Chapter 4

"What is dark within me, illumine"


Every night, instead of sleep, Hermione sinks into a world between dreams and reality. It's not her place, and not her mind she wanders through, but she is there and there is nowhere else to go.

Dumbledore's office is looming around her, but something is off. Something is off about Dumbledore too. She stares at the streaks of brown in his beard and the smirk about his lips that dulls out the rest of his face. She thinks she is supposed to see something there. He hums words in the foreign language that she knows is made up of words that are not meant to be heard by her. But the sweet lull of his voice longs to be heard rather than understood, so she hears.

But these wanderings of her mind have only one way out, and as much as she knows there is no other way, she loathes it. She stands perfectly still, stiller than she has ever stood. Her robes weight down on her shoulders but a twist in her guts keeps her from looking at them. They are heavy and cold and clotted and she prays it is mud. Just mud, shimmering faintly on the edges of her sleeves before growing dull and hard. It's just dirt, dried on her hands and encrusted around her nails. But she knows it's not, and the more she knows the heavier her robes become. Dumbledore just keeps talking, until his voice merges with the sound of dripping. She can feel the droplets snaking down her hands and onto the floor. She can taste the metallic scent of it coating her tongue.

There is no light, but everything glows. A gust of wind rolls over them, and brings change with it, which slips into place as smoothly as it does in dreams. The air is thick with the scent of soil and salt. The stone walls are bare and cracked, and through those splintered gaps, thousands of beady eyes are pinned on her. Waves crash around them, marring the silence. She inhales, and her mouth fills with the taste of rust and bile. Her body moves, although she thinks it might not be hers at all, and she bows down, pushed lower and lower by the silence, until her nose almost touches the floor. Her eyes see only black boots, and a pale, faceless reflection in them.

"Yes, my Lord."


Christmas inches closer timidly this year. Its merry spirits are trapped in the glittering ornaments and hearty meals, coming out in small mouthfuls. Only by lunch does the Great Hall reach its usual level of commotion. Hermione sits next to Harry, and they sink away, not unhappily, in the sea of faces and chatter and laughter.

They skip History. She can't bring herself to tell Harry how every part of her screams to return to class. No, Binns won't notice. No, they won't miss out on anything because Ron promised to take notes (which is scarcely a comforting thought to Hermione). And no, they're not being careless. They're being responsible, finally, because it is their duty to save lives. Harry's mind wanders far beyond the walls of Hogwarts, and she wishes she could keep him here a little longer. Because out there they will have to draw their wands, and it will last until Death is content.

The Room is spacy and cold. She shivers, but she thinks heat would come and steal her consciousness away. A thick, warm carpet covers the floor. They stand in the middle, face to face, and she tries to focus. She inhales deeply and for a moment she expects someone else standing before her. In that fluttering moment, Harry's face is too young, and his skin too dark, and his eyes too green.

"Close your eyes."

He closes his eyes.

"And then?"

"And then close your mind."

"How?"

She thought of this. She worked it out through sleepless nights. There's a list at the bottom of her nightstand with hundreds of ways to clear your mind. If only she had it with her, then it could actually have been of use. Her own head feels stuffed with cotton, her thoughts sinking right through it. "Think of a place," she says, "A very quiet place."

He thinks. His face looks oddly calm. She wants to close her eyes too but she's afraid they'll both slip away into themselves.

"Like a garden?"

"Somewhere you will be all alone."

A place to be all alone. It's an odd thing to ask, because lately loneliness has crept behind them into nearly any room, loyal as a shadow.

"Like a lake?"

She thinks of algae and the greenly tinted mirror of water. She sees the reflection of a starry sky and hears the long howl of wind that stirs neither water nor sand. She feels salt-encrusted rocks underneath her skin and hears gulls crying in the distance. The taste of rust and salt coats her tongue.

"Yeah," she says, "Like a lake."

"And then?"

"Stay there."

"And then?"

"Open your eyes."

His eyes are green but his lake is white. Frozen over. There are trees flanking it, tall and greyish and solemn. They sway but there is no wind. A thin coat of snow clings to the earth, and the cold burns through her feet. Harry's lake is patched and marred with lines and cracks. But it's still. Perfectly still.

"Stay here."

She draws forth a figure from the trees, a memory etched into the shadows. Harry's resistance flickers and the silhouette is stretched across the snow. Then a man steps out of the silhouette, swiftly and smoothly as if he were called, and he stand with them because Harry can't push him away. The memory of Dumbledore smiles at them, oblivious to where he is.

"You will find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

The trees bend and mend into walls. All around them, the snow darkens to stone. The water of the lake thaws, and laps at their feet. She feels the chain of a necklace brushing her legs. It's a locket, drifting quietly and shimmering brilliantly. A single 'S' is engraved onto it. Harry reaches for it.

"Stay here." Her voice ripples through the water.

"Lemon drop?" The flickering memory of Dumbledore says, holding out an empty hand. And then he says something about prongs riding and fathers being alive, and the tide embraces him and he walk away peacefully with it. The two of them remain, watching until his head submerges and the lake stills again. Their feet are buried in snow, but it's not so cold anymore. Harry is holding the locket in his hands and says, "I keep seeing this through other eyes." It slithers between his fingers and out of his hands, and before it touches the snow it's gone. The trees shudder, but remain upstanding.

The world tilts and she lets herself fall out of Harry's mind. She isn't quite sure how she ends up on the floor but Harry's there too. They're both awake and they both remain quiet for a while.

Her head feels lighter than it has in days, so pleasantly light. She turns to stare at Harry, who turns his head to stare back. The room is warm and the fluffy carpet even softer than it was before. He sighs, contently, and she cracks a smile. "Not bad, Mr Potter."

He snorts. "Thanks, Professor Granger."

No bed ever felt as inviting as the floor does now. Harry yawns and stretches and she can't suppress a yawn either. He rolls over on his side to look at her. "Nap?" The flames of the room are dark red and slumber catches up with her before she can even answer.

She wakes up abruptly. She is more awake then she can remember being and the sensation is glorious. The walls are bare but then she blinks and the room show her a clock, which tells her she has ten minutes until her private lessons with Professor Snape. Next to her, Harry is snoring peacefully. She nudges him awake and he hides underneath covers that she doesn't remember appearing.

"Get up," she snickers, and hits him over the head with one of the many pillows that have huddled around them.

"You go," he finally says, with a deep sigh. "I'll come later. Promise I won't stay too long."

She would press the matter but her mind is too clear. In her sleep, her thoughts unfurled into plans, and now she has a Potions Master to see. The Room lets her slip out unseen. She only passes one other student, but Malfoy takes no notice of her. She figures that, unless he needs to see Harry, the Room will keep them separated.


At night, winter sneaks stealthily through Hogwarts. The castle moves about her, ushering her down, where the windows grow smaller and smaller, until only candles light the way. The flames move skittishly; the hands of unseen winds haunting them. For a moment she stands still, and catches a whispering. She looks around her many times, but the hallways are so empty she could be all alone in Hogwarts. The thought sends a shiver down her spine. Only the hushed voices are there. She heard them before, and several others have too, but most don't. Some say they're the voices of the past and some say of the future. She never believed in Gods or divination but she believes in magic, and sometimes the line is very, very thin. She keeps still, afraid her breathing might give her away, and that they'll scatter away from her. She leans closer and closer, until her head touches the ice cold stones. The walls whisper into her ear. He's waiting, they say, don't hesitate.

She knocks on the wooden door. The sound startles her, and blows away the whispers of the walls into deafening silence. The door clicks open on its own. Professor Snape's office is, for once, cast in amber. A rare fire is lit, blowing the hot scent of burning wood across the room.

He says something about her state and for the first time she thinks she might mean her answer. "I'm fine." For a moment there is nothing, and she thinks he might say more but he doesn't.

There's the black of his eyes, and she almost leans into it as he dips into her head. She doesn't fight him, embraces his presence and it feels a little too good. A wave of anger enters her through him. Or maybe it's not anger. He snaps out of her, and as he leaves her mind he slams the invisible door behind him so hard it shakes her body.

"If you're not inclined to even try, I must ask you to return to your chambers." His mouth is tight. She stares at it because his eyes are too hard and she can't leave now.

"No," she says, and her mind flutters with everything. All that she wants to explain is suddenly too complex and veiled. She doesn't know how or why but it's there and she that's all she really knows. That's all she needs him to know. That place where one mind merges with another, willingly.

"Excuse me?"

"I can't explain it, but I can show it to you" Her eyes don't leave him, and she can feel the resistance behind his. "Do it again, and, just," She leaves the sentence between them. He glances her up and down and she wonders if he thinks her mad. Not mad, she wants to say, but then she would have to say what else it is and there's no saying it, only feeling.

And then he slips back into her mind, stealthily and softly, although she left the door wide open for him. He darts nimbly through her head, and everywhere he passes, his presence sinks in. Now that she isn't fighting him, she feels it more sharply than ever. Wherever he goes, his shadow remains.

Then he stops, finally, and she takes him to her own, mossy lake. There's a floating feeling, as if she's in between him and herself. He's there too, impossibly close. And she can see how he bleeds, more clearly than ever. His mind bleeds, on her sands and on her rocks and on her muddy, rippling water. His memories ooze out of him, staining her lake until she sees Dumbledore's head emerging from the water again. He is younger now, rough strokes of brown through his beard and crisp blue eyes that dull the rest of his face.

And then the oozing turns into a flooding.

They're standing in the Headmaster's office. He says nothing but there are tears clinging to his cheeks and to his beard. She can understand the words he speaks but they are not meant for her, and she tries with all her might not to hear them.

They're standing in a cave. Where Dumbledore stood now stands a thin man, shaking with excitement or maybe with madness. The air is heavy with salt and his voice is drowned by the crashing of waves. She thinks she will bow to his black boots, but her body is hers and it's not there.

They're standing in a living room, and there are two dead bodies and a Christmas tree on the floor. Ornaments are scattered around them. An old man is on his knees, clinging onto Snape's robes. "Severus, please don't," he pleads. And everything makes perfect sense.

She falls back into her body, so heavily that everything goes black.

She blinks, swaying within herself. Her body lies sprawled on the floor, barely containing her fluttering soul. He is close, she can feel him, although she doesn't know how. For long moments he is scarcely more than a black figure hovering over her. Flames paint the room in amber, and she thinks she might be back in the Room of Requirement.

He kneels beside her and speaks but her head refuses to hear. Or maybe the castle is whispering to her again. His hands cradle her head and the room spins lazy circles around them. Her eyelids fall, but her heartbeat pulses painfully hard in her chest. There's the rim of a cup against her lips, and stickily sweet liquid filling her mouth. His low voice is so near that he must be speaking directly into her head.


She slips from his mind like sand, and like sand her magic is blown across the room. Jars ring and some shatter. He doesn't know how or when he collapsed, but he is on the floor, and in the seconds he can't will his body to move, he can feel her magic thrumming through him like static electricity. She is lying not far from him, body very still and magic running all over the room.

He stands up briskly, and shudders as he waves his hand through the air. The sweep of his own magic cuts through hers and everything becomes very, very quiet. He kneels at her side, catches her brown eyes, lit brightly, too brightly for his dark room. His hands shake as they pluck the small vial from his pocket, and he pours the gooey potion past her lips. Slowly, he tells himself, and breathe. Her eyelids lower, but even behind closed eyes he can feel her piercing gaze, holding him. There is a gaping hole in his mind, and he can feel her presence right through it. He feels very naked and very vulnerable and very afraid. Breathe, he commands himself, but his throat is tight and his mouth dry. Breathe, for fuck's sake.

He thinks of Weepey, and must have said the name out loud because thin air breaks and there he is. Magic hangs heavy in his room, like exhaust. The stupid elf bows its stupid head and Severus snaps at him, although he forgets his words as soon as they're out.

He paces up and down his office, repeating stupid elf in his head long after he forgets the meaning of the words. Even in her absence, his hands tremble, so he crosses them tightly across his chest.

They say Occlumency and Legilimency don't go together in one person. That you can't bunker yourself up and at the same time march out into someone else's territory. His thoughts feel like liquid in his head. They have his mother's voice and he's not sure why. She never told him these things. But she told him other things, like keep your head above the water and don't ever mix alcohol with emotions.

But he's thirty-five, or maybe older, and he will do as he goddamn pleases. He plucks a bottle of whiskey – yes, the regular one – from his shelves. He wants a glass but remembers dropping it, remembers the tremors that sometimes seize his hands, and he wants to stop remembering just for a while. He pours himself a teacup of whiskey that he drinks too fast. He never liked whiskey. Just like his father. That's exactly the reason why he gulps down another mouthful. It's bitter and stinging and the only alcohol that can cloud his mind without stifling him in memories.

But then his mark flares and he thinks a little piece of him shatters but it's just the teacup. His body shakes and he sits down on the floor and rocks himself back and forth. Not tonight, he tells himself, maybe out loud, maybe because he needs someone to say it to him, say anything. The buzz of dark magic rings through his veins. He presses his hands against his eyes. Maybe the whiskey wasn't such a good idea, his mother tells him dryly. Maybe it wasn't, he replies. So he sits there, for god knows how long, bracing his legs and hiding his face and rocking himself back and forth. Like a big child without parents, only he's old and drunk and his arm is aflame with past mistakes.

The office suffocates him and his own rooms no less, so he spends the night wandering through the hallways. Shadows creep after him, from corner to corner. Echoes of whispers run through the castle like mice. He catches their tails. Talk of the sleepless and their dreams. Hogwarts only ever speaks to those who need it hear it, and he thinks that maybe this time he'll admit to needing to hear something, anything, even if it comes from old stones. But the walls laugh and when he presses his ear against them they are nothing more than neatly stacked old stones.

The back door creaks as he pushes it open. Outside, in the crisp and cold night, he can finally breathe again. He closes the door behind him and turns him back to the castle. Stones and ghosts of the past never told him much. But there are other ways to speak with the ancient, earthly magic.

The lake is quiet, pulled low with the absence of the moon. He sits down in the snow, just a few inches from the water. He is shivering, but it's just the cold, and just the cold he can deal with. He thinks of the lake he saw in her mind, but it seems much further away now. A few patches of ice cling to the edges, but otherwise he can hear the gentle roll of the waves. He closes his eyes and the night holds its breath.

Years have passed since he listened to the water. Even more since his mother showed it to him. Her voice carries just above the winds. Let the water have you as you are, Severus. Naked you were born from it and naked it remembers you.

He takes off his shoes. Takes off his robes and everything underneath. The water bites in his toes. He hisses, but stand up and inches forward until it tickles his ankles.

Pain means you're alive. When it stops hurting, you need to step away.

He closes his eyes, and inhales the wet air. Snowflakes dance down leisurely from the skies and he thinks he might welcome the numbness. The lake pulls him in, slowly, little step by little step, until it reaches his stomach. His bluish fingertips graze over the mirror-like surface. The water feels coarse and curly around his fingers. And then, in that fluttering moment between pain and numbness, the water fades into a tickle of magic, which kisses his forehead and trickles into his head. When he opens his eyes, the surface of the lake is a perfectly flat mirror, reflecting the starred sky in hues of green and purple. You don't have to be alone, someone says, a voice between his mother and Lily.

He stumbles out of the water, collapses into a layer of frost that has hardened the snow. He pants and shakes and gropes for his wand. The heat sizzles from his fingertips through his wand and wraps itself around him. The snow turns to droplets, clinging to his trembling skin. He throws his robes over himself and casts heating charm after heating charm.

He has no memory of how he ends up in his bed. The blankets are burning and he sinks away in them. His bed sways gently and he can feel the tide rising slowly outside as he drifts into sleep.


Hermione tries hard not to see the glances Ron throws her way during Herbology. When their eyes cross, she smiles. She doesn't know why, because every time she does his face lights up and her stomach sinks a little lower.

"You look a little queasy, Granger, is it the spinach between his teeth or the fact that he has more dirt on his hands than in his pot?"

She wants to say "a bit of both" but he's Malfoy and she's Granger, so she just shrugs.

"I honestly thought you'd have jumped on him by now," he says, conversationally, "What's wrong, Granger? Not feeling like becoming the next Weasley brood mare?"

There's scarcely a second in between the end of the sentence leaving his mouth and the handful of dirt rushing into it. She doesn't put down her wand, doesn't mind if they know it was her even if it isn't exactly model student behaviour. Malfoy coughs and retches and spits out the dirt. Harry and Ron are at her side in a moment and she only regrets her actions when Ron puts his arm protectively around her.

"I can handle it." She shrugs him off, looking hard at Malfoy so that she doesn't have to see anything else.

Harry glances at her and then at Malfoy, like he wants to say something but he's afraid to do so.

"What, going to set your dogs on me now?" Malfoy manages to sound condescending while chocking.

"You're lucky it was dirt and not-"

"Hermione," Harry shushes her, "You know Professor Sprout gives lower grades to students who misbehave, right?"

She doesn't know when Harry started to care about her top marks or when he had ever discouraged her from giving Malfoy a taste of what she had in store for him, but she lets it slide. "Fine, but if he keeps talking shit he's going to get shit shoved right back up where it came from."

Malfoy smirks. Harry and Ron retreat. Hermione is left with both her hands in dirt and one pissed off heap of Devil's Snare.


I haven't updated in a while, sorry about that! College is happening again, unfortunately. I changed the writing style for this story a little and where I'm going with it too. Is it any good, so far? Do write a review, even if it's a short one. In all honesty, it's one of the most motivating things in the world and it keeps me posting new chapters. I'm all up for chat too, if you want to talk snamione or anything (PM me or something, I got tumblr and skype and all the cool stuff).