Hermione hesitated at the door.
She thought of the night before—she had never thought she'd see her former teacher so lost. The Baklava had been baked, and the honey sauce made and poured over it, in complete silence. Twice she'd tried to instigate a conversation, but had been met with stony silence and bleak black eyes that begged for peace. He hadn't acknowledged her last words as she left, warning him she would return in the morning to prepare the bodies for burial; he only hung his head in resignation of the events to come.
Hermione didn't know in what state she would find the man this morning—did he drink himself to sleep? Stay awake all night watching over the bodies of Lena and Melissa? —but the interment was scheduled for two, and despite the ungodly early hour, there was much that needed to be done.
After knocking three times with no response, Hermione decided to brave the possibility of potentially dangerous wards on the home and tried a simple Alohamora—the door unlocked quietly and easily. Just as quietly, she made her way through the house. Traditionally, it should have been the role of a female family member—or lacking that, a close female friend—to prepare the bodies for burial. In this case, there was neither.
Hermione would see to the task herself.
It was fortunate the preservation spells used on Helena and Melissa did not prevent her from touching the bodies—only decomposition. Hermione wondered what drove a man, particularly a man like Severus Snape, to keep the bodies of his wife and child under stasis for six long years. Was it grief, guilt, remorse? Or ambivalence, as he appeared to want her to believe… recalling the look on his face last night, she didn't think it was ambivalence. No one could look so shattered and yet be unmoved by death.
She entered the darkened study. Once her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could make out the sleeping form between the two resting bodies, his dark head resting on the table next to Helena's torso as, even in sleep, he held the hand of his child. Hermione could just make out the dark shadows under his eyes—he did not rest easily, and Hermione wondered what he dreamed of or what horror he was reliving as he kept vigil with his family.
Hating what she had to do, Hermione moved gingerly across the room and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. At the barest touch, he startled awake.
"How did you get in here? What are you doing here at this hour?" he demanded.
"I came through the front door—I'm here to prepare the bodies, as I told you last night." Hermione replied in what she hoped was a reassuring tone.
"About that—I have decided there is no need. There will be no burial today. Lena and Bee are fine where they are."
"What?"
"Don't worry, Ms. Granger, I will pay you for your time and services. But I am not burying my wife and child—not today, not ever. They shall remain here at home, and I will see to them on weekends and breaks. Nothing needs to change."
"Why have you suddenly decided on this course of action?"
"It's not sudden. I have tended them for six years, and I will continue to do so. You may go."
"No." Hermione said, firmly. "I am not leaving, and you are not keeping your dead wife and child under stasis in your study for the rest of your life. I understand why you did through the war, and even these years since its end, but iit's time to let go. "/i
"What do you know about letting go?" he spat. "Have you? Have you let go of your parents, your friends, people iyou/i love? Oh yes, you've made a profession out of forcing others to let go by taking their families away and imprisoning them in the ground to rot while the living continue on, but have you?"
He was shouting now, standing between Hermione and his wife and child as though trying to protect them from her.
Shocked at his raw grief, Hermione took a step back. "This is not about me. This is about them, about you. You are moving on with your career by becoming Headmaster—how do you expect to ever move on with your life if you can't allow your wife and child to rest in peace?"
She drew a shuddering breath and continued, "You have already indicated that you will no longer have the time to return here every four to six weeks as you have in the past—do you know what will happen if the stasis begins to fail? Your wife and child will rot." Hermione hated herself for having to do this, but he gave her no choice. "Because of the length of time they've been in stasis, the decomposition will happen rapidly—in a matter of hours they will fully decompose. Is that what you want to come home to? Wouldn't it be better to give them peace? Don't they deserve peace?"
His horror was evident, as was the grief he was fighting to hold in check. "Have it your way," he mumbled as he fled the room.
Once out of sight, Severus ran to the other side of the house. His chest constricted with pain over the images Ms. Granger had painted. Stumbling into his room, he fell to his knees as he reached the bedside and let his grief overcome him. As his body shuddered with suppressed emotion, he remembered: the first time he had met Helena, in a second-hand bookstore, her laughter on their first date, the day she had said yes to his proposal of marriage, the day—against all odds—she told him she was pregnant... the first time he had placed Melissa's tiny body in his too-large hands, laughing about the wisdom of giving her the shape of his eyes—not his nose. She was his life, his soul, his sanity, and his sanctuary. When everything else was wrong, there was Lena: she had held him the night he had had to murder his friend and mentor—she had held him while he wept and thought he wanted to die himself.
And then she was gone. They were both gone.
He crawled onto the bed, his body too tired to do anything but draw shuddering breath after shuddering breath as he stared at the ceiling, lost in his memories.
That was how Hermione found him, after she had prepared Helena and Melissa for what was to come. Tentatively, she sat on the side of the bed and took his hand. Blindly he turned toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist, still weeping. Unsure of what to do, she rubbed his back in soothing circles, as she had for Harry's daughter during Ginny's memorial.
"I can't do this; I can't put them in the ground. I can't do this alone."
"Sshhh… you're not alone—I will be with you. I promise."
He looked up at her.i "Promise?/i Promise me."
"I ipromise/i. Now you need to dress yourself. We must leave soon."
With one last shuddering breath, Severus released her from his grip, rolling away to face the other direction. "What must you think of me now?"
Hermione chose not to answer, instead quietly stating, "It's nearly time to meet the priest at the cemetery. I need you to pull yourself together and meet me in the front hall in fifteen minutes." She then left him to dress and gather his strength.
As Hermione approached a wide window, she looked up at the sky as rain poured down… as though the gods were reflecting the mood of the grieving man in the other room.
Severus had made it to the front hall on time, had calmly sat in the hearse as she drove to the cemetery, had shaken the hand of the priest who had said the appropriate words... and he had yet to speak himself. Not a sound passed his lips as they had lowered first one and then the other coffin into the ground—unmoving, barely breathing, watching as the earth slowly filled the grave.
The priest was gone. The grounds crew had gone. The canopy over the gravesite was gone.
"Sir..." No response.
"Professor Snape?" Hermione touched his arm, and still, there was no reaction.
"Severus? We need to go." She grasped his arm to gently lead him away.
"No, I'm not leaving. I can't do this. I can't leave them here alone." He spoke so softly, she strained to hear him. "We made plans. I was supposed to be the one to die. I was supposed to die in the war—not Lena, not Bee. iI/i was supposed to die." Severus fell to his knees, clawing at the fresh, wet soil. "iI /iwas the one that was supposed to go! I was iready/i to go first."
"Severus, stop!" Hermione kneeled beside him, wrapping her arms around his to stop him from digging.
"Let me go!"
"No!" In desperation, she closed her eyes and pictured the sitting room of Snape's house. Never before had she concentrated so hard,i destination, determination, deliberation./i She felt the pull on her magic and the slight nausea that accompanied dual apparition, then opened her eyes and released his arms.
He slumped over where he had landed.
"Come, let's get off the floor and out of these wet clothes."
He didn't stir.
Finally, through tugging, pulling, and shouting, Hermione managed to get him to his room. More arguing got his sodden jacket and muddy boots off, before she guided him to lie down on the bed. He never uttered a single word. She pulled a quilt over him, and still he stared into space not blinking… barely breathing.