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The bell tolled signalling the start of her day's service to her Lord. Sighing, she carefully blotted the entry and then closed the leather-bound book and blew out the candle. It would be daybreak soon although it was hard to tell anymore with the ever-present mist covering the countryside. Numbness crept over her, not just from the cold, but the memories. She rose to don grey robes and return the journal to its sanctuary under the mattress. She would be expected in the kitchens soon to help prepare the day's meagre meals.
There was no need to search out a mirror; they were all far past any sense of personal vanity. Just as before the battle, she learnt her lessons well - her inner torment was carefully masked by false fealty. Her Lord's commandments were sacred, and there was an inner beauty and peace in obedience, she told herself as she walked the halls of her former school, praying the litany added a touch of serenity to her expression.
The classrooms were sealed, save the one where the white-robed students of Purity House received their daily lesson on what it meant to be a witch or wizard in this new world. She no longer spared the open doorway a glance. The faces never changed: pale, frightened, and hopeless. She tickled the painted pear and descended the stairs to immediately begin laying out her knives and brushes on the cutting block. There would be a harvest today of fresh produce from Greenhouse One, provided the men could return in safety this time. Still, it never hurt to have everything prepared before moving on to the cooking of the thin gruel that passed for the Faithfuls' breakfast. In this changed reality, subtlety was no longer the sole purview of Slytherins.
"So, they're making another run later today, eh?" Pomona Sprout greeted her with a trace of humour in her voice, wiping her floury hands against the white of her robes. A scarf was tied tightly, covering her bare scalp more in the interests of hygiene than a desire to hide the salt and pepper stubble.
"You know I can't talk about anything that happens among the Faithful," she replied gently, barely repressing a smile.
"You've already told me, Jane." Sprout smirked, motioning toward the kitchen tools laid out with precision along the wooden cutting block.
"I cannot control another's eyes, and where they choose to go," she replied, finally allowing a true smile in response to Sprout's grin. It was a small victory; any act of defiance was to be viewed as a victory, even something as simple as alerting those within the castle that later some of their gaolers would be outside, and possibly not returning. She knew it would be whispered throughout the captive population during the noon meal. She tended to the fire Sprout started in the great stone hearth. Steam rose from the cauldron hanging from the crewkes, ready to receive the coarse grains and salt. Another day, another chance to plan. Another night to continue writing the story of The Girl Who Died.
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Night was coming. The mist had a deeper purplish tinge to the churning grey swirls and eddies of water droplets. It pressed against the windows, searched hungrily along the doors and carefully-warded chimneys. It sought those who resided within Hogwarts castle, possibly the last haven of magical beings in Europe. There was no way to determine the extent of the horror that had befallen their kind. The Floo network had long since failed, Apparition was not possible, and only the suicidal attempted to flee on broom from the stone walls of this prison. Exposure to the mist had strange effects on the animals, too. McGonagall reported that the owls no longer had the ability to navigate. It had been a full month since the last owl from outside Hogwarts had shown up in the Owlery. Well, most of it had. The other birds reacted violently, and in panic ripped the stranger to pieces, the blood, sinew, and plumage strewn across the wooden floor of their roost.
She tasted the stew one last time; it was as good as she could make it. The last of the vegetables from the pantry steamed alongside a few chunks of meat she'd rather not examine too closely. None of the remaining livestock from Hogsmeade in the courtyard had been slaughtered; that left the only other two sources of fresh meat: owls and rats. Quietly, she called Sprout over to handle the transportation of the stew to the Great Hall's tables, and slipped away from her post.
She'd not managed to find an excuse to be in the upper hall when the harvesting party set off to the greenhouse, yet no one questioned her presence. From the shadows of the corridor she watched as three men, armed with thick metal bars prised from dungeon cells, slipped quietly out the castle doors. Counting the steps to herself, she imagined them moving stealthily along the outer walls, then running across the exposed length of lawn toward the side of the castle, dependent upon the end of day's dying light to hide them as the mist began to darken. A few moments later, she surmised they must have reached the greenhouse. Allow time to cut, rip and pull as much of the fruits, leaves, and vegetables as possible, and then it was back out into the mist, where they dwelled.
It was a hard choice. Part of her wished that the men would vanish, stretching the Dark Lord's Faithful in the castle even thinner, but her mouth watered thinking of the fresh greens and sweet fruits they could bring back, and Severus would ensure she was given first pick of the spoils down in the kitchen.
Near her, more of the Faithful gathered, talking quietly, glancing around warily like a flock of ravens in search of a corpse to pick clean. Draco's pale locks and skin shone in the dimming light, his hand firmly grasping another's ebony clad arm as they leaned in to speak together softly. She edged nearer hoping to catch a glimpse of Draco's confidant. She left out a breath of relief at the familiar face in profile as he turned his head and responded to his companion's whisper. Snape had been with their Lord in his tower since before she'd left her bed this morning. She pretended to inspect the work of a few white-clad girls barely her age, who were cleaning the flagstones with rags and water. It didn't matter that the small number of people left in the castle could never clean every floor in this way, the motto of Purity House was redemption through hard work, no matter how meaningless the endeavour.
Voices rose in volume and temper as the other men absorbed Draco and Snape into their flock. She was close enough now to listen freely to the huddled men's conversation. Her grey robes made her no more noticeable than a piece of furniture.
"We need to send someone out there," insisted Dawlish, his former Auror instincts kicking in.
"No! They were foolish to go in the first place, and now you want to risk more people?" snapped Draco Malfoy, tall and pale, still standing beside Professor Snape, close enough to hear his hiss of caution. Both men wore their hair long and loose as a badge of honour. The strands fell softly across their shoulders and down their backs. Pale white met black as Draco ran a hand through his locks in frustration, unintentionally twining strands with Snape's. When had she begun to find hair so fascinating? She found herself in full agreement with her former classmate. To venture outside unprepared was foolhardy. They could all hear shadows whispering in the mist.
A thud against the wooden doors halted all conversation. Dawlish moved quickly and, after receiving confirmation of who was outside, lifted the metal brace that reinforced them. Two men stumbled into the entryway.
"Close it!" one yelled. "They're almost on us!"
Dawlish hurriedly complied, slipping the braces back into place as the two men made haste across the upper hall toward the grand staircase. Each clutched a burlap sack of food from the greenhouse, and dropped his metal bar carelessly onto the just-cleaned stones, splattering them with crimson distain.
"Where's Danvers?" Snape demanded, his voice carrying clearly to the retreating men, and to the girls hurriedly moving in to slosh their cloths through the splattered mess, causing them to freeze for a moment in alarm. Great anger was evident in his tone. There was no reply.
Snape turned to Draco, leaning in again to whisper something she couldn't hear, and then he ordered Dawlish to let him out.
"No!" she cried out, hand raised as if to clutch at his robes.
Ignoring her outburst, Snape picked up one of the bloodied metal bars and nodded to Draco before slipping out the door.
Draco took notice and cuffed her soundly, "Know your place, woman!" he chastised. Meeting his eyes for a brief moment, she knew he was just as sickened by fear as she. And remarkably, she saw something she hadn't seen since the occupation: recognition. He knew her! Despite the cruelty of his actions, there was something vulnerable in his expression as he drank in her face, unable to tear his eyes from hers.
Dropping her gaze to the floor, she managed to whisper, "My apologies, Noble One."
The girls pulled her away to the corner, out of sight of the men in their dark robes. "Are you trying to get us all killed?"
"I'm sorry, I just..." she trailed off, unable to express the panic she felt knowing that Professor Snape had just ventured into the mist alone. It was stupid, and dangerous. If those things, those Inferi were outside, then both Snape and the missing man were probably never coming back. As full darkness fell, she knew there were even worse things waking up to hunt in the mist. The night only held terror and death.
The girls scattered into the hallway, unwilling to draw any more attention of the Faithful. She returned to the foyer, back pressed against the cold stone wall, no longer making an attempt to appear unconcerned. An unnatural silence filled the room as Draco and Dawlish stayed near the doors, listening. The mist should have dampened sound but the night was alive with the moans of the dead.
A shudder ran through her as a chill permeated the air. Her thin Piety robes and fraying school blouse did nothing to combat the misery and damp, and with only a few inches of length; she might as well have no hair for all the warmth it provided. As the hours passed, she could feel herself shake, but not from the cold. Sharp prickles stung behind her eyes as she willed herself not to cry. She owed him nothing, Jane told herself firmly. Except her life. He was as maddeningly arrogant as any man who could put a stopper in death, yet deliberately taunted the darkness to take him. The first tear spilled down her cheek.
The bell tolled again. She dreaded the summons to gather for their Lord's commandments as disseminated through the most devout and brutal of the Faithful. Slowly, she turned away from the others and walked toward the Great Hall, swiping her hand across her cheeks lest she be caught showing her fear for the man she should not be thinking about.
The two men who had run away leaving their fellow to die were just inside the Great Hall. Their bodies had been propped up as if in prayer. She joined the others standing along the wall, forming a line of grey and black robes while making a silent plea for Snape's safe return. No one stared at the dead men. Scared and so alone, she faced the sad truth of her situation and her heart ached with the loss of her protector.
One by one, the white-robed captives entered the hall to lay face down on the floor as any who had knowledge of their misdeeds was encouraged to come forth and share them. Without hesitation, they rushed to obey and accept the will of the Faithful. Punishments entailed more work shifts, banishment from meals, and dependent upon the severity of the misdeed, beatings.
Finally, it was over and there was nothing to do but return to her room and sit in silence. She was trapped in madness, barricaded against the horrors in the mist, and most certain to die.
She crept from her room into Severus's quarters. His scent remained; the bed was undisturbed and his reading chair was empty. Her last chance for escape from this hellish world was lying dead somewhere on the castle grounds. In grief, she reached for a quill and opened her journal, where she could be Hermione again one last time.
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