Cessation of Hope
The Lifting of the Veil
We look over the Black Lake in reverence, not daring to speak, least the peace of our union be disturbed. I glance up at the Dark Mark that hovers amongst the clouds: a taxing reminder of hope destroyed, for the Death Eaters have a constant watch on Hogwarts through its eerie complexion. I look back at the lake. It's a gloomy day: one of dank light and darker spirit. The skies seem eternally grayed since the death of Harry Potter.
Snape is unreachable, staring out at the lake, eyes glazed in thought. He does not move, not even to watch as I bend to untie my shoes and remove my socks and walk steadily toward the water's edge. I wade through the tiny ripples my legs make, feeling the sandy stones beneath me, and pull my frizzy brown hair back behind my ears, reaching for my tie as Snape turns to look over the browned grassy area of the Hogwarts court.
"Even the grass mourns," he snarls.
He thumbs the strands of my hair, pulling through pieces of my newly-made ponytail and sliding fingers down my back. I shiver a bit from the touch; it feels similar to the anticipation I had once felt almost a year ago, as I sat in the front row of Potions.
I was seventeen and still pure; he had watched me, exclusively, during class that evening. The setting sun shimmered through the windows and glazed heavily upon the grayish stone walls, giving me something to watch so as to avoid his gaze. He was intense, almost too obvious in his lusts, so much so that I wondered why I had been the only one to notice.
I thought that maybe I had been unrealistic to think that Snape would possibly be interested in me. He had to be staring at something else, pathetic Neville, perhaps, who shook in fright of breaking a beaker, only to break it from all the shaking; but I knew, somewhere inside, beneath the denial, that it had been me he was watching, and only me.
I was the last one out of class; I gathered my belongings and skidded out of the room, nodding to Snape as I left.
"In a hurry, Miss Granger?" he said, standing in the shadows of the doorway.
"Just tired," I stated.
"Miss Granger," he said, awkwardly, "Hermione. I need you to stay behind class tomorrow; there is something urgent that I must discuss with you."
"Professor?" I asked, unable to breathe, or move.
"Please, call me Severus."
"Okay."
"Tomorrow then?" he said, as if asking, though clearly not looking for an answer. He continued to look me over before rushing back inside his classroom: a reclusive bat, returning to his cave of comfort and solitude.
I had walked slowly to the common room that night, thinking it over. He hadn't said it was detention, and I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, but there seemed no other reason for the meeting. I remember having a fleeting thought of being pressed against a table, legs spread, skirt raised, but had quickly tossed the image out of my mind: such fantasies would do me no good.
I turn now to look at Snape's eyes as he leans into the crook of my neck, whispering with his silky voice, "Won't you be late for class, Miss Granger?"
I look at my watch and know he is right.
"Oh, hell," I sigh, as I grab my things and run to the castle, hearing Severus whisper "silly girl" beneath his breath as I leave.
Ron is waiting for me outside McGonagall's classroom. He is leaning against the wall, eyes closed tight, racked with something internal. He jumps at the sound of my voice, as though he has not heard me running through the hallways.
"Ron!" I exclaim, out of breath. "Why aren't you in class? McGonagall is going to kill us both!"
"I was waiting for you; where have you been?"
"Never you mind, Ron, let's..."
"'Mione," he interrupts, grabbing my arm and pulling me from the classroom door, "I want to ask you something."
He frowns, and I begin to wonder if I would like this. Ron was always clingy, but he has been uncharacteristically close since Harry's funeral; I used to chalk it up to loneliness, or something just as sinister, but I fear now that it might have been more. It was never my intention to lead him on, only to be a friend in these dark times.
"Ron? I, um, don't think..."
"Will you go out with me?" he blurts, his face contorting further.
"Um, well," I stutter, looking for the best approach, though unable to find one. "No, Ron, I can't. I'm sorry."
I bow my head in politeness, and he bows his own in shame.
"Should we go into class now?" I ask, stepping toward the door, not really waiting for his response. I am not in a mood to cater to his sensitivity, especially at the expense of missing class.
We take our seats under McGonagall's heavy eye, and know she isn't pleased. I try to ignore Ron's glare and focus on the lesson, but he stares straight through me somehow. The war has changed us all, Ron included, and his anger is only a part of the confusion that plagues us. I imagine him stand, even whilst McGonagall speaks; imagine him point his wand at me and threaten to turn me into a blast-ended skrewt if I don't reconsider. I feel my face burn red and my palms sweat as I cling to the reality of our position: the outbreak, Ron's detention, and the arising need to rush to Severus for protection.
I grab my bag and run, my legs finding a renewed sense of urgency. I want to get away from Ron and his feelings and his outbursts. I run from the pain of failure and death and loss; run right into the arms of Snape, of whom I demand, between tears, to hold me until I calm.
I wipe my tears onto his cloak, finding them silly now, and kiss his worried lips. I stay there, wrapped inside his warmth, and wait out the slowing of my heartbeat and welcome the path into a sleep so light that I wonder if I sleep at all. I feel a rising motion as I am carried and held close. I grasp a deeper road and pull myself onto it: the blackened swirls of emptiness a comfort to my lids and mind alike.
