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Vespertine	By : BrownRecluse Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 3610 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: All characters and elements that comprise the wonderful world of Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing them for a bit of non-profit fun. Also, I used to be known as BrownRecluse, but a name change was long overdue. ;D

Chapter List
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The tomb had been mended but not without a scar. Sybill Trelawney traced the fissure with her fingertips. The bluish crack began in the shadows beneath the domed lid and sliced though the sigil inscribed on the stone’s pale face, breaching triangle and circle, but stopping short of its center mark. Water dribbled down her arms and beaded her hair. It had been raining all day and by the look of the sky in the west, low and glaucous over the mist-shrouded lake, it would rain again. She sighed. It had done nothing but rain since the battle ended nearly a fortnight ago; the heavens washed clean the land, while Professor Dumbledore lay in his evergreen bower. She rested her head against the stone. “Poor Albus,” she said, “safe and snug, but no longer alone. Why didn’t you say something? Why won’t you now?”

A hand on her shoulder startled her. “Here now, Sybill. That won’t do.”

She looked up. For such a hulk of a man, Hagrid, when it suited him, could step through the forest as daintily as a doe. “I just thought he might speak to me,” she said, “or if not him, then one of them.” One hand indicated the cenotaph behind Dumbledore’s tomb. Surrounding it on three sides, girding it like a low retaining wall, slabs of polished grey stone honored in turn the Fifty Fallen, allied magical creatures, and finally, staff and students who had lost their lives at the Battle of Hogwarts. Bouquets of wildflowers, many now withered, dotted the dark earth along the memorial’s base. “There should be so many ghosts in the castle now, yet the halls are empty and silence prevails.” She looked up at him. “Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Well, even dead folks gotta adjust; that’d be my guess.” Great folds of canvas rasped with his shrug. “They just need more time is all.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. Hagrid followed as she left the tomb to ponder the cenotaph. “But even Sir Nick and the Baron have gone off.” She looked up at him. “You know something’s wrong when one of them won’t venture an opinion.” He started to laugh, but then she said, “And something is wrong, Hagrid. It’s as if they’re afraid of something. All of them.”

“Now, Sybill, it won’t do to be dwellin’ on that just now.” He squeezed her shoulder and then looked back. “They’re almost here and you know how some of ‘em get when you talk like that.”

“Are they? How can you tell?” Sybill squinted into the fog. “All I see are shades of grey, each moving against the other, soundless and insubstantial as...well, as ghosts.” She tittered.

“Well, the dead might be quiet but the livin’ are making enough ruckus for ‘em both.” Hagrid chuckled. “Snappin’ twigs and slippin’ on stones—I’d know that pair of hob-nailed boots in the dark; and if you listen real close,” he said, cocking his head and cupping one ear dramatically, “you can hear those bright bits jingle on the Minister’s robes. He’s right fond of flash and tinkle, our new Minister is.” He winked at her.

“Hagrid, that’s disrespectful.” She tried to sound stern but a corner of her mouth twitched. “Those are cultural talismans.”

“Beads and baubles and shiny threads?” Hagrid gawped at her.

“Spells can be sewn as well as said.”

“Well, I had one of them talismans on my house—iron, too—supposed to protect me from fire,” he said, “Fat lot of good it did. My roof still leaks like a sieve.”

“But you still have a house,” Sybill ventured, “so in the end, it did.”

Soon, dark shapes appeared; mists parted. Just as Hagrid had predicted, Headmistress McGonagall stepped between their filmy veils on the arm of Kingsley Shacklebolt. The two made an odd pair: one corseted in stiff bombazine, the other resplendent in eggplant brocade robes. When she saw the beads and trinkets that edged their sleeves and dotted his cap, Sybill giggled behind her hand.

“It’s not often one sees the two of you together and in such high spirits,” McGonagall said as she approached, the crispness that edged her tone a warning for them to adopt decorum more suitable to the occasion.

“Nice to see you, Professor Trelawney.” Kingsley nodded his greeting, albeit a bit stiffly. Then to Hagrid, he said, “Is everything ready?”

“Ready as it’ll ever be.”

“I do appreciate your standing in at the last minute,” said McGonagall. Behind her, Poppy and Arthur Weasley emerged from the mist.

“Least I could do,” said Hagrid. “He set quite a store by Severus, old Argus did. I’d have hoped he’d come back to himself by now but...” He shrugged.

Nodding, McGonagall turned to Poppy. “How is he?”

“Sedated. He should sleep through the night and not give you any trouble. Still...” She paused to brush a cluster of needles from her skirt, then looked up and said, “It doesn’t feel right, leaving you like this.”

“I don’t know what we would have done without you, but now your family needs you more.” Minerva patted her arm. “Hagrid will be here until the morning; after that, Sybill and I will be more than capable of handling things on our own. Won’t we, dear?” She favored the professor with a pointed glance.

“Molly’s with the children,” said Arthur in a loud voice, although no one had asked. “She said it would be best.” He nodded, a man trying to convince himself of the impossible. “Said they’d been through enough and she didn’t want them followed, hounded by—” He stopped and stared over the lake. “I knew it! Something’s moving out there.”

“Yep, I see ‘em, too.” Hagrid waved as Harry and a very ashen-faced Hermione swooped through the fogbanks and landed on the lakeshore.

“You promised me you’d stay at the Burrow!”

“We promised we wouldn’t be seen,” said Hermione breathlessly.

Hagrid chuckled. “Come now, Arthur, you didn’t think you’d keep them two away, did you?”

After they’d made their way to the rest of the group and exchanged greetings, Kingsley said, “Well, now that we’re all here, shall we commence?”

“It’s a shame; we’re so few,” Sybill said as she surveyed the group. “Still, eight’s a fortunate number: one of profound, mystical significance.” Her eyes watered as she sniffled.

“Truth be told, probably eight more than he would have wanted,” Hagrid said.

“And some would say, more than he deserved,” Arthur huffed as he joined them. Harry and Hermione exchanged a weary but knowing look.

“Who, Arthur?” Minerva regarded him narrowly over the tops of her spectacles. “Those fond of speaking before they think, perhaps?”

“I’m merely restating a public sentiment.” Arthur swept an arm over the group. “We’ve all heard it; don’t say you haven’t.”

The narrow look turned glacial. “Then why bother to say it at all?”

Harry opened his mouth but Hermione squeezed his hand so hard his bones cracked. However simple a gesture, its message was quite clear: Don’t.

“As I’ve said before—”

“Repeatedly, yes.”

“—the catacombs would’ve been better. They’re safer and much easier to guard.”

Skirts swishing, she rounded on him. “They’re also underwater as of this morning, Arthur, in case you’d forgotten. No. Severus’ will was quite clear about the location of his final resting place and I will not deny him that. Nor will you.” She shook her finger at him. “It’s what he wanted.”

“I’m not trying to deny him anything,” he said, face reddening to the tips of his ears, “but when news of this gets out—and it will—”

“Arthur, we discussed this.” Kingsley’s tone cut the dampness like a straightedge. “Now is not the time to argue amongst ourselves but join together to mourn a fallen hero.”

“Snape a hero? My son was a— My son...” Weasley started to splutter, but when he saw the pained looks that crossed Harry and Hermione’s faces, he tried a different tack. “Yes, of course you’re right; forgive me, Minerva. I only meant that the castle wards have been weakened—some broken altogether—and there have already been incidents of trespass—you told me so yourself.”

“Let them come.” She snorted. “I’m sure Severus anticipated that particular posthumous contingency and has something quite spectacular in store for those who would defile his tomb. A wizard’s last spell is often his most potent.”

A bat flew out of the trees and disappeared over the lake. “It’ll be dark soon,” Kingsley said. “Hagrid, would you do the honors?”

“It’s this way.” He led them around the cenotaph to a low-hanging bough on a massive evergreen. This he lifted, showering the ground with stray needles and water droplets. “Through here. I cleared a path as best I could but there’s still plenty to trip you up, so watch yer steps.”

One by one, the mourners stepped through. Weasley, last in line, paused at the entrance. “I’m just saying we should have thought things through,” he muttered, and cast a worried look behind him.

“We weren’t followed,” Harry said in a low voice. “I promise you.”

“I hope you’re right. For your sake as well as ours.” With that, he entered the woods.

The branch concealed a small glade amidst the massive tree trunks, a space girded by exposed roots and carpeted in needles. These crackled softly underfoot, releasing a spicy, but somehow still sinister scent. In its center, encircled by floating lanterns of green and silver, and draped in a standard bearing the Slytherin crest, was a long, low oblong made of rough, dark stone. Unlike the lakeside tomb, its lid was flat and its sides unadorned.

Sybill moaned and hid her face in her hands. Arthur came to her aid, slipping a protective arm about her shoulders. As he guided her closer into the viewing space, he commented on the beautifully colored lanterns and then, the thread used to embroider the ceremonial drapery. “Just look at the scales of that snake, would you, Sybill; such infinitesimal stitches! That’s spun silver if I’m not mistaken, truly remarkable workmanship.”

“A gift from the Malfoys.” Minerva tossed her head and sniffed.

“The Malfoys?” Hermione shook her head.

“Lucius insisted.”

“However remarkable, I wish they weren’t necessary,” she said, sniffling. She slipped a hand into her sleeve, which only made her to want to cry all over again. Why, at the time she most needed one, why was she always without a tissue? She daubed her nose with a corner of her shawl.

“Here Sybill, there’s a dear.” This time Poppy came to her aid, flourishing a small but serviceable handkerchief. “You and Molly have been in my thoughts,” she whispered around Sybill to Arthur. “You’ll tell her, won’t you?”

“She’s at the cottage with the children...and Ron.”

“You two are the strongest couple I know, Arthur.” Poppy touched his arm lightly. “She’ll come around. Why, you’ve been together for what now, twenty-five years?”

“Twenty-nine next month.” He looked away.

“Eternity...”

Poppy looked over at Sybill. “What did you say, dear?”

“There!” She indicated the crest. “I’ve never seen the Slytherin snake do that before; it’s always been represented as the letter ‘S’ but the tail, the stitches—” Her hand trembled over the spot where the letter should have ended. “Look!”

“I’d hoped we’d avoid a scene today,” McGonagall whispered to Kingsley. Then, gliding over, she elbowed past Weasley. “Yes, it is quite clever,” she said. “Don’t you think so, Miss Granger?”

But Hermione’s gaze was on Trelawney, who’d taken on a dazed look and now, began to sway. “Eternity...” she said again in a low, drawn tone.

Minerva continued, her voice growing shriller with each word, “See here, Sybill. The body doesn’t end with the letter but the scales blend with the background, becoming almost invisible as the body curves back upon itself. The serpent, swallowing its tail, forms a—a—”

“A lemniscate,” said Hermione, finally breaking her silence.

“Exactly so, and as Sybill observed earlier with our number, this is yet another symbol for eternity,” said McGonagall, one hand worrying the brooch at her neck, “one representing the endless cycle of the seasons—life’s continual renewal.”

“The Eternal Return,” Sybill intoned dully.

Kingsley shot Arthur a nervous glance.

Poppy pulled at Sybill’s arm. “Why don’t we step back now, I think our new Minister would like to begin.”

“It spoke.” She pitched forward with a low moan, pushing the drape aside as she prostrated herself across the top of the tomb.

Light waned and wind soughed through the tree limbs. Arthur hurried to Kingsley. After a brief but heated discussion, the two disappeared behind one of the large tree trunks.

“It spoke to me,” Sybill said, in a voice whose curious vibrato was hers yet not hers and grew louder with each word. “‘Hollow,’ it said. ‘Hollow!’” She smacked the lid with open hands. “Liars! Liars all! He does not sleep. He is not here!”

The standard shot over her head, unfurled, and burst into flames. Sparks showered down but Sybill, captive in her trance, continued to sway. “The moon will weep and blood will run! He does not sleep. He is not here! He. Is. Not. HERE!”

“Hagrid, help me!” Minerva cried. As he and Minerva dragged Sybill away, the flames twisted and separated, forming a single word overhead: Traitor.

From behind the group came a single flash, a blinding light. “Headmaster’s death a hoax!” Rita Skeeter’s voice boomed. “My sources were right! Ooh, and what do we have here?” She sauntered into the glade, photo-drone whirring beside her. “Harry Potter helps Hogwarts professor hide notorious war criminal!” The camera zipped over and another flash blinded all but one of the mourners.

“Reducto!” One word from Hermione and the flying camera exploded.

“Get out of here, you harpy.” McGonagall leveled her wand at Skeeter’s chest.

“Now, there’s no need for that.” Unshaken, Skeeter tossed her unnatural platinum curls. “But by the morrow, one way or another, everyone will know the truth.” As she began to back away, two Constables materialized at her sides and Arthur Weasley, trailing tendrils of smoke, appeared before her.

“Take her to the edge of the grounds. Wipe her memory.”

“Abusing your new position already, Arthur?” Skeeter sneered at him. “You’re no better than Yaxley.”

“But sir,” said the younger of the Constables, “we haven’t been trained to use that spell on civilians.”

Hermione stepped forward. “Then allow me. Obliviate.” A flick of her wand rendered Skeeter vacant-eyed. “I’ve wanted to do that since the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” she said.

Weasley waited until the Constables bore Skeeter away before he turned on Hermione. “That was terribly reckless of you. It won’t last, you know.”

“Long enough.” She crossed her arms. “By the time it wears off, Harry will be out of the country.”

“I warned you to stay away, both of you.” Then, turning to Minerva, he shook his fist at her and said, “I warned you too, but you didn’t listen. None of you ever do.”

Minerva looked about the glade. “Arthur, what have you done with Kingsley?”

“I took him back to the Ministry, of course; and though I’m sure it’s not what Snape would have wanted”—he glared at her—“I think it’s time we all went, too. I mean it, Minerva. As Head of Magical Law Enforcement as well as your friend, I’m declaring these proceedings officially over.”

“Did something happen?” A confused Sybill looked up at them. The letters overhead sparked then spluttered out.

“You were overcome is all,” he said, helping her up.

“Is the service over?”

“Yes and ’twas a very moving ceremony,” he said, helping her brush the dirt and evergreen needles from her long skirt. “Now we’ll head back up to the castle and have us a little refreshment, what do you say?” Nodding weakly, Sybill allowed him to lead her away.

“Not too much refreshment, Hagrid,” McGonagall called after him. “I don’t want to find her weaving about the corridors in search of ghosts.” Then, under her breath, she said, “I’m surprised she hasn’t fallen and broken her neck.”

“As I said, considering what’s just happened, I think it would be best if we all—”

“Yes, yes, Arthur, alright,” Minerva said crossly. “If you would be so kind, please escort Poppy to her home; it’s just outside Lost Whistle Bridge.” She countered his interjection with a raised hand. “I will see Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger to their respective domiciles.”

After exchanging a tearful goodbye hugs, Poppy extended an open hand to Arthur. “Have you ever even been to Wales?”

“I’ll just have to let you imagine it for both of us,” he said, somewhat grudgingly, and after a final caution to the rest of the group to be safe, clasped her hand. With a swish, the two disappeared.

Silence fell with the night. For what seemed a long time, the three stood at the tomb, heads bowed, each paying their wordless respects. Then, as if following a wordless command, the floating lanterns broke formation, gathered over the stone lid, and coalesced into a single tongue of pale, greenish flame. As it licked upward, a shape, pellucid and white, spiraled out. It hovered over the stone, an apparition ghostly scaled and luminous eyed. Then, to the amazement of all, it stretched its transparent wings, opened its fearsome jaws, and said:

Shall I lead you on?
Let me show you a path with no end and no beginning.
You, who do not know the sound of one hand, cling
Too tightly to the sound and the dust.
Let me lead you on.
I will show you the path without end, without beginning.

“An impressive spell and appropriate sentiment; he was a Slytherin to the end,” McGonagall whispered through her tears. “Well done, Severus.”

“No, don’t you see? It’s...” The words caught in Hermione’s throat. “It’s a Patronus.”

“That’s impossible,” Harry said, scowling at it. “Snape’s Patronus was a doe, like my mother’s; everyone knows that.”

“Unless he changed it.” Hermione turned to McGonagall. “Professor, can a wizard change his Patronus?”

“No dear; no wizard can,” she said, “nor have I ever heard of one altering after death. I expect it’s something that held a special affinity for Severus, although we’ll never know for certain. It, much like the best of him, will remain a mystery.” Her voice quavered. “I’m afraid this is where I must leave you and unlike Arthur, I trust both of you will find your way to your respective homes. Be well, both of you.” Before the two could say a word, she dissipated like smoke in the wind.

“That was abrupt, not like her at all.”

“She looked exhausted.” Harry edged closer to the tomb. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know.” She stared at the dragon. “It is beautiful, though.”

“Do you think there’s any truth in what Professor Trelawney said?”

“Trelawney’s daft and she’d probably been drinking. The one night we’re here to honor Professor Snape, she has to make a spectacle of herself, raving about empty graves and bloody moons.”

“One of her predictions came true,” said Harry.

She snorted. “If she’s even capable of producing one at all, I imagine Trelawney’s Patronus is a bottle of cooking sherry.”

“Are you channeling Snape’s spirit now?” Wide-eyed, Harry stepped back. “You sounded just like him for a minute there.”

“I’m sorry, Harry. That was mean of me.” She looked away. “I’m just angry; angry at Sybill for robbing him of his last honors, angry at Ron for being such a stubborn arse, and most of all, angry at myself.”

“You saw his wounds. We all did.” Harry slipped an arm around her. “There was nothing more we could have done.”

“I still can’t believe we just left him like that.” Tears trickled down her cheeks and splashed against the stone.

The phantom dragon collapsed upon itself. Where it had been only a moment before, eight lanterns now hovered. In turn, each shrank into a tiny speck and winked out.

“I guess that’s our cue to go,” said Harry. “I’ve got to get an early start tomorrow.”

“Promise you’ll write.” Hermione said, hugging him.

“Every day—I imagine Romania’s just divine in midsummer,” he said, laughing.

“It beats London.”

“Accio Firebolt.” In seconds, his broom appeared at his side. “Are you sure I can’t give you a lift?”

“One flight today was enough. You know I prefer Apparating.” She kissed his cheek and then watched him rise over the treetops and out of sight.

Only one lantern remained. Green and brittle bright, it drifted closer to Hermione and hung, inches from her nose, expectant. For just a moment, Hermione could have sworn she saw Snape’s face appear in its eerie glow. “I’m sorry we left you,” she said. “There was so much we didn’t know. You saved our lives. You will always remain in my thoughts, Professor.”

Instead of contracting and winking out like the others, the light remained.

“Goodbye Professor Snape,” Hermione whispered. “Rest in peace.” She closed her eyes, turned widdershins, and imagined home. In a heartbeat, she was gone.

The light drifted over the spot where she’d just stood and hovered there, flickering, waiting. Time passed; owls hooted and tendrils of mist snaked through the trees, but no one returned. Only then, did the light transform itself into another shape, that of a man whose cloak seemed woven from the night itself: a man whose wounds had healed without a scar.

With footsteps that left no impression in the earth and made no sound, Severus Snape made his way to the rough dais that resembled a sacrificial altar more than a final resting place in a tree lined hollow.

Hollow: of all her predictions, why did that one have to be true? A smile, jagged and terrible as it was brief, flashed across his face. Jagged and terrible because of what he had always been but cleverly concealed, and brief when he realized what he now had to do. Once Sybill remembered her premonition, as he knew she would, she wouldn’t let it go. Like a dog with a bone, she’d gnaw at it, every image, every word. The moon will weep and blood will run. Not hers provided her mind was as malleable as Filch’s. He nudged a scrap of singed drapery away with his boot. Silver threads flashed, releasing the vestiges of its curse in a single, whispered word: Traitor.

A wave of cold rage, crashed over him. For his unflagging service to two masters, both of whom had been equally murderous; this was his prize for leading a double life—a lifetime riding two brooms with one arse and this was his reward? When conjoined, those two false halves fell far short of his whole. The dark hunger—red hunger—he’d suppressed for so long now awakened with a vengeance. Boiling in his loins, coursing like molten lava through his veins, it surged like a current through every fiber of his being. Snape let it flood him, consume him, eclipse him. No longer would he deny his true nature; no longer would he serve anyone’s interests, save his own. No longer bound by time, by law, by mortal constraints, he would have all things denied to him in that past life, those false lives! “Dying” had given him a tremendous gift—one he would soon gladly share, meting it out on his own terms. His lips curved into a cruel grin. He knew exactly where and with whom he’d begin.
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Vespertine