"The most terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one's heart—hearts are made to be broken—but that it turns one's heart to stone." - Oscar Wilde, De Profundis
Severus watched from across the room as they attended to Hermione-Ron holding up her sagging form, Molly flapping her hands, Kingsley barking instructions at Poppy Pomfrey, who clearly did not need them and tended to Granger with the same capable efficiency that had marked her entire tenure at Hogwarts. It was Poppy's calm demeanor that reassured him. She met Severus's eyes across the room and he mouthed the word "Cruciatus." Her brisk nod told him that she had understood all she needed to know about what they had endured. She would ask no more questions but would do what needed to be done, as she always had.
Severus rather liked Poppy Pomfrey.
Hermione's dead faint had thrown things into disarray though. All attention of the Order members present was focused first on ensuring that she was safe and then only briefly on what to do next. It was agreed-mainly by Shacklebolt-that keeping their survival secret was, for the time being, paramount in providing a strategic upper hand. Their fledgeling government, it seemed, was beset not only with the difficulties of waging a civil war but with handling many factions and splinter groups within their own ranks.
Severus could think of no immediate reason to protest this plan of action. He was bone-weary, worried for Hermione (although he kept that worry close to his chest), and not in any particular hurry to jump back into the thick of things this time. Perhaps he had finally proved himself enough and they would not grudge him a little rest. He could assist in the search for Draco, look into a potion that might be of use to Minerva and Harry, and get acquainted with his new wand in peace.
What he did not anticipate was what keeping that secret had really meant.
0 0 0
It had been his expectation that they would be ensconced in the castle, tucked into some out of the way tower or dungeon somewhere. Heavens knew there were enough of them to be found. This, he was shortly informed, was too much of a risk. What if some unwary student were to stumble across their hiding places? What if they were unable to resist the temptation to slip out and wander the halls or revisit favorite haunts? While he had no doubt of his own self-discipline, he did have to concede that Hermione was one of a group rather well-known for their tendency to poke into things after being told to stay put.
Instead, they were to be boarded in Hogsmeade-close enough to be conveniently nearby the castle, far enough away to be easily protected from unlucky curiosity.
A number of small new cottages and other outbuildings had cropped up in the village since the war, some very new and thrown together for the sake of housing refugees and laborers, some quite old and only recently un-forgotten. It was into one of these, just on the border of the Forbidden Forest, that Severus found himself installed, with strict instructions to rest, eat, and refrain completely from attempting to leave. The first day had been almost a pleasure; a space of his own, entirely to himself, pleasantly suffused with the residue of magic. The following three weeks, though, passed with little news and less entertainment, and it began to be clear that staying out of the way was a step on a path that, as of yet, led nowhere.
Hermione was under the same restrictions, he was told, but was healthy and well, keeping her spirits up and doing what could be done to regain her lost health. Probably at Weasley's childish insistence, she was housed as far in the opposite direction as she could be while remaining technically within the boundaries of Hogsmeade. Severus found his lip curling to think of it.
But then, was it unreasonable? He had no claim over her. Weasley did. And, with all the brute animalism that a youthful Gryffindor could hope to display, the boy had a sixth sense for any and every creature that might wish to cast a sheep's eye at his best girl. Severus wondered if Weasley could sense what they had done in secret while imprisoned; if he could smell the oily Slytherin spoor hanging about her. Perhaps that was why they were kept so far apart that there was no hope of seeing one another. Perhaps Weasley knew such a separation would eat at Severus in a way that even he himself had not anticipated. For security, their fires were cut off from the Floo network and no owls were allowed. Obviously, they wished to remove Hermione from him completely. And did he deserve any less? Left alone with her, what had he done?
He shook his head as if to chase away his thoughts. With his first taste of true solitude in months and months had returned old and bitter habits that he had not been aware of giving up. For the very first time it occurred to him that being alone was not, perhaps, always in his own best interest. After the inoffensiveness of a pretended life with Hermione and her parents, he was no longer convinced that he preferred isolation.
Or perhaps, his secret voice suggested with a sneer, he simply preferred the company of Muggles who didn't know better than to despise him.
But, her body was not what he missed. It was deeper than that, something more essential. They had been knitted together by their experience and to tear them apart was to pull out a stitch that, loathe though he was to admit it to himself, threatened to unravel him.
January was waxing toward February with a dreary, dripping march of sleet-filled, silent hours.
He was tired, and there was no convincing anyone, this time, of letting him return to any sort of duty before Pomfrey and the rest decided he was entirely up to snuff. He contented himself with reading books and occasionally writing down a few words of a potions text that he had long considered composing. Even that was strictly limited by actual hours of bed rest and an endless onslaught of chocolate and other nourishing, sustaining foods for survivors of torture. He had very little idea what was going on beyond what they had discovered on Boxing Day, as someone or other (possibly Arthur Weasley, although Severus didn't know for sure), had decided to consider that even attending a briefing in the Order's war room might prove too much strain for him until he had fully rested up.
The facts as he knew them for sure were these: a civil war in Wizarding Britain, the ascendancy of both Lucius Malfoy and Kingsley Shacklebolt to competing ministership, the influence of Death Eaters over certainly one but-who could be sure?-possibly both war governments, the disappearance of his godson, and both Harry and Minerva hovering at death's door due to a curse he wasn't even allowed to have a good sniff at yet.
This last frustration was the worst of all. His full expectation had been that they would be at work on their behalf within days, if not hours, and yet weeks had gone by with no information and no opportunity to help. It made no sense. For the umpteenth time, he wondered whether they were concealing some critical fact from him. Had Minerva and Harry already succumbed to the curse? Had Poppy discovered some lingering magic affecting him or Hermione that made them appear to be a risk? Some critical puzzle piece seemed to be missing and, think as he might, he could not divine what it was.
He leaned against the wall of his cottage and, with the tip of his wand, pulled one close-drawn curtain aside from the window. The shadow of the Forbidden Forest hung dark and heavy over what Monica would probably have called his front garden, even though it was nothing more than a fenced-in slick of muddy snow. In the distance, the lights of the castle glowed with warmth in the winter twilight. Somewhere close by, somewhere else in the shadow of the towered and crenulated edifice that had dominated his entire life sat another, similar cottage and perhaps inside it she was also looking out and… thinking.
Severus dropped the curtain with a snort of disgust at his own maudlin sentimentality. Hermione Granger belonged to Ron Weasley more than she had ever, ever belonged to him. They might not have been bred for each other but they had grown up together in a fashion almost engineered to develop intimacy and he-well, he was simply not going to allow himself to fall yet again into the same trap that had already destroyed half his life. With Lily, he had been young, he had been guilt-ridden, and he had been in the throes of a puppy love that shamed him to recall. Now, he was neither. Now he was his own man, with his own ambitions. He did not miss her.
Except for the times that he missed her terribly.
He turned his back to the window and surveyed his domain. A single padded chair drawn quite close to the massive, ancient cookstove that doubled as both hearth and cooker. A pile of cut timber probably sufficient to warm him throughout the rest of the bitter winter, so far one of the worst he could ever remember enduring. A rumpled bed behind a glittering, spangled curtain. A small, rickety table piled with the few, "non-taxing" books he was allowed to peruse.
With a heavy sigh, he returned to the chair, opened the door of the cooker, and prodded the hot embers within until sparks flew up from them. Dwelling on his miseries would do nothing. He stared into the fire instead and, as he had done so often in his former prison, let his mind go comfortably blank while he listened to the tuneless dripping of the world outside.
0 0 0
Hermione Granger, sensible intellectual, did not consider herself the swooning type, and was mortified to discover that she had done it.
She felt sure that it wasn't "the shock," as Molly Weasley tutted, and disliked the idea that it was lingering weakness and exhaustion still left hanging on her by her ordeal. Madame Pomfrey suggested that it might be something to do with the warmth of the castle after the cold walk from the Hog's Head causing a shock to the senses, or a lingering vertigo caused by Floo travel.
In the moments after she woke, a terrible, frantic anxiety had seized her that she might somehow have fallen pregnant by Snape.
Fortunately, Professor McGonagall had done her duty by her young charges in this regard and taught them what to do in such situations. It took nothing more than a trip to the loo and a quickly muttered charm in the privacy of a stall to reassure herself that Floo travel was a more likely culprit than a fetus. The relief that she felt was palpable and yet, in an ever so tiny way, in an almost imperceptible part of herself, she recognized the flavor of regret.
And this was what troubled her, three weeks later as she sat in the cottage where they had insisted on hiding her and listened to the rattle of sleet on her windows. Regret? Regret that in the extremity of imprisonment and torture she had not been, well, made with child by her erstwhile Potions master?
She wrapped her fingers around a mug of hot chocolate that never seemed to be empty, these days, probably thanks to a House Elf or enchantment cast by someone who felt she had got too skinny (Molly again, most likely). What did it mean, that regret? Or rather, what was it that such a child could mean, for her to wish in some small part of herself that it were real? None of the options she considered made her feel any better. She found herself wishing she could talk to Snape about it-not the Professor, but (although even in her private thoughts she did not call him so), her Snape, who would not question or berate her for crying over a pain she couldn't even understand.
Her reverie was interrupted by a loud banging on her door and she jumped, spilling chocolate in her lap. Before she could recover, the door flew open and Ron ducked in, doffing his rain cloak and hat immediately and dropping them on the floor with a sigh of relief.
"Blimey, it's cats and dogs out there," he said without preamble. He opened a generously stuffed tin of biscuits, helped himself to three, and held the rest out to her. "From Mum," he said, through a mouthful of crumbs and jam. "S'delicioush."
The banging and the swinging of the door had momentarily transported her back to that other little room. Her heart thudded sickly in her throat and when she looked down she realized that her hands were shaking so badly she was in danger of spilling the rest of her drink. She found herself unequal to answering Ron and merely shook her head, smiling weakly.
"You've spilled your chocolate," he observed, dropping into the chair opposite hers, one leg draped across its arm, biscuit tin in his lap. He had declared this chair to be "his" some days ago, with an air of ownership that would previously have pleased her and now made her feel just a little uneasy.
"Just a minute," she said, not bothering to keep the exasperation out of her voice as she went into her little bedroom to change. He would insist on letting himself in without asking and he would insist on banging loudly, no matter how many times she had asked him not to.
After two weeks of twice-daily visits she had just stopped asking.
"What are you doing?" he called after her. "It's just chocolate, use your wand."
But she already had her trousers off and was pulling on a fresh pair, warm and soft and not strictly fit for wearing in public. It was really just an excuse to wear something comfortable, she told herself. She hadn't been avoiding magic, really, just-she had learned something of economy with magic during her confinement and hiding. Forced economy, yes, but now-habitual nonetheless. It felt strangely good to do things in what she privately and inaccurately called "the old-fashioned way."
"I'm just changing," she called out. "Give me a second."
"Let us in!" came his jocular reply. "I want to see what color your knickers are."
"Too late." She opened the door, not bothering to pretend that he was funny. "I told you I'd just be a minute," she added as she sat back down.
"Hermione," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "I know things have been hard for you-and I know that is an understatement, although you won't tell me what really happened, so I can't get it all. I have an idea, you know. I was there, when Bellatrix…" he trailed off and watched her carefully for several moments before he continued. "I looked for you, Hermione. Every day. Constantly. I did everything I could. I even asked Trelawney to see if she could come up with some sort of vision about you."
"You'd have been better off using Arithmancy," she said, and felt guilty as soon as she heard how nasty it sounded out loud.
He grinned weakly. "Well, I did actually. I mean, I didn't, but I went to Flitwick and he did. Divination was last-ditch. I tried everything. I tried to find you with the deluminator like I did last year, even, and-nothing."
Hermione sat back down and hugged her legs to herself, watching him talk. In the year since the Battle of Hogwarts he had grown up so much. His face was fuller, his jaw more defined, his body beginning to fill out from a teen boy's and into a grown man's. But his eyes still had that same bewildered softness to them that she remembered from the Hogwarts Express in their first year, as if he couldn't quite understand… well… anything about his own life. Those eyes had made her feel by turns maternal and very young-girlish and self-conscious in different situations. Now they softened her, reminded her that he had thought her as lost as she had thought him.
When she didn't answer, he straightened up in his seat and leaned forward, staring earnestly at her. "I know that when we were carrying the Horcrux you thought that I forgot you and wasn't coming back. I just need to know that you know I didn't. Not that time, and not this time either."
She bit the side of her thumb as he spoke, worrying at a dry cuticle with her teeth. It was a bad habit, one she thought she had left behind in her school days, but one that had somehow returned to plague her again.
"I know," she said faintly, when he was finished talking. "I know you looked."
Ron sighed and leaned back again, letting his head fall limply against the upholstery. He looked disconsolate. "I just wish you would tell me what's wrong. Are you angry with me? Are you in pain? You're different, and I-I can't bear it, 'Mione, I just want you to be happy."
Hermione felt tears spring up in her eyes, hot and unwanted. "I'm not angry," she said quickly, her voice betraying her with its quaver. "And I'm not in pain, I'm just-tired."
Ron didn't seem convinced, and she couldn't blame him. She had hardly said it with conviction.
"I thought," he said slowly and after some minutes, clearly measuring out his words with some care, "that it might be something to do with what happened with Snape."
She didn't say anything-what could she say? She took a sip of her chocolate and waited to see if (and how) he'd finish. Panic seethed in her stomach and her heart began to pound again. Did he know? The guilt of her secret weighed heavily on her and she felt again the betrayal she had committed.
When she stayed silent, he continued. "Only, well, I heard a little of what he told dad about what they did to you in there. To both of you. And you haven't talked about it at all but-Hermione, something is just wrong."
She bit her lip, sagging a little in her relief. He still didn't know, then-unless he was fishing, but that was not his nature. "I'm fine, Ron, I'm just-"
"Tired," he interjected with another sigh. "I know. But you also haven't read a book since you've been back."
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he was right. She hadn't. Nor had she really considered it. In fact, until he mentioned it, she hadn't noticed that she hadn't. "I…" she said, lamely, and then stopped again, unsure of what she could possibly say. How had she not even noticed?
"Unless you've been hiding books away somewhere in here where I can't see them, and I'm fairly sure you haven't," he added.
"No, I haven't," she acknowledged, chewing on her bottom lip. Had she really not read a single thing? Reading hadn't seemed important lately, somehow. There was very little that Hermione desired to know, just at the moment, and what little there was didn't seem likely to be found in books. Not unless someone had recently written a biography of Draco Malfoy including his present whereabouts, or a guide to curse-breaking that went beyond anything Bill Weasley, Madam Pomfrey, or Severus Snape had ever discovered, going by their combined inability to divine how to help Harry or Professor McGonagall. Still, to not even read for pleasure? And not to notice? Something about it struck her as wrong, rang a warning bell in her mind.
"There you have it," said Ron, looking as relieved as if identifying the anomaly in her behavior was the key to solving whatever had caused it.
"I just," she said very carefully and slowly, "well, you know, everyone says I shouldn't excite myself while I'm-"
"Resting," he finished for her. It annoyed her, just a little, the way he had picked up of jumping in before she could get a word out. When had that started to annoy her? "I know," he continued, "but it isn't like you to listen to that sort of thing either, is it? And reading a book is how you rest, Hermione."
She frowned. He had her there. "I know," she admitted at last, casting about for anything to say that would get her out of the surprisingly uncomfortable directness of his concern. "I don't know why, Ron. I just haven't wanted to read, that's all."
"Do you miss him? Snape, I mean, do you miss being with him?"
All in a moment, Hermione felt her face go extremely hot and probably red. She wished that her hair was growing out faster so that she could shake it down in front of her face and hide her expression from him, Snape-like.
Snape-like. Wonderful.
"I don't-I-" she mumbled, more flustered and guilty than ever.
"I mean," he pressed on, obviously uncomfortable himself, "listen, Hermione, he's still as miserable as ever, no matter what you or Harry have to say about it, he's never been exactly a nice guy but he took care of you and you were together a lot. Maybe you should, I don't know, write to him and talk things over. Maybe he'd know how to help you. I could carry a note for you."
It was Gryffindor nobility at its most lovely and it gave her a pang. She knew what it cost Ron to suggest she actively seek out the former Potions Master for help that he surely wished to give her himself.
"Don't be silly," she said, recovering herself enough to sound appropriately prim. She rose and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll just… maybe I could sneak to the library tonight, once the students are asleep. If you think you can get them to let me out," she added.
Ron looked guarded. "I don't think that's a good idea. The going out part," he amended hastily, "but if you make a list I'll go for you and bring you any book you like." He lowered his voice, although they were alone. "It's important to keep you safe, Hermione, until you're well again. Write me a list and I'll bring you every book the world has to offer and when you're rested up, you can go yourself and it will be like old times."
She nodded, feeling her heart sink just a little bit more with every word. "Of course," she heard herself saying. "Let me get some parchment."
After sitting for what felt like very many minutes with a quill in her hand, however, she couldn't think of a single thing she wanted. "I don't know," she said at last, with a sigh. "Why don't you just surprise me?"
0 0 0
So it was that Severus Snape and Hermione Granger each entered into the next stage of their imprisonment-alone, this time, and at the hands of friends. Severus privately found himself wondering whether this wasn't all still part of the same malicious plot somehow as days dragged on with little word and less freedom. He ate and slept and paced his small cottage until he had regained his old, slightly less thin self. He considered writing to Monica and Wendell and then dismissed the idea-what would he say, after all? Nothing seemed to really fit the situation, even if they allowed him an owl, which seemed increasingly doubtful.
Most days passed in near-total solitude. He had never been a man with many friends and of the four people he might have expected to visit him at all, two were in the hospital wing, one was (presumably) also not allowed to freely leave her own confinement, and the last, Arthur Weasley, was busy helping run a wartime government and heaven knew what else.
Not for the first time, Severus found himself wishing that he had bothered to cultivate friends amongst the Order. It had been nearly impossible while Sirius Black and Remus Lupin had dominated. The old enmity there went far deeper than questions of the Dark Lord or the circumstances surrounding Harry's childhood. It was, Severus supposed, probably bone-deep, perhaps some blood feud between the Prince clan and the Blacks, or just the instant dislike of children when faced with the threat of otherness. Regardless of the cause, it brought a poison with it that kept him well on the outside.
Beyond the Order, true friendship with anyone would have been too great of a risk. There was so much at stake, in those days, even before the figure of Lord Voldemort had slouched back to Hogwarts to be reborn. Too much. Even Lucius and Narcissa had been friends only in the most guarded manner.
For most of his life, he had been left with Albus, a problematic friend at his best, if friend he could be called at all-and Minerva, who had been kind to him when nobody else was, and who understood him not at all, and who took him at face value from the very first day they met. Exactly as you would expect from a Gryffindor.
The only person he saw with any regularity, then, was the one he assumed had been appointed to keep guard over him. Even a few years prior if you had told Severus that the person he would most look forward to seeing at his doorstep was Arthur Weasley, he would have graced you with a rare laugh. Still, when it was just the two of them, Severus had found Arthur to be a genial enough friend. He reminded Severus of Hermione's father in a pleasant way. He stopped by every few days for a game of chess and didn't bother foisting unwanted conversation or questions on his prisoner. It was a welcome change from torture, at least.
The wait, though, would sit easier if anyone would give him an endpoint for it.
"When am I to be let out?" he finally said one day as he moved a chessman across the board, leaning back in his seat and steepling his fingers.
Arthur scratched the side of his cheek, contemplating the board. "It's difficult, Severus," he said at last. "Nobody knows you're alive, and Kingsley wants it kept that way, for-"
"Strategic reasons, I imagine," said Severus in a drawl, much more calmly than he felt.
"Yes." Arthur Weasley was a seasoned, if straightforward, chess player but he was not playing his best game.
Severus pressed his advantage, sliding a bishop into place. "Still, surely I could be of use even whilst in hiding," he said smoothly as the bishop's tiny, pointed miter bobbed and nodded along with its high-pitched volley of imprecations against a nearby pawn. "Let me attend to Potter and Minerva, as you suggested in December. Something, Arthur; this endless doing of nothing is growing intolerable."
His opponent raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic outburst. "We rather fancied we were giving you something of a holiday."
Severus clenched his hands. He waited a full minute before he answered. "Holidays are voluntary. This is simply a new prison."
"That's a little harsh." Another chessman moved and the bishop fell to the ground, stabbed through the heart. "Call it recuperation."
"Do you," said Severus quietly, "have fears that we are not to be trusted?"
Arthur looked, not at him, but studiously down at the board, his tongue between his teeth as he waited for Severus to move his next piece. "I do not."
But, from the sound of what he left unsaid, someone else did. Severus guessed it was probably Kingsley. And it was not an unjust fear; but to deal with it by simply putting them away to think about later-well, it was frankly lazy. He waved a hand over the board almost carelessly and sent a knight into the fray.
"Severus," said Arthur, in a tone that he had obviously practiced many times while attempting to manage his wife's more volatile moments, "old habits die hard. I don't believe there is serious suspicion that either you or Hermione are any security risk, of course, but we've taken a lot of hard blows in the past six months. Things are tense, much more difficult than you would imagine. It's hard to make a compelling argument against Malfoy when it means perpetuating a war that everybody would rather see an end to. There just hasn't been time to discuss what to do with both of you."
Severus frowned. "Perhaps if she or I were to return and to testify of Lucius' involvement in our imprisonment-"
"I don't know that anyone would believe it, at this point." Arthur prodded an unwilling rook with the tip of his wand. "The tide of public opinion has turned, Severus. It might even be seen as simply a stunt, there are people out there who would say that you never were captured at all and it was all a big lie on our parts to continue the war. Rita Skeeter-" Severus snorted loudly, but Arthur just blinked mildly at him and continued. "Rita Skeeter and her ilk are solidly on Malfoy's side and in his pockets. Nobody wants to admit the scope of the problem; we're taking blame for the ongoing fighting, for the deaths, for the kidnappings. We have the moral right but we are losing the war of popular opinion."
"Nevertheless," said Severus, finding it more and more difficult to keep the frustration from his voice, "we could be helping. Strategizing. Planning. You have very few Slytherins on your side and it sounds as though you could use one, to say nothing of an expert potions master and an incredibly bright witch, both of whom have substantial time on their hands."
For the first time, Arthur met his eyes. "I know." He sighed. "I may be able to convince Kingsley to allow it, with an escort. Severus, he's-well, strange things happen to men when they know they're in a losing battle."
A losing battle? This was, finally, some real news. "Is it as bad as all that?"
Before answering, Arthur checked his watch, stood up, and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. His voice dropped to an almost-imperceptible whisper. "Harry is at death's door, most of our best fighters were killed, Wizarding Britain is war-weary in the extreme, and we are running swiftly out of resources. I'll do what I can to get Kingsley to risk letting you come into the castle and have a look at Harry and Minerva, but-"
Severus stood as well. "He is not prepared to risk mishandling a delicate situation, and so he chooses to handle it not at all."
His visitor looked pained, but did not deny it. "I worry about Kingsley, Severus. He's under a great deal of strain. More than at any other time during the war to date. It does strange things to a man. I'm sorry, I have to go, but I'll let you know as soon as I can."
After the door closed behind his only visitor, Severus swept the protesting chessmen into their bag, folded up the chessboard, and set it on the shelf. With a wave of his wand, the stool on which Arthur had been sitting returned to being a mere washing-up bowl. Outside, the endless freezing rain dripped a new layer of ice down the window panes. He had never known it to stay so wet and for so long before, even in Hogsmeade.
He suddenly wondered whether Rodolphus and his goons were behind it. Dementors could affect the weather to some degree, but there were other charms and spells as well-subtler ones, and much older ones, many kept as secret heirlooms to be prized and handed down through pure-blood families, enchantments that dated back long before the building of Hogwarts. A gloom had been cast over the whole island, it felt, that settled into the bones with an icy despair. It kept him from opening the door of his cottage, though he knew that it would be easy enough to escape if he really desired it. It kept him from passing the time with the many books that he had picked up and quickly discarded. It kept him from fighting too hard to be let loose.
He had supposed it to be mere ennui. Prolonged exposure to the effects of Cruciatus curse could cause long-term damage at a microscopic level to brain and body and as little as he liked to admit it, the extended, enforced rest he was undergoing was the only reliable treatment. Still, Arthur also seemed to be carrying the same heavy weight of defeat, like a stone on his shoulders. And Shacklebolt's mistrust-well, mistrust of Severus might be excused, but of Hermione? It smacked of something more than fatigue.
It was the first thing in weeks that had stirred him into a genuine curiosity, that had given him an itch that felt it might be worth scratching. Once the idea came to him, the thought that there was an enchantment behind the endless gray dripping from the sky and that the enchantment might be tied up with, or even one and the same as the flat listlessness that trailed him through his days, seemed almost obvious. He could taste the magic of it in the air, although he didn't recognize it for one he had ever known before.
When exhaustion began to creep back into him and he stretched out on his simple cot, he examined the sensation more carefully, looking for a magical signature beyond the slow-healing damage of Cruciatus tickling his mind. There was something there, at the edges, something that licked away at him like flame and was just as intangible and difficult to grasp. He could feel its hardness in himself, once he had the scent of it, could feel it sapping the warmth and the will out of him.
He wondered if it had started in Hogsmeade or in the blackness of their dark prison. And with that thought came, treacherous and unbidden, a memory of Hermione. It was sweet and rich and curled cruelly around his heart.
It was harder than he had ever realized before, the work of being alone.