Disclaimer: Not mine.
Perceiving Pigment
Chapter Two
Umber Undying
O, said the Man to the Moon, What do you know of Death?
The Great Moon yawned, What business have you with the definer of your kind?
The man spoke much but said naught.
"I needed to know everything about what we had to go up against. I needed to know all I could. I'm expected to know everything. It's the only way I felt useful," She said. He thought she might be developing a fever.
"It becomes more difficult, the more you know." He realized he was still holding her arm. It was warm on one side, cool on the darkened inner side that had not faced the fire.
"More difficult to deny it."
"Yes," he hissed. "Knowing that you can have so much more by succumbing to the chaos of infinite possibilities. If it seems too good to be true, it is. Surrendering to that madness gives one only the illusion of control. That is the most important thing to me, to remain in control."
"In a way I feel stronger by denying it. Just the knowledge of the power that I could possess –it's enough to stop me from wielding it. That control, perhaps that is what is so alluring."
"Until you think it's worth the risk." He looked at her, sitting on the sofa, one leg bent up so that her chin rested upon it. So flexible and nimble, so young. He did not particularly liked that she had drawn a comparsion in their mutual need for control. "I was not worth that risk. You risked tearing your soul."
"But you are. And I didn't tear my soul, though I'm not sure yet exactly how, or what, and I think I'm crazy for not already sitting down and calculating it out," she said. She wet her lips. The fire in the grate was dying down. "Above whatever petty issues Harry had with you, you had to know that we respected you. Such sacrifice does not deserve death."
He did not move.
"I need to see them," she said. He could not deny her. He went outside.
He did not find that which he wanted for in the dark night. The moon was glowing such a bright orange that he had mistaken it for the sun and thought his eyes had merely fried by gazing directly at it for too long.
For oh, if she thought she might be crazy, he knew he was so.
As only those who had known themselves to be dead could know.
She had really avoided his question, dazzled him with the night, and pulled him along on her next adventure. Yes, he told himself, it was she who pulled him.
He blamed the shaking after he'd gone into the family's vault under the manor on the aftereffects of all these revelations. Surely, it would take more time for him to adjust to life again, and he surmised, as he felt his magic connect to Miss Granger's (no- Prince), that their connection required them to be in the same vicinity. Which brought him to another matter – What was he to call her?
A charcoal grey cloud moved over the moon in one long vast strip that merely muffled the glow; it could not contain that fire.
And she, eyes glowing like the amber moonlight, followed him down the dark path. He could feel those eyes on his dark form.
And she, far fairer than the moon she was lighted by (thought only by that part of his mind he thought he had put to rest long ago) followed him down the dark path.
It almost muffled the constant pain. Or perhaps she merely contained it temporarily.
He felt as if he would burst.
Outside of the confines of the house she felt her body relax, unfurling tense muscles she hadn't realized were tense. The darkness was cool, but the ground was still warm from the sun. She smiled at the thought that it was summer and the dark Lord was dead.
They apparated a short distance away from the Burrow. The structure's windows glowed with warm light. The back door was open to the cool breeze. It would never have been open like that during the war.
As she drew closer she saw him shift and withdraw into himself.
"I will wait here," he said, feet now planted firmly, a few yards from the house.
She stopped at the open door; the savory scent of berry pie filled her nose and mouth. The kitchen was just as she remembered it, warm and cluttered.
"Hello?" she called. No one answered, but she could hear feet shuffling down the stairs.
"Mum, could you-" Ginny stopped in the doorway.
"Hermione!" she yelped and promptly crashed into her. The robes in the redhead's arms tangled up in Hermione's as they clung to each other.
"Ron! Harry! It's Hermione!" Ginny called up. She hiccupped, and Hermione felt her hair, damp from Ginny's tears. Perhaps her own as well. It was hard to determine a consistent line of narration when everything was happening so quickly and the boys were there, hanging onto her arms, her shoulders, getting tangled in her hair. She thought of darkness.
She untangled herself with a few deep breaths. They were all three grinning wildly, but something caught her attention.
There on the table was the beginning of their memorials, planned out on sparse parchment, bare of extra syllables. It was quite neat actually and she had to give Molly credit for the straightness of the lines and the sketched form of the tomb. A tomb worthy of those who would "remain undying in the hearts of those who lives they had saved". Something clenched in her stomach and the edges of her vision grew blurry. The light which had seemed to glow so warmly now seemed to fade like dirty amber.
"It's been months, Mione," Harry said quietly. Their faces were tense now, confused but expectant.
That was why the night had felt cool for this time of summer. For time had tricked her and fall was just around the corner. The life she was supposed to be falling back into was right around the corner.
"What's the date?"
"August the fourteenth."
Over two months, she calculated. A list of questions formed in her mind before she could register the information emotionally: how had she 'slept' so long, who had taken care of her, of them, how had that house elf…
They were staring at her strangely. All her life she had tried not to be that person, the person worthy of odd stares. She knew she had to restore their faith in Hermione Granger.
"However on earth am I going to prepare for NEWTs when classes start in two weeks?"
Their faces broke out into grins. She felt the emptiness in her stomach grow.
"Oi, there's our Mione, already thinking about those blasted tests." Ron hugged her again, too tightly.
"We really missed you. We'll understand if you don't want to talk about-" Harry was rambling as they moved away from the table.
She felt his presence in the spot they had vacated; the air was heavy with his darkness.
"Snape!" Ron's eyes had grown larger than Luna Lovegood's eyes. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost.
Snape placed the tip of one finger on the parchment. His eyes moved swiftly back and forth over it.
"This was not necessary." He stood like a statue, looking down at the parchment, not at them. The light refused to warm his skin and simply left it as it was, pale, pasty and ghostly.
"Well, it isn't now, I suppose," Ron blurted.
Snape titled his head slightly. She found herself entranced by the subtleties, how he made so little communicate so much.
"Mr. Weasley, always ready to state the obvious," he drawled in that low voice that sent shivers down any schoolchild's spine. Ron shifted his eyes, looking for an escape. Harry jumped in quickly.
"What he means, sir, is that we shall have to rework the statue to account for...er, you being alive." Harry's eyes still blinked at the tall man.
"I suspect you haven't have time to tell them everything?" It took her a second to realize that he was addressing her.
"Not quite." She was surprised that her voice was clear.
"And, Mr. Weasley, my name is no longer Snape. It is Prince. As is Miss Hermione Prince here. I'll be waiting outside."
She knew he must've enjoyed the look of confusion upon their faces. They were flustered, which made it all that much harder to explain the events. Once she had said it all as calmly as possible, she knew they would simply need time for it to sink in.
"Are you going to live with him, really?" Ginny said, a bit of awe in her voice.
"I just wanted to let you know I'm alright."
"You can't leave so soon," Ron complained. He brought his fingers underneath her chin. She had to meet his eyes and the depth of hurt that lay within them. "I missed you."
"A lot of people were killed, or missing. We thought that you-" Ginny looked about ready to cry again. Hermione held her hand.
"I'll tell Snape, Prince, Mr. Prince that I will be staying the night here."
He was standing out there like a dark statue, so still. The moon had risen and was less orange, merely that constant white glow.
"I'm going to stay the night here. I didn't realize it's been so long." When he didn't reply she added: "I think they need to know that I'm still me."
She wished she could see his face. He gave a slight nod. She opened her mouth to—but there was a crack and he was gone. She wasn't sure what she would've said. She felt sorry for him. Even with a life of his own, free of any master, he was still alone.
She knew that he couldn't have stayed here.
Even she had trouble with the constant hugging and touching. Wasn't once enough to verify that she was as alive as she looked?
She told the story again, the truth, the facts. It did not cease to amaze the entire Weasley family and soon the house was filled with extended relatives and friends: Bill and Fleur, she round with child, and Angelina came with George, and Neville had heard and stopped by with a group who had been clubbing (Lavender, Dean and Luna among them) even though it was nearing three in the morning.
Many were missing. She wished she could have the time to grieve for Fred and Tonks and Remus, but everyone else had already grieved for months and it seemed selfish. She almost wished she could be alone again. Well, alone with him again (she still did not know what to call him).
As the adults began to leave for home or settle down to sleep, Harry, Ron and Ginny began to fill her in on what had transpired in the latter part of the battle.
Harry's brows were furrowed as he retold Snape's memories about Lily Potter. Hermione clutched her teacup.
"I didn't think to keep Snape's memories secret. We had thought him dead for certain, and I just wanted everyone to know about what he'd sacrificed for love and goodness."
"I think he'll understand," she said. "In time."
"You never doubted him?" he asked. She looked out the window, at the lightening sky.
"He died for it, for us, for her." The image of Lily seared her mind and would not leave. It was odd now to see him as a devoted friend, with a love that transcended death. "I'm getting rather tired."
"I'll walk you out," Ron said.
He stood with her outside in the pre-dawn twilight. This was her favorite time of day, when most everyone was asleep and the world was quiet. He had a lazy smile. Eyes half-lidded, he swung his arm around her waist and nestled his head in her hair.
"Ronald," she said, though she knew that words would ruin the moment.
"Yes, Mione," he breathed.
"I'll see you at school. Soon, very soon."
She had to turn away from his pleading eyes.
She stretched out against the cobalt blue sky, and though she was tired, she anticipated doing all the things on her list and smiled as she apparated away.
He held the Manor in his head like it was a spell, but larger. The walls were merely extensions of himself, the wards communicating to him every life-form in its jurisdiction. But he still had to search for the room that would be his.
"Too much light in here," he said. The beams of sunlight streaming through the windows were golden and cast the room in dark bronze.
"I like it," she said. She had been in a good mood all morning and it pained him.
"The sunshine would ruin the potions," he growled.
"Stating the obvious, sir?"
He moved quickly into the hallway, ignoring her blatant disrespect, the teasing lilt to her voice, those eyes.
The night had been difficult. He did not sleep. But then, he had just slept 3 months, and he normally didn't sleep much anyway. It hadn't helped his neck. Or the string of magic in his body that felt empty, incomplete. When she returned that morning, he had known it instantly. He had so much more energy when he could see her face. He might be young again.
Facts kept accumulating in his mind but he had difficulty drawing conclusions from them.
"Next," he said, holding open the door. It took him half a minute to remember to breathe.
"Here it is," he whispered.
It was a vast space with two long dark worktables. He immediately had the urge to touch them and he satisfied his craving, drawing his long fingers across the grainy wood. He finally breathed and took in the dust and it almost filled his lungs fully. He almost felt-
He found that as time moved on in his new life that he was less obsessed with lines and more interested in form. He enjoyed the curve of that aged silver cauldron, the texture of the wooden table, the sight of her rounded curves as she slipped between the tall cabinets, hips barely brushing against the wooden casement. What he could see with his eyes was not just a flat expanse of images but a composition of teasing depth and fullness which he longed to explored.
"Most of the ingredients are expired," she said, face buried in the labels of the rows of glass containers.
"Do deign from snooping around," he drawled.
He was not disappointed by the brilliant shade of crimson that flooded her cheeks as she turned around. His mouth twitched.
He breathed in the dust, the old smoky smells, and thought he might be able to -almost- find home here. It was a room he had always wished to have as his own.
"It shouldn't be too hard to get this lab into working order," she said, taking an awkward step forward. "You could develop potions again."
Even as they tried to look into the future, the past always snuck into the present, it wormed its way into conversation and pulled at his insides.
"Sadly, it will have to wait for our return," He countered.
"Sir?" She turned her head, hair spilling across her shoulders.
"Do you wish your parents to live without knowledge of their daughter for the rest of their lives?"
She took in a breath.
"I didn't know you knew. It is something I am anxious to do." Of course, she didn't know he had read her parchment. She was still a teenager, prone to leaving things lying around; for all that everyone acclaimed her maturity.
"I will accompany you."
She gave him a measured look. He couldn't find the words to tell her how much pain he would be in if they were separated so far and for so long. It was too soon since the ritual, too soon for his weary, torn soul.
"Where are they?" he asked instead.
"Australia."
He winced.