Chapter 3

This horror will grow mild, this darkness light


"My apologies."

It takes a moment before Hermione registers the words. She blinks feverishly as her memories untangle and the present world begins to take shape around her. The clearest, and nearest, shape is that of her Professor before her, kneeling and reaching out a hand to hold her chin. She stares past him, unable to look him in the eyes. Around them, the many colourful bottles and jars of his office come back into view. Except for her throbbing head, and the twisting sickness in her guts, she is mostly disappointed. In herself, that is.

When she realises her professor has stopped performing Legilimency, and is merely observing her, she lowers her gaze. It has been going good, the past two weeks, or good enough at least. And now she fainted again. How pathetic.

"I should think one hour will suffice for tonight."

"No," she breathes, and shakes her head. The room spins around her as she does, and she closes her eyes for a moment. No headache comes close to the one that she has throughout these lessons. She inhales deeply, mentally preparing herself for another round. "We did three hours last time."

"Last time you were in better shape."

There is no dismay in his voice, merely a sigh that follows. She rubs her eyes until they are stinging. At the very least, his office chair is so uncomfortable and hard that she will most definitely not doze off in it.

"Take this." A cup of tea is pressed into her hands. She breathes in the aroma of chamomile. It is the first time they have done anything else in his office but discuss or practice Occlumency. A wicked thought overcomes her, to ask him – merely as a joke – whether it is laced. But, since she does not possess the strength to laugh, and her potions professor does not possess the humour to appreciate jokes, she sips her tea quietly.

Naturally, it is laced.

She slowly lowers her cup. "No offence, sir, but I can tell this is sweetened with neither sugar nor honey."

"I'm aware," he drawls. It sounds oddly familiar, by now. "You don't think you're here for some tea and a biscuit, do you?"

Oh, yes, of course not. What an abhorrent thought, tea between student and teacher. She licks her lips, which are sticky with its taste. It's not half bad, actually.

"Drink it. Then go to your dorm," he brushes her off, settling down on his side of the desk. He bends over a few scattered assignments and picks up a quill. Without raising his eyes, he adds, "If you are in such a state by next time, don't even bother coming down. Unless you enjoy the mundane physical labour of pulling legs off of dead insects."

She snorts, but quickly recovers herself. God, she really is tired. Taking another long sip from her tea, she gazes over the parchment between them. Her tired eyes require a while before they can decipher some of the content upside down. "Is that an essay on the use of wands in potions?" Her voice sounds soft with sleep even to herself. She does not meet Professor Snape's eyes on purpose, although he is diligently scribbling remarks in the margins.

"I don't doubt your willingness to prove yourself – although to whom and what for remains a mystery – but these extra assignments are only for pupils who need to make up for their laziness, their misbehaviour, or their idiocy." He pauses a moment to draw several sharp lines through an entire paragraph, before silently adding, "Or all of the above." It is almost as though the parchment itself has to pay for its student's flaws, for he writes so briskly and hard that Hermione is surprised it does not tear. He slides it aside and moves to the next in a swift and automatic motion. "I do not think you will have the, ah, privilege, of ever writing this type of essay yourself."

His voice is lulling, so low and smooth. She leans in a little, or perhaps it's just her head starting to drop, heavy with sleep. "I didn't know wands could be used in potions making." She mumbles, half to herself. "No foolish wand waving." She smiles absentmindedly, recalling her Professor's dramatic first-year speech. It almost makes her giddy to think of how peculiar a teacher must be to have his own opening phrases.

"It's an art in itself, but not recommended because of wood-types and cores and what not." He answers, also half talking to himself.

Hermione thinks he might have said more, but it only serves to lull her to sleep. A pleasant, warm fog settles in her head. Her heavy eyelids close, and she sighs contently before sinking away in a dreamless sleep.


Severus glances up briefly from the awful essay underneath him, and remains completely still for a few seconds. Before him, Ms Granger has slumped in her chair, head leaning back and lips slightly parted. She sighs heavily, as though she were in the middle of a deep sleep, and had been lying there innocently for quite some time now.

The nerve.

"Ms Granger," He addresses her sharply, loud even to his own ears. She does not so much as stir. She does, however, smack her lips. He raises up from his chair, already imagining the look of utter embarrassment on her face, and her hasty pardons and retreat. Slamming both of his hands on his desk, he calls her name again.

Ms Granger inhales deeply, and shifts, sliding gradually down the chair. He grits his teeth, and lets out a noise between a groan and a growl.

He should have known she could have done with a lesser dose. Since he is not medically qualified, he lacks both the precise knowledge of dosage, and the permission to lace a student's tea. He has no qualms about this, however. She needed sleep, so he gave it to her; it is as simple as that. In what way he achieves his means, is of far less importance. An opinion which he and Minerva very frequently debate.

For a silent while, he studies Ms Granger's sleeping figure. Being alone with her in his dark and tranquil office, and eying her without her knowledge, draws forth a series of feelings he did not expect. She is entirely defenceless to him, and too far away to realise, or mind. The only sounds are her regular, deep breath and the water of the lake behind his walls. He shakes his head, as though physically discarding these thoughts. In the past two weeks, he has seen memories of her, far more personal than this moment could ever be. Still, he has the distinct feeling that he should not be doing what he is. There is something inappropriate in this, a voice in his head reminds him. A voice that sounds very much like dear McGonagall. However, doing what he shouldn't be doing is second nature to him, if not downright his most gifted talent.

The thud of her body dropping onto the floor rouses him. Honestly, he could tell she was sinking away further and further, but why stop her? Now, awakened from his thoughts, he leans over his desk, but doesn't get his hopes up. Naturally, she is still sound asleep. Deciding it has been enough for one night, he swiftly walks around his desk. She lies crumpled on the floor, and he had been thinking that his extremely uncomfortable chair would do the trick to keep students from dozing off. He would have to invest in an even worse chair now. Ms Granger, however, lies perfectly peaceful on the cold, hard floor. Her hair falls around her face in a dark halo of curls, framing her delicate features. She could be lying in a ditch during the winter, and sleep safely to death.

"Weepey."

With a crack, Severus' personal house elf stands next to him. Out of habit, the creature folds its chipped ears back, grabs them with his bony fingers, and pulls them down even more. Whether it is an inborn trait or not, there is something about Weepey that makes him appear to be pouting constantly. "Sir Professor Snape called Weepey," he says, with a deep bow.

"Take this girl to her bed, and do it without anyone else noticing. Make sure her curtains are drawn." He looks at the girl, blissfully unconscious at his feet. Oh, how he'd enjoy for her to wake up now, and scurry to her feet, bright red and apologising. He has the malicious urge to prod her with his foot and rouse her from her peaceful state, but ignores it. All in due time, pettiness and pestering alike. "She should not wake up as you apparate her. She is in good enough health, do not tell Poppy, or anyone else about this."

"Very well, sir Professor." The elf's voice quivers, for whatever reason. He glances at Ms Granger, carefully picking up her hand as though his nimble fingers might break her skin. Then, suddenly, and highly unexpectedly, he drops her hand. "She is the young Ms Granger!" He squeaks.

"Yes," Severus snaps, impatient with the creature. As useful as Weepey proves himself to be at times, he is also incredibly reactive. "What is wrong?"

Weepey's eyes are brimming with tears now, and Severus is tempted to just walk out of his office. There is no living creature on earth, students and house elves alike, which should cry near him. For Weepey to be assigned as his person elf is either cruel coincidence, or just Dumbledore being Dumbledore. "No, s-sir Profess-ssor," he mumbles softly, "Young Ms Granger is, is wishes to do- do away with elves and- and with W- Weepey,"

After the incoherent sentence, even less distinguishable words follow, frequently interrupted with sobs. Severus waves him off, growing angrier with each stuttering. "She is unconscious. She can't do anything. No one is doing away with you."

The last phrase makes Weepey look up with such gratitude, that Severus has to add a "Shut up now, and do as I told you."


As Severus lies in bed that night, he finds himself wishing it was his turn to patrol the hallways. At least he wouldn't be pointlessly staring at the ceiling for so long. He would call it "practicing Occlumency", if he would fancy lying to himself. What he feels, however, has been entirely familiar to him, long before he as much as heard of Occlumency. He lies on his blankets, the cool dungeons numbing his toes and fingers, whilst the heat of his transpiration is trapped between his back and his bed. He watches the streaks of light play over his ceiling, which steal into his room through the wide window that separates his private quarters from the lake. Sometimes he wishes he could be on the other side of that window. They say drowning is an awful way to go.

The taste of salt. Water burning in his throat. His hair sticking to his forehead. Hands clawing at his ankles, grabbing him. The distinct feeling of a nose, crushed underneath his heels.

Severus shudders, and the hot blankets underneath him press into his back. I'm in my room, he thinks, and repeats the phrase like a mantra to hold on to. His eyes watch the breaking of the light on his ceiling, trying to see it, through the haze of something much darker, which edges forwards from the back of his head.

Every once in a while, a tingling feeling surges forth from his left arm, trailing through his entire body, like invisible fingers tickling his skin. He had forgotten this sensation. Forgotten about the ink etched into his skin, sinking until it merges into his bones and taints him deeper, much deeper, than any injury can. And yet that's what it is. A gaping wound. It stretches him open, allowing a stream of dark magic in. It roams his body, simmers just beneath his skin.

But he has gotten used to it once, and he will now.

He grips his arm, covering the mark, as if he is trying to physically stop the shiver of magic coursing through his veins. His fingers are numb and cold. He can feel the ghost of a hand wrapping around his arm in familiar fashion as his own, but this hand is more calloused, the fingers thicker and stronger. It pulls him.

Smoke in the air and smoke coating his tongue. Wet rags clinging to his body. A ghost in the mirror, dressed in bruises and bones. A deep, low voice, shouting into his ear. Failure. Failure. Failure. A blow so sharp he feels only the dizziness it leaves. His father's nose, his yellowing teeth. The sound of Severus' head hitting the wall, smothered by the wailing of his mother. Not my son. The comfort of the cold floor.

In slow, automated motions, Severus raises himself out of his bed. His numb feet carry him to the unoccupied, dusty corner in his room. The walls are rough, scratching his skin as he presses himself against them and lowers himself. He leans his forehead against the cold walls and closes his eyes. With his knees pressed to his chest, the shaking of his hands lessens, and the burning of his skin softens.

Heavy footfalls on the creaky floorboards. The sharp smell of alcohol burning in his nose.

He snaps his eyes open. I'm in my room. In my private quarters. In Hogwarts. His eyes dart through his room, trying to find those things that remind him. His one-dose vials of sleeping draught and headache relief potions, cluttered on his nightstand. Empty bottles that lay kicked under his bed, which Weepey isn't allowed to clean up. Thrown over his chair is his warmest winter cloak, bottle green with silver fasting, which Lucius gave him for his birthday last year. Nearby, on his desk, lies the locket Dumbledore once gave him once, which glows faintly.

He forces himself to stand up, and reaches for the cloak, which is soft and impeccably clean underneath his fingers. The Malfoys. They insist on celebrating his birthday every year, yet the memories are bleak to him now. It's been a while since last January. They care, he insists to himself, God knows why. But it brings little relief. The locket weighs heavily in the palm of his hand, dark and bronzed in colour, containing, on the inside, an ever changing photo of the face of the person it's wearer needs most. He puts it down, carefully, knowing whom he'll see inside. He can't bear the thought of her now, can't gather the strength to look in her green eyes.

Enough pointless sentiment, he tells himself, although his body feels too numb for it to resound. But his mind is cleared of the hauntings of his past, at least. His thoughts wander to more practical manners. Such as Ms Granger, who appears to have a little issue with sleep herself as of lately. Much like Potter. When will his work with Ms Granger pay of, and be passed on to Potter? Certainly, if her sleep deprivation continues, and Weepey has to apparate her out of his office again, the work will turn out fruitless. On that note, he summons the elf again.

Weepey is euphoric, to say in the least, to be of use twice in the same day. Severus makes a mental note not to call on the elf in the coming week, to temper that down. To the elf's misfortune, all Severus asks of him, is an explanation as to why he thinks Ms Granger would want to "do away" with him, and even more so, why he would think Ms Granger to be allowed to do so.

Throughout hearing the story of Ms Granger's "house-elf-freeing" attempt, including the self-knitted hats, he sits down comfortably on his bed and shakes his head slowly. Ms Granger, brilliant witch with the highest marks of her year, handing in papers trice the required size, comes up with something as ridiculous as knitting hats for elves. He doesn't know whether to groan or laugh. At last, his mind settles on a mere silly girl.

"And Ms Granger attempted S.P.E.W," Weepey says, an expression of horror crossing his face. His nails rake over his ears, which he is holding down again. Although his cheeks are wet, Severus can tell the elf is not merely upset, but getting all wired up about retelling the incident.

"S.P.E.W?" Severus drawls, smirking, "Tell me more."


She is standing in Professor Snape's office. He talks to her, but she cannot make sense of his words. He grows angrier, and she grows more desperate, unable to make out anything intelligible from his words. The walls of the room morph into those of her living room- no, a living room. Her parents are there, putting ornaments onto the Christmas tree, but then they stop, and gape at the two figures who have just appeared in their living room. Professor Snape grabs hold of her arm, nails digging into her skin, and stares at her with an unreadable expression. She is aware that she is crying, but does not know why. Her parents are talking in rapid whispers to each other, and cower back slowly. She reaches out for them, and tries to reassure them that nothing is wrong. Upon hearing her voice, they begin shaking, and fall to their knees, pleading incoherently. The words out of their mouth sound foreign, but begging, and they are crying, and hurting. She pulls her hair frantically, and then a green light flashes through the living room, much too long, and the Christmas tree swings and falls down with a loud crash, ornaments scattering across the floor. She turns to Snape, who has his wand out, and wears a perfectly calm expression. She grabs his robes and shakes him, crying out to him, but then he pushes her off, and holds his wand mere inches from her face. Instinctively, she reaches for her own wand, and as she points it at him, a green light flashes once again. She cries out, and before her, Snape falls onto the floor. Yet he is not dead, merely shaking, crawling towards her, and for the first time she can understand what he is saying.

"Severus, please don't," he begs Hermione.

And in that moment, it makes perfect sense. But it doesn't last, as she suddenly starts awake, sitting upright in her bed. She is gasping for air, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Hermione?" Parvati pulls her curtains back slowly. "Are you alright?"

She stares at Parvati in bewilderment. For a fleeting moment, she is confused at being called Hermione, but it passes before she can mind it.

"Why are you still wearing your uniform?"

Running her hands over her tie, Hermione realises she is indeed wearing her uniform, and she has no idea why. Her shirt is sticking to her sweaty back, and her cloak is twisted around her. She pulls it off with trembling hands, accepting Parvati's help. Cold air embraces her, and she inhales deeply. "Must've been tired," she breathes.

"You've been having nightmares, lately." Parvati sits down at her bedside, eying her closely. Hermione wishes she would leave, as she can't possibly explain her dreams, which dissolve into forgetfulness within minutes of her waking up. "What's been going on?"

"Just stressed."

Had it been Ron or Harry by her side, they would have been more or less satisfied with such an answer. It makes her sad, to know she could push them away so easily. Then again, maybe she would even have trusted them with the contents of her nightmares. Parvati, however, is not as easily appeased, and frown in a way that reminds Hermione of her father. The thought of her parents causes a new wave of nausea.

"You don't have to tell me," Parvati finally says, although her tone indicates slight offence, which Hermione feels very sharply. Before she can apologize, Parvati glances around to make sure no one is visibly eavesdropping, and leans in. Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. "You keep saying the same things in your sleep."

A shiver runs down Hermione's back. Her nightmares, as clear and sensible as they may be in her subconsciousness, detoriate rapidly from the moment she rouses from them. Her hand reaches absentmindedly for her lips, which taste sweet, for some reason. "What do I say?"

Parvati stares at her intensely for a moment, and the deep, slow breaths around them seem to grow quieter as she does. She mouths, "I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please. Stop."

Hermione shudders. Her head grows light at words, yet she knows not how they entered her mind, or what they mean.

"It's always some of those. You're always begging, crying out, or even screaming," Parvati continues. "I sleep so light that I put a silencing charm over your bed the first time it happened, but then I saw your curtains rustling and, well, I took a peek."

Parvati blushes lightly at her own intrusion, though the intense look of her eyes tells Hermione that she feels her actions were the right ones. It feels very alien to hear her talk, because she knows they're talking about her but Hermione keeps thinking it's someone else. She doesn't beg or scream in her sleep, she never did more that talk nonsense, as Ginny points out every morning over summer. "What did you see?"

"You were," Parvati glances down, searching for the right word, "writhing."

"Writhing?"

"I thought you were ill at first, or at least in terrible pain."

Hermione swallows. Her fingertips feel hot, as though she dragged them over the surface of her sheets, and some of her muscles are trembling still.

"I can tell that you have no more clue to this than I do," Parvati concludes, "but you should really talk with someone. Your friends, or Madam Pomfrey."

All Hermione can manage is a feeble smile. Another time, she will express her gratitude for Parvati's patience and help. But now, she could use a little solitude. Her curtains close again, and Hermione listens to the rustle of Parvati getting back into her own bed. She throws off her sheets, and stares blankly at her shoes.

The mystery of how she got in bed without undressing first is suddenly much less weird. And yet, much more doable to think about. Unwilling to fret over a nightmare until dawn, she forces herself to recall the previous evening. There is frighteningly little she remembers. The Occlumency lesson was going dreadful, to the point where she fainted. Then there was that overly sweet tea, yes, he said she should go back to her dorm room and sleep. Had it clouded her mind so badly that she can't even remember leaving and making her way to her dorm? It was possible, she thinks, still staring at the shoes she definitely forgot to take off.


Breakfast passes in a daze, and she wonders whether it is because of the potion she had taken, or because she did end up fretting over the nightmare until dawn. It is not her fault, that she sleeps so ill. Ever since the Occlumency lessons started, the nightmares have been keeping her awake at odd hours. Yet they fade from her memory too quickly each time. In the moment after her waking, she wishes only that they disappear forever. Though afterwards, hunched over her morning coffee, she tries hard to remember anything of it.

Harry and she make for a fun pair at the breakfast table. Both pale and restless and hardly approachable. The common factor at blame is Occlumency. She dreads telling Professor Snape about this, since her lessons have been going reasonably well, and she can sometimes succeed to push him out pretty decently. She can't stop now. Glancing at Harry from the corner of her eyes, she decides that it's with him that she should first talk.

The two of them skulk behind as they make their way to the greenhouses. Whispering just below the sound of the general hubbub, they agree to meet up in the library later that day.

Entering the greenhouse, she takes place next to Ron, whom she notices is rather pale, and bouncing almost excitedly from his heels to his toes. Whilst Professor Sprout addresses her pupils, she whispers to him whether he is okay. His response is a weird noise, and a forcedly broad smile, that she supposes is meant to come across as affirmative. She merely nods in response, her mind too tired and unwilling to bother. While Professor Sprout explains the Herbology project, her mind is having a hard time keeping up. The mornings after Occlumency lessons are a close second on her list of "worst things about learning Occlumency", right after the headaches. It feels as though her head has been abused, and needs a few days of rest before it can resume proper functionality. A few days is all she has in between her lessons, though. It does not help that, behind her, Ron keeps shifting, and clearing his throat, and sniffing his nose.

"And finally," Professor Sprout finishes her summary, "I will team you all up in pairs of two."

Many students, including Hermione, perk up at this. Some groan out loud or ask whether they can't choose their own partner, but she shakes her head with a firm smile. "No, no, I've seen the same faces paired up for years. Don't be cross with me now, this is not a sleepover but an assignment."

And so, after ten minutes of students crying out in disappointment, Hermione ends up in a team with Malfoy. The latter approaches her with the usual air of haughtiness, and she automatically raises her chin too.

"Malfoy."

"Granger."

Before either of them can say anything, and perhaps luckily so, Professor Sprout produces a bag of folded papers. "Each of you will pull one of these, so every team will end up having to take care of two plants."

Hermione's hand shoots in the air. "What do we do if both of us pull the same plant?"

She smiles at her, as though she had been expecting Hermione to ask this, and was proud to see she was right. "The papers are blank now, the plant you should take care of will reveal itself as you open it. As a team however, you are both responsible for your plants."

And so it happens. Malfoy unfolds his first. After rereading it a few times, he turns to her. "What did you get?"

She turns to him and blinks sleepily. If there's one positive thing about having your mind clouded over, it is that it's hard working yourself up over someone. "Devil's Snare."

"How peculiar," is all he answers. He puts his paper down on the table, and she knows that he expects her to pick it up. Or ask him. It reminds her a little of Professor Snape, and his endless expectations. Typical Gryffindor this and silly girl that. Over time, she mastered a handful of tactics to communicate with the Potions Master, which so far yielded better results. Silence, for one, is key. If Malfoy is anything like Professor Snape, perhaps she should not bend to his expectations either.

"Not going to ask what I have?" Malfoy suddenly says, cocking his head slightly.

She almost smiles, but catches herself. Who's predictable now? She keeps her voice level as she answers, trying to imagine what she would do if it were Professor Snape she was talking to. Only, of course, with Malfoy, she allowed herself more freedom. She did punch him in the face, once, and such little moments of glory never lose their imprint – at least not on a social level. It takes her mind a long time to put together words into a coherent sentence, however, and Malfoy interprets her silence as her answer.

"Dittany."

No, she thinks then, she will never understand the Slytherin language. How did blatant silence and disinterest get the answers out of him? She is learning a new form of communication altogether.

So she got Devil's Snare, and Malfoy got Dittany. Peculiar plants, indeed. Should she think anything of receiving such a dangerous plant? Though, if Malfoy got a healing plant, she doubts she should attach much meaning to it.


"You what?"

Ms Pince is dragging Harry and Hermione out of the library before they can say more. Maybe wandering around the Hogwarts grounds is a better idea anyway. They won't be surrounded by others, Harry is allowed to yell, and the fresh, chilly air definitely does a better job of keeping them awake.

"I have been having Occlumency lessons," she repeats, this time leaving Professor Snape's name out.

"You're mental," Harry says, sounding too much like Ron. "Absolutely mental."

She frowns. "You're the one who suggested it."

He straightens up then, as though the mere mention of that incident is an offence. "I didn't mean it," he defends himself. "I would never think you would actually go to Snape-"

"Professor Snape," she corrects him, automatically.

"Go to him, and ask for it." They stare at each other for a moment, standing still. She doesn't look at him, but stares at Hagrid's hut, which is visible in the distance. Harry shakes his head slowly. "And I certainly never ever would believe that Sn- that he, would agree."

She shrugs, and they continue walking. "Either way," she tries to continue casually, "I think I could very soon start teaching you."

Harry parts his lips for a moment but then just sighs. Hopefully, he is resigning himself to the idea. She scarcely believes he is jealous of her success, as Harry can hardly be persuaded to accept private lessons from their Potions Master, yet he's certainly not happy about it either. He just shakes his head again, and runs his hand through his hair. "Is it going that good?"

"It's okay enough, I guess." She gestures vaguely, thinking of the tiresome long nights she spends in the dark office. The thought of going back within a few days isn't exactly pleasant. There are other thoughts on her mind, however. More pressing matters. "Harry, were your nightmares after Occlumency lessons different from before?"

He shakes his head, and her shoulders slump a little. "Not different, no. They were worse, but I know it's just Voldemort trying to get in- I feel it. Otherwise it's just memories."

Harry's memories, of course, made for perfect nightmare-material of their own. Hermione didn't have visions of Voldemort. The nightmares she had weren't memories as much as they were fragments of it, clotted together and distorted.

Harry snorts, looking for a moment as lost in thought as she did. "The headaches are terrible, huh?" They share a look, and finally smile. It feels like it's been ages. It's not a happy smile, but there's understanding and care, and that's all they need. "The worst really is having Snape in your head. I hated it so much. He would peer into all my memories, and it felt so tainted. He would dig all the way through Cedric's death and to the dreams of Voldemort and, it's just,"

Harry stares off in the distance, and the gentle expression is wiped off of his face. Hermione doesn't answer. She realises though, that Occlumency with Professor Snape is a vastly different thing for the both of them. The memories he brings up in her are mundane, at least compared to the heaviness of death and loss that surrounds Harry's.

She clasps his hand in hers, squeezing him briefly. "We're going to be fine."


Did anyone notice the chapters keep getting ridiculously much longer with each chapter? :')

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