A/N:
As those who read When Sorrows Come already know, I like to switch things up once in awhile. In that fic, I wrote flashback scenes in loose verse every ten chapters. I won't be doing that here, but when Snape's flashback was too long for the overall chapter, I decided to separate it and add it to an upcoming Hermione flashback to form a new chapter, then the action continues (starting with them snogging on the couch) with chapter eleven. Hope you enjoy rather than hating me for it! Smut is fun and romance is lovely, but I just adore bringing back story and emotions and character motivations into the picture. Feel free to let me know if it takes you out of the action (and please let me know if you like it!) but either way, don't worry, it won't be a regular every-ten-chapters sort of thing. Thanks!
-AL
CHAPTER TEN
Ghost
And no one could save her...
Now her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying 'cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh'
-'Molly Malone'
Being the darling ingénue of the Golden Trio was not at all what she wanted. In fact, she hated every minute of it. She hated the flashbulbs, the news articles, the autograph-seeking fans, the promised Tell All books written by people who weren't nearly as 'in the know' as they wanted the general public to believe.
She was glad the war was over, of course. Immensely relieved that the threat was gone and gone for good. Eternally grateful that so many of them had made it out alive, though she felt warring feelings of guilt and gratefulness to those who did not, those who gave their lives to save their world. Especially the purebloods, those who easily could have joined Voldemort and indulged in their supremacy – people like Lucius Malfoy. Those who were pureblood but still fought for others like her, Mudbloods and half-bloods, Muggle born and mixed, she felt they were owed a thank you, though Ron argued no one should be thanked for simply doing the right thing (a funny perspective from a man who certainly seemed to enjoy being praised for his decision to rejoin them in the woods when he never should've left to begin with).
After it was all over, she fell into a deep depression, one she was too ashamed to let others know about. Her parents' new baby and reaction to learning she'd obliviated them for their protection, erasing all memories of her to be restored later, cut as deeply as Bellatrix Lestrange's knife, and just as the word Mudblood would forever be in her arm, their anger and disappointment in her would forever be in her heart, despite attempts to fix their relationship later.
She cried for all of them, but tried not to do so when they were watching. The Daily Prophet had described her as an emotional girl who sobbed her way through the funerals for Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Fred Weasley, Severus Snape, Susan Bones, Lavender Brown... Funeral after funeral, many of them for witches and wizards no older than she.
Colin Creevey, oddly, had been one of the hardest. His Muggle parents insisted upon a traditional Muggle wake. He was laid out in his coffin, his new glasses, the silver rimmed ones he'd gotten at the start of the school year, positioned carefully on his face, wearing a Muggle suit that looked too big even though it was made to fit him... He seemed so small. They'd placed his camera in the casket. During the eulogy, his brother described the camera as Colin's favorite thing. He said Colin wanted to be a published photographer someday, to travel the world taking pictures of every day witches and wizards doing "regular, everyday things" to be compiled in a book called Magic in the Mundane. "He loved absolutely everything about magic," said Dennis Creevey. "And Harry Potter was his hero."
They'd all worked together to destroy Voldemort, but it hardly felt like that mattered when Colin's mother hugged Hermione and thanked her for it, feet away from the body of her little boy, too young to fight, and certainly too young to die.
She didn't want to be the emotional basket-case the Prophet painted her as (the extraordinarily plain looking one, at that) so she made certain never to cry in public. Never to even look sad, or raise her voice, or express any emotion at all. She traveled around with a smile at the ready, even when she felt like falling apart, but not too big a smile, because the world was recovering from the aftermath of a true tragedy. She practiced in the mirror until she had perfected a small, subtle, "I'm happy to be alive but always remembering those we lost, now let's achieve world peace!" smile.
Then Rita Skeeter complained in a editorial about how her face looked the same all the time. She called it eerie and unreal.
So Hermione couldn't win, and stopped trying.
She moved in with her parents in London for awhile. They decided to return as soon as their memories were restored. But as they had a newborn baby and she wasn't permitted to have friends over, it was hardly the ideal home. She went to Grimmauld Place instead, with Harry and Ron. That didn't feel right either. And when the first of September rolled around, she made certain she was the first on board the Hogwarts Express, ready to start the seventh year she'd missed out on.
She threw herself into N.E.W.T. studies and went into Hogmeade to visit with Harry and Ron (and sometimes Neville) every weekend, as "second seventh year students" were not restricted by the same curfews and rules as regular students (like Ginny and Luna) were.
She threw herself into falling in love with Ron, too. It seemed like the right thing to do, given all they'd been through.
It was the 1999 Easter holiday when they first said "I love you."
Harry had been telling both he loved them since the war and they'd both said it back to him, but saying it to each other was entirely different.
They spent the entire day together with their friends, having brunch and talking about anything except the war and the upcoming one year anniversary of its end. No one talked about escaping Malfoy Manor the Easter holiday before. No one talked about the conspicuous absence of Order members in the house.
In the late afternoon, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione went to the Burrow for Easter dinner with the whole family... where no one talked about the fact that Molly had set Fred a place at the table, as if he might merely be running late.
Ginny stayed home for the night, per Mrs. Weasley's orders, but Ron, Hermione, and Harry returned to 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry went to bed early, claiming it was because he had to work in the morning at the Ministry, but Hermione knew it was more than that.
She and Ron went to his room, to talk privately.
And ended up in bed, as had also happened over Christmas break.
But that time they'd stopped short of giving themselves to each other.
This time, they didn't.
The sex itself was neither good nor bad. It was new, and a bit awkward, and there was some embarrassment over figuring it out together without either having experienced it before. She was trying to remember what she'd read about it in a Muggle magazine swiped from her mother's room nearly five years before, whereas he had clearly gotten advice from someone (either George or Harry, she figured) because when she suggested they try a different position to make the initiation of intercourse easier he said, "No, this is the one he said is best for the first time!" before blushing bright red over having revealed himself in this way.
While it didn't do much for her physically that first time, she enjoyed being close to him, and trying to make him feel good, and the knowledge that he was trying his best for her, and when it was done, she thanked him for being patient and gentle.
"I love you, Hermione," he'd responded. "I've loved you for years. We're meant to be, don't you think? Like Tonks and Lupin? Or Bill and Fleur? Some people are just... some people are just right for each other. My mum once said, when you've met the right one, you'll know it. You'll feel something change inside you, and you'll know. Well, I know. We know."
"I love you too, Ron," she'd said. She kissed his cheek, settled beside him, and closed her eyes. He succumbed to sleep rather quickly but she lay awake for hours, replaying those words in her head.
Some people are just right for each other. You'll feel something change inside you, and you'll know.
But she hadn't felt anything change inside her.
And she did not know.
So while he slept contentedly, convinced he was with the woman meant for him, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and wondering if anything could ever be 'right' again in the world.
-0-0-0-
He'd been indifferent toward the baby – as indifferent as a reluctant father could be without being completely heartless – until she was over six months old.
It was Christmas break 1997. Most of the students who'd returned to Hogwarts after Dumbledore's death went home for the holiday and he had to get out of the school, not only for his own sanity, but under Dumbledore's orders. For reasons unexplained, he had to strategically place the Sword of Gryffindor so Potter could obtain it, in some vaguely heroic manner that would make him worthy of wielding it. He used his doe Patronus to lure him to the lake, and it worked. Good. Some small victory, he reckoned. A Christmas miracle.
He was not in a hurry to rush back to Hogwarts, to tell his master he'd completed the task like a good little errand boy forever atoning for past sins, thus he headed to the home of the man who was currently his only friend, Lucius Malfoy.
While he had genuinely liked Lucius in his younger years and didn't mind him now, he hated how sending Dumbledore to his death had destroyed his carefully cultivated relationships with his colleagues, leaving him with no other relationships intact. Minerva regarded him with suspicion and a lingering look of pain and betrayal, Fillius made it a point to show him as absolutely little respect as was absolutely necessary, Charity, shortly before her murder, had gone sobbing to Severus' chambers begging for an explanation, Poppy was not shy about distancing himself to the point of the exiting the staff room if he entered, and Pomona furiously told him after a bottle of elf-made wine one night she'd always known he wasn't the reformed man Dumbledore told them he was.
This left him with the only Death Eater he could stomach for company.
Which led him to Malfoy Manor that afternoon, the day after Christmas. Narcissa granted him entrance but apologized because her husband and son were not home.
"You're free to wait for them," she said. "In Lucius' study or the drawing room... Would you like a drink?"
"I would indeed like a drink, thank you. Is it all the same to you if I wait in the library?"
"Make yourself at home." She snapped her fingers for a house-elf.
"Flicker, get Professor Snape whatever he requests and see to it that he's comfortable."
Severus requested a firewhiskey to the library, but assured he'd need no more than that. The elf bowed deeply and disappeared.
"I don't know when Lucius will return..."
"You're worried about him."
Narcissa's eyes welled with tears. "He was in prison for a year, Severus. I had to live without him for a year and every bloody day hurt more than the one before. I saw what it was to live without him for a year; I couldn't do it for a lifetime. And my son..." Her voice cracked on that last word, which she let be the end of her sentence, as Severus understood. He almost – almost – felt compelled to hug her, but as much as he valued the friendship of the Malfoys he didn't quite feel comfortable enough for such obvious displays of affection, even with her. "You don't understand what it's like, Severus. I used to feel sorry for you." She sniffled and wiped her nose most uncharacteristically on her long sleeve. "I used to think it was terribly sad that you were such a loner. I mean, I know you have your mother, but... but to be without a woman, to have no children. Cooped up in that castle...I can't tell you how many times I talked to Lucius about trying to help you find a nice girl, but it seems none of my matchmaking attempts have done you a single bit of good."
Severus' face flushed. While his mate had indeed introduced him to a number of women over the years (beautiful, status-seeking women who would have been much more suitable for Malfoy, had he not been completely faithful to his wife) he'd had no idea this was on Narcissa's suggestion. He wondered what she'd think if she knew he'd been fucking her sister for the last twenty months.
"Now, I see things differently. Be glad you're able to live a life of solitude, and be especially glad you haven't any children. Nothing could ever be more terrifying than the possibility of losing your child."
Severus felt a sharp jab in his side and nearly glanced to the left expecting to see someone standing there with a sword, but quickly realized the feeling came from within. It was the thought of his own child dying that caused it... a child he hardly knew, a child he'd only seen a handful of times, mostly when she was asleep, one he'd never held. Not only did she not bear his name, he didn't know her name. Bellatrix called her "the baby." Most, even in the Dark Lord's inner circle, did not even know of her existence. None, save for Bella herself, knew for absolute certain the identity of the girl's father.
"I'll do as I can for Draco," said Severus, gently squeezing her arm (which seemed a decent alternative to hugging) and suppressing his upset.
"You've already done so much," she whispered. "I am eternally gratefully. As is my husband. We'll never be able to thank you enough for what you did for us in June."
"I'll wait for Lucius in the library." He had to escape the conversation. He couldn't stand the way she was looking at him, the way she was thanking him, yet again, for killing Dumbledore. If only she knew.
"When he arrives, I'll tell him you're here."
She closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. He kissed her on the temple – an act somehow less intimate than the hug he wasn't willing to give – and hurried up the hallway to the stairs.
He was on the second floor landing when he heard the cries. A baby. His baby. He paused, listening, expecting the wails to cease, but they grew only louder. Was Bellatrix unable to soothe the child? He crept toward the room he knew to be hers, the room where he'd met her countless times over the year before the child was born, to do to her what she begged him to, to hold her down and make her hurt and pleasure her, satiating both of their selfish needs, each acting without regards for the emotional well-being of the other.
He put his ear to the door. The crying continued. He could not hear Bellatrix. Only the baby. He turned the knob. The door opened to him with a simple "Alohomora."
He entered to find a frantic house-elf, pacing back and forth, muttering, as the baby – his baby – screamed and sobbed in a corner of her crib. She was nearly seven months old, with a round face and an equally found belly, a button nose, and bright red tear-stained cheeks.
Bellatrix was not present.
"Where is her mother?" demanded Severus. The house-elf jumped and flinched, expecting punishment.
"Mistress leaves baby with Twinkle. Twinkle feeds baby. Twinkle changes baby. Twinkle puts baby to bed. But... baby won't stop crying! Mistress will be angry! Mistress will be angry, but Twinkle has tried! Baby has been fed! Baby has been changed! Baby is in bed!"
"How long as Bellatrix been gone?"
"I... sir?"
"How long as Bellatrix been gone, Twinkle?" he raised his wand threateningly, though in truth he wouldn't use it on the poor, pathetic creature. "When will she return?"
"She goes most days for hours, sir! For hours she goes away! And Twinkle feeds the baby. And Twinkle changes the baby. And Twinkle..."
"I understand. Out, Twinkle."
"Ow... out, sir?"
"I will care for the baby until Bellatrix returns. You, out."
"Out, sir?"
"Out, Twinkle! You dare disobey a wizard?" He jabbed the wand in the elf's general direction. The elf leapt and squeaked.
"But my mistress..."
"I will inform your mistress of the situation. Go. Now."
Twinkle looked as though she wanted to argue, but unable to do so with a wizard, she merely nodded and disappeared with a loud crack.
Severus approached the crib. His daughter – he still didn't know her name – was sitting in the corner of the crib, wearing a black one-piece pajama set that covered her body, arms, legs, and feet. Black. The baby was dressed shoulder to toe in black. Severus liked black as much as the next sullen, snarky, antisocial academic, but on a baby it didn't quite look right. He waved his wand and turned the onesie pink. That didn't suit the girl either. He waved it again, and the one-piece became mint green. That would do.
He reached in to pick her up. The last baby he'd held had been Draco, who was now six months away from eighteen, thus it was safe to say he was out of practice. He found it easier than expected. He placed one hand on her back and positioned her bum on top of his opposite forearm. She was still crying, but not quite so hysterically now. She had the hiccups. Her nose was running. Her entire face was splotchy, her cheeks still wet with the tears.
"Accio handkerchief!"
One flew out from inside a basket atop Bellatrix's vanity. He used it to gently wipe clean his baby's face. She seemed to be calming down. Perhaps all she'd needed was to be held.
"She leaves you for hours?" he asked. Of course the baby didn't answer, but given the way her wide eyes were boring into his, he had a feeling she understood. "That is unacceptable."
She blinked twice slowly. Her lashes were long and dark, but the hair on her head was so pale it almost looked white. It was fine and short, save for a couple of curls forming at the back of her neck. He twirled one around his index finger. She couldn't be blonde, could she? Did blonde hair run in her family? Narcissa was blonde, obviously, but he always assumed that came from a bottle of Muggle dye or was the result of a well maintained glamour charm.
Her eyes were his, he thought. Not a milky chocolate brown, like those of the Black sisters. These were darker than brown, darker than the midnight sky, like ink. Like his.
She fidgeted and fussed a little. He held her closer and began to pace back and forth. He had no idea what to do with a baby. What had his mother done when he was a baby? He couldn't remember. As a little boy, though, she would sing to him, especially after the alcohol put his father to sleep each night. She would cradle him in her arms and sing the Irish songs her own mother had sung to her.
The baby in his arms whimpered and started to flail. He had a feeling the novelty of his presence was wearing off thus she was about to start wailing again.
He wasn't going to sing, but he supposed he could recite an old Irish folk song to her, as it if were a poem, and maybe bounce her a bit while they walked.
"In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty, that's where I first met my sweet Molly Malone. She'd wheel her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow, crying 'cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh...'"
It worked. The baby either found it soothing or distracting, because she calmed instantly, and by the end of the second verse she was closing her eyes and slowly drifting off against his chest.
He reached the end (Molly died, now her ghost wheels her barrow) and was relieved to find the baby was sound asleep, but what to do now? Place her in the crib and walk away as if it had never happened? Call for the house-elf? Or make himself comfortable and wait for Bellatrix, then tell her off for being a deadbeat mother?
He opted for the third.
He transfigured a stool in front of her vanity into a comfortable rocking chair and sat down, cradling the girl, rubbing her back and twirling those curls around his finger. She smelled nice, like baby powder and soap, and he caught himself sniffing her hair as he recalled his mother doing with infant Draco so many years ago. He hadn't told his mother about the child. She would want to see it, to play grandmother. He couldn't allow that and wouldn't disappoint her by letting her know such a thing was both possible and impossible.
It was past nightfall when the witch finally returned. She was humming softly and tunelessly when she let herself into her bedroom. She waved her wand to light the candles in the sconces around the room, as the natural light that had been streaming through the windows when she left was long gone.
"Good evening, Bellatrix," he said, his voice void of inflection. She jumped back, turning her wand in his direction. She sighed, seemingly relieved, when she realized it was he who'd infiltrated her chambers and lowered her wand, but did not put it away.
"Snape! What are you doing here?"
Severus did not reach for his. He did not even stand.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
"Out." She seemed bemused, likely thinking he had no right – nor reason – to be questioning her on her comings and goings, and unclear on why he'd even ask. "The Dark Lord needs me."
"Our child needs you."
"I left a house-elf–"
"Fuck your house-elf. She's a baby, not a bulldog. She doesn't need a house-elf; she needs a mother."
"She has a mother!" Bellatrix bristled. She tossed her hair haughtily, set her wand on the vanity, and began to unfasten her fur-lined traveling cloak. "She doesn't need you to lecture me on her behalf. I do a fine job caring for her."
"The fuck you do, you neglectful, self-serving bitch."
"Call me that again, Snape. I fucking dare you."
"And you'll what?"
"You'll find yourself on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse so fast–"
"I can block any curse you send without even lifting my wand." He rose and made his way across the room until he was glaring down his nose at her. "The child is mine, is she not?"
For half a second, Bellatrix almost looked intimidated. She shrunk back, eyes wide, and bit her lip, then abruptly became herself again, tossing her hair, jutting up her chin, the very picture of arrogance.
You know she is."
"I don't want my daughter raised by a house-elf."
"What's it to you? I told you when I found out I was pregnant, this child is mine and mine alone. I don't need your help. I don't need your–"
"Had I known you were going to birth my child only to abandon her some six months later, I never would've consented to being with you from the start."
"Consented?" She cackled. The baby twitched in his arms. Flinched, really. Even in her sleep, she could sense her mother's presence, and it was not necessarily a welcome one. "Severus Snape, you ought to be honored I even deemed you worthy of my time! Do you have any idea what some men would give for an evening with me?"
"If I remember the stories from your Hogwarts years correctly, I believe the answer to that it 'five galleons.'"
"I've never traded sex for money. You, on the other hand, would still be a virgin if Lucius hadn't paid–"
"Blast-ended skrewts do a better job rearing their young than you do," he interjected, eager to regain the upper hand before she said something truly wounding. She rolled her eyes at his jab.
"Blast-ended skrewts eat their young."
"I know."
Bellatrix swore, reached into the top drawer of her vanity, and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's Original Mead. Forgoing a glass, she opened it and took a long drink. When she set it down again, she narrowed her eyes, which were full of all the fire he used to enjoy putting out by dominating her (per her request), but in this moment he felt only sickened.
"The elves said you've been out most days for hours, leaving her in their care. Even your own mother had the common decency to employ a nanny. Were there no witches with child-rearing capabilities willing to work for you?"
"You've been with her all of what, Severus Snape, eight hours?" Bellatrix sneered. "And you think you're a fucking parenting expert now, eh? I do care for my child. I breastfeed her, I give her baths, I change her nappies, I wake with her in the middle of the night every fucking night. I carried her inside me for thirty-eight weeks and four days and spent fourteen hours in excruciating pain while pushing her out of my body on my fucking own and you think because you spent one third of one day–"
"You'll do a better job of caring for her, Bellatrix Lestrange, or I will."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'll take her from you and raise her myself."
She appeared taken aback. Perhaps even worried. Good.
"You don't know the first thing about taking care of a baby, Snape!"
"Apparently, Bella, neither do you."
She gasped and he wondered whether he'd gone too far, but it was too late to care. He gently patted the back of the baby, who was stirring, and tried not to notice that Bellatrix looked like she might cry.
"You take that back. I am not a bad mother."
"I'll take her away and you'll be lucky to have her on alternating Christmases and for two weeks during the summer."
"You can't do that!" Bellatrix's hands were trembling. She reached for her wand on the vanity. "She's mine! I am her mother and I have custody of her! If you take her, it's stealing. Kidnapping. It would be a crime!"
"Drag me in front of the Wizengamot, if you must," he answered, unaffected. "I'm certain they'll be happy to hear your side before they toss you back in Azkaban."
"Now that the Dark Lord has control of the Ministry, I come and go as I please. You try to take my daughter away and the Dark Lord himself will..."
"I will be dropping in more frequently, Bellatrix. At random. And I will look for her and I will look for you and if I find her crying or screaming in the care of house-elves ..."
"She belongs to me!" Bellatrix's voice wobbled the way her sister's had when imparting to Severus the pain of possibly losing her child, but he couldn't muster up any of the sympathy he'd had for Narcissa. Bellatrix added in a whisper, "She belongs to me, Severus."
"Indeed, she does." He placed the sleeping baby gently in her mother's arms. "For now."
"Get out!" A truculent tear escaped the corner of her eye and made its way down her cheek. "Get the fuck out of my room and out of my sister's home and out of my life, you greasy pathetic sniveling bat! And don't ever expect to find your way back into my bed!"
"I wouldn't take you to bed again, Bellatrix Lestrange, if I were dying of dehydration and you held control of all the world's water and would only share it with a man who satisfied you sexually."
"For what it's worth, you've never satisfied me sexually." Another tear. This one landed on the baby's white-blonde hair.
"Why did you conceive and carry and birth my child, Bellatrix, if not because you wanted to be a mother?"
Her eyes filled with furious tears. Not one or two, but enough that she now resembled the baby when he'd walked in. Her pale skin was blotchy. Her nose turned pink. He'd never seen her cry before, not real tears. He found it a curious sight, but not a moving one. She balanced the baby in one arm and pointed her wand at him with the other.
"Leave. Leave now. Leave before I hex your bollocks off and you lose the ability to ever make another baby with any other woman–"
"I'm leaving," he cut her off. "But not because you've ordered me to. I'm leaving because being in your presence makes me feel physically ill."
She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could come out with anything he stormed out and slammed the door behind him. The noise must have awakened the baby because her cries again permeated the air.
"Fuck!" screamed Bellatrix. He wasn't sure if this response was to him, to the baby for waking, or just a general expression of frustration, and did not wait to find out which. He stormed off down the stairs and to the front door, where he met Lucius, who was finally returning home.
"Severus! Stay for a drink?"
"Sorry. Pressing Hogwarts business."
"Ah." Lucius looked disappointed. "New Year's Eve, perhaps?"
"Come by the school in the afternoon. We'll have a drink."
"I may need more than one," said Lucius, and it suddenly registered with Severus that the man looked like he'd been drinking all day. He was disheveled and unshaven, with bloodshot eyes. He reeked of scotch. Narcissa entered the hall then and rushed to her husband, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek, and begging to know where he'd been.
Severus quickly said goodnight and hurried out to the apparition point, unable to shake off the empty feeling in his arms, to forget about the space his baby girl had, however temporarily, filled.
Bellatrix was a bad mother, of this he was certain.
But he would be a worse father.
Thus he knew that this would likely be the last he ever saw of his daughter, a child he never wanted, one whose name he still didn't know.
And for some odd reason, this hurt.
And no one could save her -
Now her ghost wheels her barrow...
-0-0-0-
She fought off her melancholy with every fiber of her being, battling back the darkness with as much conviction and creativity and cleverness as she'd used to keep them alive during the war, for she knew the fight was for her life, and by the time the two year anniversary of the end of the war was upon them, she was finally feeling herself again. She was in a job she did not enjoy, but it was a job fitting of a girl fresh from school, one who did not coast on her fame and name to skip up the queue, and she had her own apartment, she was having dinner with her parents and toddler sister once per week, she had a good core group of friends, and she was in love with Ron... mostly. The light was beating the darkness. Her depression was lessening. She was going to be alright.
Then she discovered the poem.
Penned by a Muggle writer named Edna St. Vincent Millay. Hermione stumbled across her work while reading her way through local library recommendations the summer after Hogwarts, hoping to broaden her overall knowledge, though it was long before she began fantasizing about running away to tour the world.
The poem spoke to her in a way that no academic writing ever had. She copied it over onto parchment with her quill and read it over and over and over again until the words were burned into her mind.
Then, she tried to forget it.
But it was back.
It had been bumping around in her mind ever since she realized she might actually be attracted to Severus Snape, retired professor, reclusive not-dead war hero and former snarky bat with a cruel streak turned doting father of a special child. She thought of it every time she tried to think about Ron and about how this was a break, only a break, and not a breakup. She thought about it every time she thought about turning their break into a breakup. She thought about it every time she asked herself why she wanted Severus to kiss her, why she wanted him to want her, and whether she really, truly wanted him.
The speaker of the poem hadn't had Hermione's experiences and vice-versa, and yet Millay perfectly encapsulated the way Hermione was feeling this fall, caught between her dying feelings for Ron and her growing feelings for Severus.
What my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
If full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus, in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
The rain
Is full
Of ghosts
Tonight.
That was the line that caught her.
The rain was full of ghosts, always.
The ghosts of Lupin and Tonks, and George, and Susan and Lavender, and little Colin Creevey who'd never publish that photograph book.
The ghost of Severus Snape, which had haunted her up until he appeared in the ruins not two weeks ago.
And the ghost of Hermione Granger, who died when Harry walked to his death, but was never quite reborn the same way he was.
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.