Chapter 1: Lux in Tenebris
Soft snores permeated the dormitory of the fourth year girls, but only issued from two of the beds. Their heavy burgundy curtains were drawn so as to allow the occupants, who slept only with the sheets, to feel some of the light breeze coming in from the open window on this warm June evening. The third set, however, were pulled firmly shut around the final bed and were reinforced by a silencing charm. Atop the blankets and curled around a large, ginger cat, a girl with ample amounts of bushy brown hair quietly wept.
The cat had fallen asleep an hour ago, and so ceased with its concerned licks on the cheek. Instead, the constant purring and steady rise and fall of the cat's fur in which her fingers carded provided some comfort until the tear tracks on her face finally dried, and her vision–once hazy and plagued by images of things she'd rather forget–came into focus once more.
The girl blinked, eyes scanning the golden lettering of the books at her bedside which she had yet to pack. Her gaze followed the curve of the wall, past her empty bulletin board, through to the next bed where Lavender Brown's snores choked on a hiccup. Hermione Granger, for that was the brunette's name, tensed. Lavender took another short breath, twisted further into the bedclothes, let out a sigh, then settled into quiet, rhythmic breathing.
Hermione counted to sixty, then slowly uncurled in her own bed to stare up at the ceiling.
Hours ago, the leaving feast saw many a pale face as Professor Dumbledore gave a speech eulogizing Cedric Diggory. Hermione had been one of many who had had silent tears coursing down her face. Having cried off and on for–she checked her wristwatch–five hours was exhausting. Still, she found her mind wandering over the scene of the feast. Professor Sprout, understandably, had wiped repeatedly under her eyes. Hagrid, armed with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth, had blown his nose with boatlike honks. Professor McGonagall had looked stricken, the sharp corners of her face pulling her skin even tighter to the edges.
And Professor Dumbledore, standing at the center of the high table, had borne an expression on his face that frightened Hermione more than anything else. It was the expression of a man who didn't know whether he dared to hope.
This is ridiculous, Hermione scolded herself. What good is it to go over all this again?
With a final swipe at her eyes, she got up and slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Crookshanks too much. Packing already largely taken care of, Hermione tiptoed to the bathroom, intent on her second go-to stressful activity: cleaning. She brushed her teeth twice, washing her face between both scrubs, then examined her reflection in the mirror. Though the tear tracks were gone, her eyes, still slightly red, looked back at her a little too wary.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she grumbled at herself, then switched on the taps of the shower.
Twenty minutes later, scrubbed raw and half suffocating on the steam filling the room, Hermione padded to the mirror again. She wiped off the condensation and almost immediately jumped with a small cry as a voice rang out:
"Turn the water down next time, dear. You're as red as a lobster!"
"Charming," Hermione retorted with a roll of her eyes. "And yet, how easy it might be to undo your charms."
She raised a hand to wand stuck through her hair significantly. Rita Skeeter still sat in a jar on her bedside table. She wasn't worried about an inanimate object.
"You're positively glowing!" the mirror offered brightly.
"Hmmph."
Hermione did remove the wand this time, but only to set it on the counter. As her fingers combed through her curls, she mused.
What is the world coming to? she asked herself, and then immediately scoffed. Well, that much is clear. War.
Her fingers paused their ministrations, and she caught her gaze in the mirror again.
But war wasn't coming, it was already here. It had already claimed the blood of her best friend, the life of a fellow student, and–if she remembered Harry's story–the lives of a ministry witch and old muggle man. It was tearing apart lives already. Cho Chang's tears, Mr. Diggory's wail…
Her reflection stared back at her, eyes too wide and teeth digging into her lower lip. Only when she tasted blood did she release it. Her heart pounded in her chest, warmth filled her face, and she braced her arms on the counter with a muffled cry.
"Breathe," she urged herself. "Come on, just breathe."
Shakily, she inhaled to a count of three, held her breath, then exhaled for three. She repeated the rhythm until the tightness in her lungs dissipated.
If Dumbledore looked worried, what hope do the rest of us have? she wondered.
Staring at the porcelain as she haunches over the counter, her brain whirred.
All of Dumbledore's worry, all of his effort, and he still hadn't realized the cause of Voldemort's return was a man in disguise right under his nose the whole year.
"He didn't even know," she muttered to herself. "How did he not know?"
How did none of them know? How did none of them suspect? What irony to be fooled by an imposter inhabiting the body of the man who so frequently barked warnings of "Constant vigilance!" at them all.
What else doesn't he know?
The thought crept, unbidden and almost sly, into her mind. How were they supposed to win a war when their leader had missed something so big?
"Think," she whispered to herself, as she felt unease twisting in her stomach again. "How can you change it? How can we get more information?"
She began to pace the bathroom, the cold tiles underfoot providing a shocking clarity to her mind.
"Someone with connections. Someone on the inside…"
Hermione halted on the next turn around and almost slapped herself on the forehead.
"Of course!"
Hastily donning her pajamas, she hurried quietly out of the room and down the stairs. The fireplace emitted the barest glow, but the common room was otherwise lifeless. Slipping out of the portrait hole, she immediately turned right and ducked her head before the Fat Lady could swing shut again to get quite a good look at her. Several minutes later, by some miracle not encountering Peeves or Filch, she found herself at the door to the potions classroom.
Only once there did she realize her mistakes.
First, she was freezing. She hadn't pulled on a dressing gown, let alone socks. Second, Professor Snape was hardly likely to be in his own classroom right now. His office, perhaps, but surely he wouldn't hear her knocking through one door, across an entire lab, and through a second door. Third, she was in the middle of Slytherin territory in the middle of the night. No–she checked her watch again–half two in the morning.
Heaving a heavy sigh as the last of the adrenaline in her system slowed and the coldness of the stones truly began to make itself known, she turned to go.
"This is what you get for being a rash Gryffindor, Granger," she muttered under her breath.
Wrapping her arms around her ribcage to stave off goosebumps, she began her trek down the hall. But she didn't get very far when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She stopped immediately.
Who would be out at a time like this?
The footsteps got closer, and the sound of labored breathing joined the steps until they stopped altogether. There was a heavy thudding sound, as if someone had just dropped something, but the ragged panting continued. Withdrawing her wand from her hair, where she'd tucked it again, Hermione lit it with a whisper and took a cautious step forward.
"Hello?" she called quietly.
The breathing paused for a moment, then continued. But no reply was made.
"Who's there?" she whispered, taking another step.
In a few more steps, the circular glow from her wand fell upon two legs, one sticking straight out and the other bent at the knee. Her eyes followed the line of the bent leg upward and the light rose as she lifted her wand. Heavy dark robes solid as a black wall, a blindingly white hand splayed open, and eventually a strong chin, hooked nose, and finally two impossibly dark eyes.
Hermione felt her eyebrows rise.
"Professor Snape?"
"Miss…" Professor Snape squinted up at her and she cast her wand arm to the side. "Granger?"
Hermione nodded. Snape coughed and the hand pressed into his side strained.
"What," he said when the coughing subsided. "Are you doing out of bed at…"
He trailed off.
"Two thirty in the morning," Hermione supplied, then started at his glare. "Sir."
"Two thirty in the morning," Snape ground out. He raised an eyebrow when she didn't respond.
"Looking for you, sir."
Instead of curiosity, which she expected, Snape only sneered at her.
"I wasn't born yesterday, girl. Do you really expect me to believe that? Much more likely that you're taking advantage of the last evening of term to get into a spot of trouble. Now," he said, eyes scanning the hallway. "Where are Potter and Weasley?"
"In bed I expect," Hermione said, cocking her head to the side. "I'm telling the truth, Professor."
"Right." Snape's voice dripped with sarcasm. "And I suppose you were just too eager to come find me that you didn't look at the clock, didn't grab a robe, and didn't remember where to find my office door?"
Hermione shivered violently at the mention of a robe.
"That's about the sum of it, sir," she admitted, feeling warmth in her cheeks.
Snape's face twisted and he opened his mouth, but the scolding she anticipated didn't come, for in another moment, he hissed long and low and looked down. Hermione followed his movement to watch his hand press into his ribs once more.
"Sir, you're hurt."
"Funny enough, that hadn't escaped my notice," Snape bit out.
Hermione took a step toward him and his head snapped up. His eyes were wide and dark, like a wild animal preparing to attack or make a run for it.
"You should go see Madame Pomfrey," she said, taking another step.
Snape growled. "I'm fine."
"You look it," Hermione said, and then clapped her free hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, sir," she said quickly before his scowl could deepen any further. "That was completely out of line."
Snape said nothing for a moment, just glared up at her through his curtain of hair.
"Ten…points…"
"Rightly so," Hermione agreed.
They stared at each other until Hermione began to shift her weight to her other hip. Snape's
gaze, intense as it was, didn't seem to be fully focused on her. After several moments, she sighed. She extended her hand.
"You can't stay out here all night," she said quietly.
Snape blinked back into focus, eyed her hand for one very long moment, then exhaled slowly out of flared nostrils. Then, impossibly slowly, he raised his free hand to hers. It slipped, cool and slightly clammy, into her own. She allowed herself a moment to register the way his long fingers reached all the way to the pulse point on her wrist, then she took a breath and heaved.
His legs must have helped launch him upward, because he wasn't as heavy as she had expected. As he rose, something clattered onto the floor, and they both looked at the ground. Something silver and concave rocked on the ground.
"Don't–" Snape began, but Hermione had already muttered the Summoning charm, and the object zoomed up into her hand.
It was a twisted piece of metal with curves and divots. Hermione frowned curiously at it for a moment, then turned it around until the image finally made sense. It was a mask. A mask with a nose wide enough to cover Snape's own, but otherwise generic in its features.
"What–" she began.
"Not here," Snape hissed in her ear, and the weight of him against her shoulder felt heavy this time as he threw his free shoulder around her arm and easily plucked the mask out of her hand. He jerked his head forward and they began walking, Hermione's wand hand now free to cast the light ahead of them.
They shuffled down the corridor, their footsteps striking an odd rhythm against the stones. She slowed as they approached the classroom door, but he pulled her on.
"This way."
The words were a mere breath of warm air above her head, and she regained her grip around his waist as they continued down the hall.
I am holding Professor Snape's waist.
The thought rose in her mind just as unexpected as her doubts in Dumbledore. Had she not been supporting him, she would have stopped dead still. But her feet continued, and heat filled her face. Of course, then there was little else she could do but focus on the fact. The muscles in his torso rippled as they moved. She thought she might be closer to his hip, as her pinky pressed into a sharp edge each time he took a step with his left foot.
So focused was she on mentally hypothesizing about anatomy, that it took Snape pressing heavily down on her shoulder to get her to stop. She angled her head up at him, a question parting her lips, but at the sound, he looked down.
His face was close. A sheen of cool sweat covered his pale skin. His thin mouth pressed into a slanted line. His nose, true, was distinctive, but didn't seem so when his eyes–not squinted in suspicion or glaring in anger–were blinking at her.
And they were gray, she noticed with a start. Not black, but very dark gray, and glowing bronze in the torchlight.
"Fluxweed," he murmured.
Hermione blinked and turned away. The stone in front of them shimmered, and the faint outline of a door appeared. Above her ear, Snape cleared his throat and flexed his right hand, causing the mask to glint out of the corner of her eye.
"You'll have to open the door, Miss Granger."
Even leaning heavily on her and breathing slow, shallow breaths, he still managed to inject his lazy drawl with asperity.
"Oh, right."
She reached forward, grasped the handle which, for all its appearance, looked like a brick wall but felt like a comfortably smooth doorknob, and turned it. They swept inside quickly. Before she knew it, the door quietly snapped shut and they stood staring at it.
Hermione looked up at Snape again, but next moment, he pulled himself away and slouched across the room. With a whispered spell, a fireplace on her right burst into flame. Hermione blinked and her eyes adjusted.
They were in a sitting room. Directly in front of and perpendicular to her ran a navy blue sofa. A low coffee table separated it from the fireplace, whose green veined marble glimmered in the light of the flames. An armchair was squeezed into the space between the table and the opposite wall where a window–charmed, she expected–provided a view of the Forbidden Forrest. She gasped as her eyes fell upon a wall full of bookshelves on her left.
"Don't get any ideas."
Her head snapped away at the sound of the gruff voice. Snape had paused at a door next to the fireplace and was fixing her with a stern look.
"Sit. And don't touch anything."
In the next second, he disappeared through the door. Hermione looked at it for a moment after it snapped shut, then stepped hesitatingly toward the sofa. She sank into the nearest corner of it and stared into the flames.
What am I doing here?
Her plan, thoroughly and uncharacteristically not thought out, had never in a hundred years included being let into Professor Snape's sitting room. She twisted her neck to scan the titles behind her.
But if I am here…
A snort startled her and she turned around to find Snape reentering the room.
"You know just how to toe the line, don't you, Miss Granger?" Snape sneered, stopping at a low bar cart and pouring a generous measure of amber liquid into a glass.
Hermione raised her shoulders. "Years of practice, sir?"
Snape swallowed his drink in one gulp, stared hard at her, then sloshed another measure of liquid into his glass. He crossed the room without saying anything. Hermione noticed that his movements, while still carefully slow, were not as hobbled as before. He took a smaller sip from his glass this time, then settled himself in the armchair. He narrowed his eyes at her.
"Why are you here?"
Hermione went still and swallowed thickly. What had seemed a good idea far upstairs in her dormitory now seemed like the height of foolishness when facing the man she had sought out. Despite the heat of the fire, goosebumps sprang up on her arms.
Snape's lips pressed together thinly, then parted, but Hermione spoke before the, no doubt, harsher voice could fall upon her.
"You knew."
Snape's mouth twisted and he took another drink before responding.
"What are you blathering about?"
Courage, Granger.
"You knew he was coming back," she said. She nodded towards his left arm. "That told you."
Snape scowled and slammed his drink onto the table before he stood over her like a marble pillar.
"You impertinent–"
"How can you do it, sir?" Hermione interrupted. The address may have softened him, or the question may have thrown him, because he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back a little.
"Do what?"
"How can you go back to him?"
Snape's brows rose in an expression of shock, and he looked as if he were about to castigate her again, but…
"Because I must."
It was said so simply, as if it were a fact of nature. Like gravity.
"He's a monster," Hermione said, tears now gathering at the corners of her eyes. She didn't need Harry to tell her about the graveyard to know that only a truly terrible person could have ordered the death of an innocent, could have started an uprising based upon blood elitism, could have made an entire population cower in fear, terrified even to pronounce his name.
Snape's eyes panned over her face.
"Yes."
"He hurt you."
Hermione's eyes fell from his face to examine his chest, as if she could see through the layers of black and assure herself that his ribs weren't broken or his flesh wasn't torn open if she only concentrated enough. Snape cleared his throat and her eyes snapped back to his. He shifted on his feet, then seated himself again. He brought his elbows to his knees, then hunched forward, chin on his fists.
"Yes."
"And he would kill you if he found out you were spying."
"Yes," he repeated again, simply.
She shuddered as if an ice cube slid down her spine. "Why do you do it?"
"That," Snape said, warning in his voice. "Is none of your business."
Hermione immediately bowed her head, looking down at the hands in her lap. Silence filled the space between them until the very air felt heavy.
"Is that why you've come here?" he asked finally, and his voice was quiet. "To question my motivations?"
"Yes. No." Hermione sighed and put her face into her hands. "I don't know. I just–After everything that's happened…and everything that hasn't happened…"
"Speak sense, girl," Snape snapped. "As you so astutely pointed out, I've been injured, and therefore have little patience for talking in circles."
Hermione heard a gulp, then jumped slightly at the sound of glass thudding on wood. She lifted her head from her hands, but settled her chin on her fingers, mimicking his posture. Then she burst forth with her worries, putting words to all the concerns that had flown around her head in her dormitory.
"And Dumbledore's supposed to be the only one he ever feared, but how can we defeat him if we can't even recognize someone like Moody–" She shook her head quickly. "Crouch, I mean…"
Snape had listened to her tirade without interrupting and sat examining her with slightly narrowed eyes until this point.
"That is why I must do what is asked of me," he said, all emotion erased from his voice and expression.
"And…what if…?" Hermione let the question hang in the air, too nervous to voice it properly.
Snape blinked and his face hardened subtly.
"Then I will have done my duty."
Something hot stirred in Hermione's stomach and she grasped her knees with a claw-like grip.
"And it would have been a waste!" she burst out, leaping to her feet.
He matched her stance, and she repressed the urge to take a step backwards. Snape's eyebrows once again flew towards his hairline, then settled down into a glare.
"A waste to do everything to provide valuable information–" he began, taking a step forward.
"A waste," she interrupted, tilting her chin up. "To throw you into danger and get you killed!"
His mouth snapped shut at that.
"How can Dumbledore ask–" she began.
"Dumbledore asks," he ground out, taking another step. "Because it is necessary. I gather information because it is necessary."
As he took another step forward, she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. His voice lowered to something soft and dangerous.
"Why," he said slowly, and his voice fell over her head like smooth, thick treacle. "Do you care? What do you find faulty in Dumbledore's strategy? Why does the great Hermione Granger think–"
"I'm not great," Hermione whispered, unsuccessfully fighting back a shudder.
Snape's dark eyes bore into hers and she watched them skip over her face, as if shrewdly seeking out evidence of her lie.
"I'm…" she breathed. "I'm terrified."
Her admission hung in the air between them. His eyes were dark, close, painfully inquisitive.
For Harry. For the world. For me. For…
Snape blinked and his lips parted, as if with a question, and then he raised a hand to her face. Something hot and wet slid down her cheek, but then his thumb–cool against the heat in her face–swept across her cheek. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Snape sprang backwards.
"Here," he said, thrusting something into her hand and retreating to his chair.
She looked down even as her fingers curled around the handkerchief in her hand. Turning her face away, she pressed the corner of the cloth to her eyes, cheeks flaming.
"I think it's time you returned to your room."
His voice was again smooth and emotionless. Hermione nodded.
"Yes, sir," she said, and turned to the door.
"Not that way, foolish girl," he snapped, and Hermione turned back, eyes wide.
Snape stood by the fireplace, arms crossed stiffly across his chest. With a soft "Oh" of understanding, Hermione approached the fire. If it were possible, Snape seemed to hold himself more rigidly as she neared. She looked from him to the fire and back again.
"Thank you," she said.
He scowled. "For what?"
"For…" Spying? Listening to me? Not throwing me out the minute you got to your room? She swallowed. "Everything."
He raised an eyebrow faintly, then shook his head when she offered the handkerchief back.
"Keep it."
She smiled faintly, then stuffed it into her pocket. As if to hasten her departure, he seized a pinch of floo powder from the mantle and tossed it into the fire. Hermione made to step forward, then cast another look at him.
"You'll be careful," she said. "Won't you, sir?"
He said nothing for a moment, then his shoulders lost some of their rigidity.
"I will do what I am asked."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest that it was too much what he was being asked by Dumbledore, and then realized what she had just done. She closed her mouth and gave him a weak smile.
"Now," he cleared his throat and nodded toward the flames. "You do what you are asked."
Her smile widened.
"Yes, sir." She turned and said clearly, "Gryffindor Tower."
The flames flickered and sparked green. She stepped in, and in a moment she was whisked away.