Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Chapter 1.


Silly how I reminisce the small details of our past. You are gone. I stayed...


It was midnight. Rain splattered the castle walls and battlements in thick sheets. The castle's inmates slept uncomfortable sleep, huddled under their quilts as their dreams were wracked by nightmares. The long standing testament to magic had been reduced to a pitiful state. The Astronomy Tower lay in shambles. Few were willing to rebuild what their naive passivity had destroyed. The courtyard that had been destroyed in the final battle lay patched and frayed post repair. The torn down walls stood out as ugly reminders of the not so far bygone war. War.

One word.

Monosyllabic.

For something so grotesque.

How ironic.

Few had returned for the academic year following the Last Battle. Few had lived to return. As population in the magical community had dwindled, the Ministry had been forced to pass the Marriage Law. It enunciated the regulation of marriages between witches and wizards of differing heritages to minimise the probability of Squib births and weak magical beings. The Ministry itself made the betrothal agreements, pairing up the most magically compatible individuals, placing them under fertility charms and such. It seemed barbaric and inhuman. To those who had survived, this was another predicament that their lives had been catapulted into after the war. But at least it did not involve life threatening situations. Or megalomaniac mass murderers on the loose.

Some reprieve indeed, she snorted. From the vantage point of her bedroom window, she looked over the vast expanse of the Forbidden Forest. The stars seemed reluctant to adorn the sky. So few showed their faces to the world below. So few. The grounds were deserted. They were, after all, the graveyard without graves. Oh Ron, she whispered to herself. Tears threatened to overflow the barriers of her eyelids. She clutched at the soft linen sheets in order to control herself. A lone tear slid down her cheek. No! It is done, mourning would not bring him back! I must be strong, she admonished herself. But the pain in her chest would not recede. Her entire being was overwhelmed with a sense of loss. Sitting on the right side of the wide canopied bed decorated with emerald jewels, trying to compose herself, she reached for the bed side table. She had tried, oh, she had tried ever so hard. Her thin scarred fingers espied the tiny oval box in the uppermost drawer. Her eyes closed, as if to retreat from the reality that had so subdued her brave spirit, and she drew the box to her lap. Still unseeing, she opened its lid. Inside lay a beautiful silver locket. Her fingers stroked the silver chain gently. A serene smile spread over her tear stained face. Her fingers still stroked the silver locket in gentle circular motions. Rhythmic. Soft. Gentle.

She was sitting in the middle of an orchard. The flowers seemed lovelier than she had ever seen them. Oh the multitudes of roses, lovely lavenders, lithe tulips… She could weep from joy… It had been long since her mind had been unencumbered by worry and fear. Mortal fear. But now, at the end of the dark years, she could rest. He would stop by, soon. She smiled to herself. She was at peace with the world.

A slight sound behind her interrupted her musings. Yes, he had come. She grinned to herself. His clumsiness always announced his arrival. But she could pretend. Yes, she pretended never having heard his stealthy footsteps. When he stood behind her, she let out a soft breath. Bathing in the scent of his being, she felt fulfilled. Complete. Yes, she was at peace with the world.

"Boo!" he suddenly shouted. She pretended to have been surprised. His face was set into an expression of satisfaction as he realised he had accomplished his mission. His eyes shone with genuine pleasure that was so reminiscent of an innocent child. He was lucky enough to have retained his vitality in the aftermath of the war.

"Hermione…" he spoke softly. His flaming red hair caught her eye. It was quite unkempt. Talk of growing up, she looked at him, amused.

"I have something for you…" He hesitated. "It… isn't much, I … I truly want you to have this… someday, soon… I will be able … perhaps… to give you what you truly deserve…" He looked down at his shoes, dawdling, dreading her pronouncement.

She stared at the oval box in his hand. A sudden warmth washed over her as she understood the reason for his hesitation. She took it from his hand and opened it. Inside lay the most beautiful silver locket. She looked up at his face and smiled. His face, drawn in consternation, relaxed somewhat at this. She hated his self-doubt. After all they had been through, it shouldn't be like this.

"I will cherish it… Ron... For as long as I live… It is beautiful…" she whispered in his ear, drawing him into a crushing embrace. A huge grin broke out on his face at her statement. He really was adorable.

"Ouch! Control yourself, woman! You'll break my bones… Aaaarghhh…" he yelped as she whacked him on the head. The skyline was darkening.

"Daydreaming… love?" his silky voice taunted her out of her reverie. Her eyes fluttered open as she tried to hide her panic. Failing, ever so slightly, by the increased wideness in her eyes, she knew that she had been caught. How she loathed this man, this horrible excuse for a husband who had made her life miserable! She had tried to move on. She was smart and did not wish to linger on self-pity and ceaseless mourning. But this man, oh the hateful creature, demented by his past and present, did everything in his power to trap her in her misery. He had no compassion for her, no feeling, just scathing remarks and burning insinuations at some times and simple cold indifference at others. He hated this farce of a marriage as much as she did, she was sure of it, but that did not restrain him being unpleasant and downright bastardly. He was one of the reasons why she couldn't heal. He had nothing to do with her, felt no remorse for his actions and generally ignored her existence. Yet, being the master of manipulation, he kept her trapped in the dark recesses of her own mind. Only, those ravines of her mind were filled with memories of hope, joy and light. Oh, he hated her and drew pleasure from her pain. Being the haunted man that he was, he could not bear to see her or anyone happy. Especially not the ones in close proximity to him.

"I… I was just…'' She faltered mid-sentence and looked up to see disdain dripping from the slight curve of his lips. It made her cringe and the brave Hermione retreated into the darkness encased safety of her mind. She took a deep breath and looked down at the sheets, hoping that he would leave without another word.

"Just… ah… bemoaning the loss of a loved one, yes?" he supplied, sneering in sarcasm. "You. Do get away from my sight this instant. I would be receiving company in an hour. Stay away. Stay silent," he spat as he turned on his heel and moved towards the door. You. This was how he always addressed her. Ever since their abominable marriage, she had had to relinquish her maiden name. It was customary in the wizarding world. He would not refer to her as 'Hermione' or 'Mrs. Snape'. No, it would be 'You'. Clean. To the point. Unfamiliar. Cold.

She would not admit it, but she was intimidated by him. She feared him. She feared his indifference, his lack of feeling and above all she feared his temper. Only once had she been on the receiving end of his wrath and she had no desire to inflict such agony upon herself again. Not that he had hurt her physically. No. His bitter words had run through her heart like a dagger. And around her the walls had cracked and the furniture lay strewn once he was done. He was a powerful wizard.

She wiped the fresh bout of tears that had begun running down her face and clutched the locket closer to her chest. 'I am sorry, Ron… for you… for me… for everyone', she whispered. Replacing the jewel in its original case, she slid over the sheets and stood up on the carpet. Straightening her robes, she moved towards the left door which led into her study. She didn't understand what business he could have with others in their bedroom. Usually, he let her stay in and was content as long as she didn't venture out into the sitting room. Sighing, she grabbed the knob and turned it. The study room that she had decorated for herself was her sole retreat. Lined with bookshelves on all sides and freshly picked roses that the house-elf brought every day, the room was the only haven for her. Away from the brooding and disdainful eyes of her husband, she could truly be herself. He would not encroach upon this territory of hers, she knew. He had given her his word. Settling down in one of the plush burgundy sofas, she began to read. The book was titled 'The Dark Descent'. She had been perusing it for a while now to better understand the many complexities of the Dementia potion that they were studying in class. It was a fascinating read. The more she delved into it, the more intriguing it became. She would finish it soon, she knew. And then, there would be no escape. No escape from the world.

A slight sound of the door opening caused her to look up. No, it wasn't her study door. Perhaps the bedroom door. Did that mean his visitor had arrived? Perhaps. And then she heard it.

The soft giggle of an enamoured female. Slow whispers. Gentle caresses.

She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat and turned away from the door. Settling in the bay window, she looked out to gaze at the dark sky. There were no tears this time. Mere pain. Gut wrenching, searing pain that had no physical stimulus.

Get a grip, Hermione. It isn't a real marriage. No sense being offended by his actions. Stop, stop this instant, she tried to reason with herself. She failed miserably. She didn't love him. No. Quite the contrary. Yet she honoured the marital vows. She stayed faithful… To what? The slime who doesn't care one bit whether you live or die? The wretched bastard who lives to see you hurt, she thought furiously. Angry sobs wracked her petite frame. Oh Ron… thrice, thrice I have cried today.

Outside the world carried on. It healed its wounds and sought relief in unlikely places. Whoever troubled themselves, after all, over the sorrows of a young woman of no consequence anymore now that the war was over? Such is the way of the world. There is no hope for deliverance. One is doomed to eternal damnation in the fires of the world. Such is the way of the world.