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Turn On The Darkness	By : CryingCinderella Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 21044 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
A/N: I found my muse. Please leave a review.

Darkness surrounded her. Hermione blinked, feeling her eyelashes batting against each other but she could not see. There was no remnant of light, no sliver of candles glowing anywhere that she could discern. But beneath her back was the mattress she was growing used to. She had been placed back in the bed. Twisting her wrists she found that she was once again free from restraints. Her breath caught in her chest for a brief moment before she sighed, memories flooding her mind as she recalled her act of desperation. Surely it had hurt her worse than him, not at all how she’d intended it but she’d succumb to the madness. At the moment, however, her mind felt blessedly clear.

The room was silent except for her shallow breathing as she tried to discern how long she had remained unconscious from passing out on the bathroom floor. She hadn’t even recalled slipping into a slumber or being attacked with a syringe to force her into sleep. One moment she had collapsed from atop him, weeping and trembling uncontrollably as if he had again provoked an attack upon her and the next she was returned to the bed, alone in the darkness. It was unlikely that she had been unconscious for an extended period of time, a day at best, though it was difficult to discern what a day was. There were no windows, no sense of the outside and no clock or time piece to maintain a notion of nighttime. She only knew that there were times when she was awake and times when she was not. The thought was more than discomforting.

            She strained to hear the slightest sound; anything that would indicate his presence, be it the almost silent footfalls he would make as he entered the room or the gut-wrenching sound of the whip cracking from the bathroom. But in times previous when she had heard these sounds they had been accompanied by light, however limited, and now there was only darkness. A wave of panic swept over her; nausea beginning to bubble in the pit of her stomach. What if she had been abandoned? Her mind began to race. No one knew of her location except her captor, her tormentor as she had referred to him. And although she knew in her heart that both Ron and Harry would much rather be scouring the globe for her, their mission to defeat the Dark Lord had to come first. A strangled sob escaped her lips as she drew trembling arms to wrap around her frail chest. It was then that she felt the fabric, a gentle cotton blend of sorts, draped over her chest and arms. For the first time since being stripped before the Death Eaters, Hermione was clothed with something other than a sheet.

            She squeezed her arms, the sleeves falling loosely around her shoulders. It was a t-shirt she gathered from the lack of cuff against her flesh and the loose fit around her stomach. She pressed her legs together and the sensation almost brought a smile to her lips, had she been capable of smiling. Soft fabric, resting trousers or pajama bottoms perhaps. It was too dark to see anything let alone the sort of clothing she’d been outfitted with but Hermione slowly sat up and curled her knees up against her chest. Her body still throbbed with a dull ache, but the shooting and stinging pains that had previously plagued her seemed distant memories.

            “Lumos,” she muttered, forgetting entirely that he had destroyed her wand and that their encampment seemed to be warded against magic. Most likely part of the disillusionment charms and other wards keeping the location from being plottable. She sighed. Again she found herself straining to hear anything at all, holding her breath in hopes that her breathing had masked some subtle auditory hint of his presence. It wasn’t that she was eager to see him, but rather wished to be prepared should he appear suddenly. Hermione closed her eyes, letting her lashes rest against her cheek before she tipped her head back against the headboard. He was something she did not care to think about.

            How rash she had been, lashing out at him, attacking him. Forcing herself upon him, only to cause her body a further trauma. In hindsight it seemed foolish. She would certainly never gain his trust in that manner. Her thoughts flowed clearly as if sleep had somehow cleared her delirious state of consciousness. She ran the events through her mind like a person watching surveillance footage. They had escaped from Gringotts. They had been escaping from Snatchers. She’d been dragged off by Bellatrix LeStrange, and tortured. Hermione could not help but shudder as she thought of the horrible marking the woman had engraved upon her arm. Her eyes blinked open though in the darkness they saw nothing.

            With trembling fingers she reached out and touched her arm. The bandage was gone. Though the scar line was jagged to the touch, the skin where the abhorrent words had been was smooth. It was as if they had never existed. Hermione began to sob. It was a myriad of emotions coursing through her body and she had no proper outlet for them. The rage, the longing, the understanding with confusion, all of these things and more crashing down upon her caused hot tears to flow heavily from her eyes. Her fingers stroked over the smoothed flesh again and again disbelieving its existence until finally she feared she might rub her skin away to reveal it after all.

            He had tried to help her. He had known of her higher intended purpose and wished to keep her from suffering. But it had seemed so cruel. Hermione was conflicted. The rape was unforgiveable. Or perhaps it wasn’t. She bit her lower lip. He had only performed as he was commanded. Had he declined surely she would be dead and he as well. A frown creased her brow in the darkness. But it had been so painful; the man she had trusted, turned traitor, forcing himself upon her. She let her head fall forward into her knees and she tried to quiet her sobs. It seemed to make sense, reluctant as she was to accept it.

            But then he’d insisted on torturing her. Again her logical mind wavered on her assessment of the situation. A shaky hand stroked across the top of her head, the short shorn wisps of hair a reminder of his actions. Her features hardened as she tried to remain furious but the tears that tumbled from her cheeks dissolved her face into further sorrow. Without magic and in her condition it would have been impossible to prevent her hair from matting and even infesting with lice or other filthy infections, without a laborious effort on his part. Another sob choked from her throat as she recalled how she’d brutalized him, trying to manage an eye for an eye, tearing at his hair, slapping him. She shook her head, muttering and whimpering, trying desperately not to let her mind recall her madness.

            There had been tears. His tears, slowly trickling with silence down his cheek as she had mounted him and forced herself upon him in an attempt to break him. He had begged her not to, but she had insisted, having submitted to the delusions of madness. Hermione’s body quaked with sobs, the mattress trembling she was shaking so hard. How could she have been so foolish, so naïve to think that he was the enemy despite all he had put her through. Clarity in hindsight was a true bitch and for that she was paying the emotional toll. She drew her knees tighter against her chest, her arms even tighter around her knees and wailed, her voice cracked and broken.

            She had thought that with all of her crying it would have roused him from wherever he had been but still she heard nothing. This only furthered her suspicious that she had been abandoned. And if that were the case she was doomed. It wasn’t that she wasn’t a self-sufficient witch, trained with both magical and muggle skills, but in the current situation her outlook appeared grim. The cabin, she decided it was roughly the size of that, was sealed against magic and even so she was not as proficient in spells and charms without her wand. For a moment she spared tears for her snapped treasure, grieving its loss almost as heavily as she had her hair. And it seemed that the location was ill-equipped for long-term survival as a muggle would use it. An idea ripped through her head so quickly it made her dizzy. Perhaps he had gone in search of provisions. Supplies and food with which to sustain them a while longer until it was safe or until the inevitable arrived. She frowned. How had he managed to escape?

            Hermione had not recalled seeing a door that would have led anywhere to the outside world. And there were no windows. Though it did occur to her that she had not seen the entire cabin. Dismissing the notion that he slept on the floor of the main room and that he had prepared her soup in the bathroom she gathered her energy and strength and slowly let her legs down from the side of the bed. As her feet touched the cold wooden floor she shivered. It would be difficult in the darkness, but perhaps once she had left the bedroom she could find a source of light.

            It hadn’t taken her long, or at least it hadn’t felt like long before she’d managed to find her way into the main room, where the tiniest glow of orange ember was visible in the hearth. It was a dying orange dot that she quickly crawled across the floor to reach. Her legs had supported her weight without much trembling or pain but she figured it safer to crawl, at least if she bumped into something or lost her balance she wouldn’t be far from the floor. Hermione patted roughly against the grate, searching for something, anything with which to prod the dying spark of light. Her fingers curled around a pole, most likely a stoker for the fire, and she began to prod at the tiny ember, blowing fiercely with every ounce of strength.

            With a good rhythm of poking and blowing and twisting the stoker about in the charred remnants, Hermione managed to get a few more embers glowing. And after what felt like an eternity she managed a small spark. Small enough to cast a fleeting light on a pile of wood stacked on the left of the fireplace. She dragged one log into her little pile of sparks and prodded it, poked it, and blew on it, rubbing the stoker and the embers about until one finally sparked and ignited on the log. Hermione had started a fire. Again she would have smiled, but rather celebrated the tiny victory by rocking back on her knees and gazing around the room that was now dimly lit by the slow growing fire.

            With the slightest glow of warmth radiating from the hearth she felt stronger. Hermione carefully stood up and watched the shadows dance around the darkened room. The door she sought was on the far side of the room, almost opposite of the one that led to the room with the bed where she had been kept. It was either a kitchen or a place where he slept, she assumed and carefully edged her way along the wall until she stood before the door. It was closed, the brass handle glinting in the firelight. She frowned. If he were inside perhaps he was resting and it was unwise to disturb him. If it led outside perhaps she was unprepared for what lay on the other side. Considering her options for a moment she closed her eyes and then curled her fingers gently around the handle.

            The door creaked as it swung inward. The room was as dark as the previous room had been and although her eyes tried to adjust she could see nothing. The firelight from the main room was not strong enough to even cast a glow into the new room. She frowned and took a hesitant step forward. But as she did a yellow glow flooded the room and she shielded her eyes. Her body shook as she saw him, standing before her, towering over her. His face was stern, though she noticed for the first time how weary he looked. His eyes were sunken, with heavy dark circles beneath them, his cheeks sallow and thin. Hermione bit her lower lip and made to step back from the room but his hand clamped firmly upon her shoulder.

            “You are meant to be resting,” he said, his words barely a whisper.

            “I...” her voice was lost as she tried to speak. His cheeks were no longer red and did not carry the mark of bruising from her slaps. His hair was disheveled and it was quite obvious in places where she had attacked his tresses and it appeared he did little to hide it. She frowned and felt pangs of guilt shoot through her stomach. She tilted her head downward to avoid his gaze, but used that moment to glance behind him. The room was simple, a bad not dissimilar to the one in which she had been kept, and little else that she could see. It was where he rested, as she hardly imagined him a man capable of solid sleep. Hermione could not keep the frown from surfacing on her lips. “I’m sorry…” her voice trailed off once more.

            Her words took him by great surprise. An eyebrow quirked high onto his forehead as he gazed down at her, disbelieving that he had heard her speak. Severus crossed his arms slowly over his chest, watching her, studying her. It was another trick, perhaps. Another attempt to guide him into torture. She had left her bed before, begging to be bathed only to knock him upside the head and render him unconscious so she could exact her revenge upon him. He would need to be more careful. His gaze remained steady as he tried to draw her eye, but he found that she could look at little else but the floorboard.

            “You need to return to bed,” he stated plainly.

            It took her a long moment before she slowly nodded, but eventually she did, her head gently nodding up and down before finally drawing her eyes to meet his. Again she bit her lower lip. “I…” her voice cracked but this time she cleared her throat. “I understand now, I think…” she whispered.

            Severus said nothing. His face reflected no emotions, nothing other than the weary fatigue that graced his features. He kept his arms crossed, his figure practically blocking the doorway. He was a good head or two taller than her, and despite his thinning frame, stronger and wider. He waited, curious to see if she would speak further or if he would be forced to guide her back to the bed. While she appeared to gaining strength and energy, rest was the best for her given her current state. He hadn’t needed to use the drug after she had collapsed in the bathroom, sobbing herself into hysterics until her body gave in to sleep. He had carried her like a limp rag doll back to her bed, and found suitable clothes in which to dress her. Despite the stitches still tearing the wound had practically healed on her arm and he had left it un-bandaged to allow it to heal while she slept.

            Hermione’s lower lip quivered as she felt another wave of guilt crash through her. And she couldn’t help herself. Before she even realized it she had collapsed forward, burying her face against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. Her body began to shake, her legs trembling as her weight leaned against him. To keep her from falling to the ground her wrapped one arm firmly around her backside. She cried, hard and loud, tears soaking through his shirt and running down his chest. It was more than he could bear but for fear that she was unable to remain standing on her own he did not push her from his person, but held her firmly against his chest. Severus felt her knees collapse but before she could crumple beneath him he had scooped her against his figure, almost cradling her as he had when he’d returned her to the bed after she’d attacked him.

            Still she wept. Sobbing and crying, body quaking with every strangled breath. She didn’t even notice that he’d lifted her into his arms, her legs curled up beneath her. Hermione was a tiny quivering ball of tears, resting against his chest in his arms. Severus stood there for a moment before retreating slightly into the room. The bed was angled against the wall and he took a seat on the tiny mattress, leaning his back against the wall, letting his head tip back. He closed his eyes and waited as she sobbed. She cried harder and harder until she was practically choking on her tears, her lungs tight. It was difficult to breathe with her head buried in his shirt.

            Hermione continued to sniffle and tears still flowed down her cheeks as she slowly withdrew her face from his chest. But she could not bring herself to look at him. She placed her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes, a fresh round of sobs filling her chest and quaking her body. Severus curled an arm around figure and squeezed her tightly. Perhaps if he could force pressure to her sympathetic nerves it would calm her. But for Hermione it felt like a hug, a tight embrace, and she only sobbed harder feeling the pressure. As her tears ran dry and her sobs quieted into hiccups and sniffles she found herself very tired, the emotional dam that had burst forth within her taking all she had saved up by resting. The wetness of tears kept her eyelashes together and she let her eyes stay closed.

            Severus felt her body begin to calm, and eased the pressure of his arm around her when she began to breathe slow, steady breaths, rather than ragged hiccups. But he did not remove his arm entirely. With one arm cradled around her figure, he brushed the other gently across the top of her head before sliding her gently down his lap ever so slightly so that she could rest her head against his chest. There was no sense in moving, as it would only wake her and most likely spur on a fresh round of sobbing hysterics. He was tired, he had not had proper rest in many moons and the girl who was quaking in his arms had finally stilled, the soft sound of her steady breaths now the only sound in the room aside from his own breathing. He could feel her heartbeat, no longer racing. And he could feel his own, thudding softly in his chest, beating against her ear. Perhaps it had helped to calm her. His fingers continued to stroke absently against her shorn hair, one arm around her figure until his eyes too were met with darkness.

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Turn On The Darkness