of the one person he’d felt could complete him . . . was that anything more than punishment? A sharp retaliation against his defiance, a twisting pain, pressuring him to continue to execute the will of the parasite . . . the Dark Lord.
She suddenly gasps as though surfacing from underwater. He is there to catch her. He holds her to his chest and she sobs.
How long had she known? Would she have told him of her condition if not for his revelations?
He wishes now that he hadn’t informed her as he had. It had been cold, borne of horror, of bitter resentment for their tortured existence. Of course he hadn’t known she was pregnant. But the blow to her would have been extreme. She could have lost the baby . . . And she could still lose it. Indeed, perhaps that would be the end . . . perhaps that’s what was ultimately required.
But despite his absolute conviction about their shared plight and its nefarious intent, he can’t seem to shake the inexplicable sense of hope that there may be another outcome—a different one . . . one where they escape—all three of them intact and alive—and are just allowed to be.
He strokes her hair, holding her even closer as though he can somehow make it true.
But if he were honest, he had never really expected that his life would work out. There had been too much recital, intensive preparation for a wretched demise—too many events that were simply a recapitulation of the same themes—justified suffering and inevitable loss—portending the same outcome . . . a life ultimately falling short, its lone flame guttering, and then extinction . . . unobserved, unsung.
And yet he is not alone. Not yet.
And perhaps he won’t be . . . not again. He gazes into her eyes, pleading behind the shine of tears, and knows that he could take her with him. They could go out together—leaving this bleak world to its own sordid devices. All three of them, in the final act of defiance . . . eliminating the Dark Lord once and for all.
“What about love?”
The question jars him.
Her hand lifts to his cheek. “What if we loved the baby?” Her voice is whispery quiet but there is a strength to it, a conviction, and it stabs into his chest, reigniting the pain.
He shakes his head. “It’s not a language he understands.”
Her lips tremble but she doesn’t look away. “He was conceived in love . . . wasn’t he?”
Severus closes his eyes against the pain. He can’t deny his feelings for her. But nor can he validate them. He’d taken her to Spinner’s End because he’d wanted to know if she would accept him—all that encompassed him. And she had. He’d made love to her and felt a level of contentment unequalled in his life. But then it had all fallen apart . . . the threads of doubt had coalesced and his fear of doing more damage had ultimately taken over, guiding his harsh actions and blinding him to anything more than the threat of deception and manipulation.
What she is really asking now is if he loves her. But can he truthfully answer? Could the Dark Lord’s influence possibly even masquerade as love? He decides that it doesn’t matter. They can either face the future alone or together . . . and there is only one outcome that he can live with.
“Yes,” he responds, a deep, breathy rumble, before leaning down to capture her lips with his.
Hermione sighs against his mouth. It isn’t so much relief, she realises, as the release of a pressure-valve. She could have taken nothing more. Literally. His words had floored her. Completely. She had been through too much, too quickly and it had exhausted all of her carefully cultivated avenues of coping.
But with his strong arms wrapped around her now, his lips kissing away her tears, and that single word, ‘Yes,’ she feels she may just be able to face the future—one that now holds a tiny glimmer of hope . . . but could her baby hope for the same?
She arches into him, trying to lose herself in his pervading warmth, protect herself in lieu of the protection she would want to give to the tiny being inside her.
However, despite her initial shock and despair at his revelations, she now finds herself far less sure of his explanation for their conditions, and the condemnation of their baby as a result. After all, where is the proof? What evidence is there beyond historical inferences and the mutually beneficial nature of their interactions?
In fact, there could be nothing at all untoward about their complementary ailments. There was even a chance that they would never discover the true nature of the initiating event, but would always be able to bring one another intense comfort . . . to provide that crucial balance. And honestly she couldn’t imagine anything better than continuing to heal him as he healed her till the end of their days. In fact, his kisses are even now rapidly melting away the hurt and doubt of the past weeks.
She draws his tongue into her mouth with a moan of ‘at last’ and proceeds to slither her own hungry muscle along it, searchingly tasting him, drinking him in. In reality, she wants to forget about all of it, she wants him to make love to her, to fuck her until her heart and mind are free . . . if only for a few fleeting moments.
But it is that image of freedom—of flying, unburdened—that suddenly jolts her. She’d imagined herself as a lovely little bird—a blue bird soaring through a blue sky. But that thought leads her to something more . . . another memory . . . another bird . . . not nearly so lovely—a cuckoo . . . the cuckoo . . .
“Fuck!” Hermione pushes him away.
“What?”
“I have to go . . . I have to see someone.”
“What do you mean?” He stares at her incredulously. “You just fainted.”
“There’s something I need to . . .” Hermione struggles to get up. “I need to check . . . something . . .”
“Hermione?”
She holds up a hand. “I’m sorry . . . I . . . I’ll be back.”
On slightly wobbly legs, she leaves the bedroom and heads for the door to his chambers. When she reaches for the handle, he calls to her.
She turns.
“I can accompany you.” He is standing in the bedroom doorway, still unkempt but scruffily sexy, lips now even more succulent after their exchange, and it is all she can do to stop herself from staggering back into his arms.
“Thank you. I’ll be fine,” she reassures him. But the fact that he wanted to be with her, to care for her, makes her heart soar. “I’ll be back soon.”
Then she leaves quickly before the draw becomes too great.
As she strides toward her room, she thinks back to the events of the morning. What exactly had Sophia said? That the mother jobberknoll looked after the cuckoo like it wasn’t an imposter or a . . . monster.
It was a strong term now that Hermione thought about it—although the cuckoo baby was rather large and had, or course, killed the other babies. But still . . .
Hermione quickly pulls off her robe and slippers and pulls on a dress, flats and a thick shawl for the journey.
As she makes her way up the stairs from the dungeon, she remembers the look on Sophia’s face when she’d suggested that perhaps the mother jobberknoll would rather have an imposter than no baby at all. The thought sends a shiver through her and she quickens her pace.
Despite the fact that it is a Saturday evening, she suspects she knows where she will find the girl. There is just something about her.
Taking a short-cut, as she happens to know every one, she makes her way to the library. By the time she arrives, her heart is racing, and it’s not only the physical exertion that is responsible.
As she enters, she remembers Sophia’s words about the mother bird’s real babies—the fact that they had screamed, without having lived at all . . . still they screamed.
She takes a gasping breath. Racing down the aisles, she finally sees her sitting alone at a table, face shrouded in dark hair, bottom lip caught between her teeth in that way that was so bloody familiar.
By the time Hermione reaches her, she is consumed by a whirlwind of emotions.
She crouches down, slapping her hand onto the parchment before the girl.
“Who are you?”
Sophia looks up in surprise, then her expression transforms into one of pain, before a defiant edge fixes her jaw.
She carefully sets down her quill.
“Don’t you recgonise me?” she asks, blue eyes taking on an even more disconcertingly piercing hue. “Don’t I seem even a little bit familiar?
Hermione’s hand on the parchment curls into a fist. Who the hell was she?
“I’m very much like my grandmother in personality,” the girl continues matter-of-factly. “But I’ve been told I have my mother’s eyes.”
“Your mother?” Hermione blinks in confusion. “Who is she?”
“Lily Potter.”
Hermione recoils in shock.
“Lil . . .,” is all she can manage before her voice disappears altogether.
Sophia nods slowly.
“Daughter of Harry and Ginny Potter.”
“But . . .,” Hermione chokes out the word. “Harry and Ginny don’t have a daughter.”
“Not yet.”
Hermione feels the blood drain from her face.
“I’m afraid my name isn’t Sophia Langford, either.” The girl looks suddenly contrite, clearly uncomfortable with the deception. “It’s Sophia Snape, daughter of Roland Snape . . . Better known to the rest of the Wizarding world as the Dark Lord.”
Hermione’s shaking legs finally give way and she falls to her knees.
“I’m your grand-daughter.”
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete