Her trysts with Severus were growing less frequent—Voldemort’s impatience with Harry was festering, and Severus was somehow tasked with personally canvassing half of London. She went days without seeing him, sick with worry, anxiously imagining him lying dead in a gutter with his stomach ripped open; when he came back, gaunt and hazy-eyed with exhaustion, they fell asleep on the couch in front of the fire, her head on his lap and his fingers buried in her hair. (They had awoken in the middle of the night, and by the dying embers of the fire, Hermione made Severus thrust savagely into her mouth, tears leaking out of her eyes as he fucked her throat mercilessly. That little encounter would satiate her for weeks, replaying his harsh whispers of  there, perfect, excellent, Miss Granger.) 