Darkness Falls

When we met first and loved, I did not build
Upon the event with marble. Could it mean
To last, a love set pendulous between
Sorrow and sorrow?

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from "Sonnets from the Portuguese" (XXXVI)

***

Morning.

The morning after the morning after.

Hermione stretched her limbs languidly and basked in the sunlight that streamed through the leaded glass windows, the aches and pains that had so riddled her just a day earlier vanished with the new dawn. And a measure of medi-potions and a few good healing charms, she thought wryly as she pulled herself upright and surveyed her chambers. Twenty-first century Muggle medicine had made some truly incredible advances but, now that she was once more ensconced in the Wizarding world, she wondered how she had managed for ten years without utilizing the training she'd received from Poppy Pomfrey and the other mediwitches and wizards that belonged to the Order.

A laugh strangled in her throat at the thought. She'd been more optimistic ten years ago when she had no plans beyond the immediate one that would return her to the Muggle world. Was her newfound criticism the result of her husband or had it been there all along, buried beneath her carefully crafted outward persona? Not that it mattered, not now anyway, she sighed inwardly as she allowed her eyes to drift. Severus had made it quite, quite clear that any future attempts to escape would be treated the same as infidelity.

And while she might not know quite why she was still living, she did know that she had no wish to die.

"Mistress Snape! You is home!"

A small smile quirked her lips as she listened to the enthusiastic babbling of the house-elf, Meggy, who was now moving back and forth through the room at a speed that boggled the mind. Robes and dresses were pulled out of the tall armoire at the same time that brushes and combs found their way to the top of the vanity table, and Hermione was sure that, if she tried, she would hear the sound of water filling the bathing pool in the next room. She shook her head at Meggy's babbles and sought instead the warm water that awaited her, sinking into the soft lightly scented bath a mere moment later.

This was a slice of heaven on earth, she thought as she settled into the seat carved into the side of the granite pool; even the whirlpool tub in her London bathroom couldn't even begin to compare. Nothing could, really. This was simply one of the benefits that came from being born of magic, one of the few bright lights in an otherwise dark world.

And I would know, she sighed in sorrow.

An hour later Hermione had abandoned her watery contemplation on the state of the Wizarding world to stand in front of the long oval mirror — which had been charmed silent by Severus years ago — and contemplate her appearance. It was strange. She had spent better than half of her life in Muggle clothes but the robes and gowns she had donned once again felt more natural than anything else she'd ever worn. Both were made of a blend of linen and silk that was light enough to be comfortable in the spring sun, but still just heavy enough to protect her from the cool drafts in the manor that even the best warming charms could not prevent. However, unlike the ones Severus had summoned the other night these were made differently, although Meggy had been forced to alter them to account for ten years worth of growth. The dress was very similar to the one which she had worn to her handfasting, she realized belatedly, only this incarnation was a rich shade of darkest green with sleeveless robes, much like those McGonagall wore, in a lighter shade of the same color. But this time the embroidery on the dress was ivory and a brilliant emerald hung from a silver chain looped around her neck. The result was simple yet elegant, a delicate mixture that suited her as much today as it had years ago.

All in all she was the very image of an innocent (chastised) and submissive (penitent) young wife.

"Much better."

Hermione averted her eyes from the mirror to meet those of her husband who sat in a nearby chair, his hands steepled as he studied her intently. The years had been more than kind, he finally decided after a moment's perusal. Her sherry-colored eyes were as intent and focused as they had ever been, and while she had grown no taller her figure was perhaps a touch more curvaceous, two pregnancies notwithstanding, and the chestnut curls that were now mostly hidden within the confines of her French hood were perhaps a shade darker. At this he chuckled; even as a student her feelings about the traditional pointed hats had been ambivalent at best, and once married she had exchanged them for the nearest available alternatives. Only when circumstances dictated would she don the taller hats, and even then her choice was the henin and veil as opposed to the typical black witch's hat. It appeared that in this, too, nothing had changed.

"I appear to be dressed in Slytherin colors. Your idea, I presume?"

He tilted his head in affirmation. "Indeed. I did inform Meggy to be subtle, however, which would account for the darker hue and the lack of silver trim."

Hermione had to refrain from openly boggling at her husband's remark. After so many years away she had obviously forgotten that Severus was, despite his attire during her school days, quite conscientious about dress and sumptuary laws. It felt strange to remember that she had known (and still knew) this and yet be as stunned as she had thirteen years ago upon first learning about his dress savvy.

"Of course," she replied sarcastically. "How thoughtless of me."

Black eyes studied her for a moment. "Lord Voldemort will arrive within the hour," he began, his voice deceptively soft and deadly. "While he will accept my word that you have seen the error of your ways he wishes to see you as well, most likely to assure himself as to your ... penitence. That you are wearing Slytherin colors will not escape his notice. It is not so much a gesture of one trying to curry favor as it is an acknowledgment of both his lineage and the Law under which you will again reside. In essence, Hermione, you will once more be pledging fealty to House Slytherin and its Law.

“Besides," he finished, "Minerva is the only one who can wear red and gold in his presence and fear no repercussions. And while this sort of audience calls for heraldic attire its privacy allows for a slight twisting of the rules."

Of course, she thought snidely. Twisting the rules to make the ends justify the means is perfectly acceptable but breaking the rules out of necessity is not. Typical Slytherin. "I see."

"Do you?"

His question caught her off guard. "Yes," she answered truthfully. "I do understand what you're doing and why. I just don't happen to agree. Much the same as last time, I'm afraid."

"And this time?"

He watched her as she took a deep breath and, as she exhaled her emotion, he could see the anger and hurt and lingering despair that filled her eyes; the shadows that she couldn't will away and specter of hurts past that a decade had not healed. Silly, foolish ... brilliant Hermione. His cherished love. Did she not know that she would only heal by living? Hiding away in the Muggle world had been dangerous and foolhardy and pointless — what had she accomplished? Had she dealt with her pain or simply buried it beneath the monotony of daily existence?

"Has anything changed?"

Severus caught her eyes with his own and held them while he responded. "You know the answer to that, Hermione."

"Yes, I do," she whispered. "My reasons for leaving are just as valid today as they were ten years ago."

"And what would you have us do?" His voice was still quiet but he had risen from the chair to pace the floor behind her as she stared out the window. "You were there when the decision was made, my love, and you made no objections — "

She whirled from the window to face him, the color in her face rising with her anger. "I didn't know you were killing the families!"

"I shall repeat, what would you have us do?" he asked, looming over her as she crowded back against the side of the bank of windows. "Take the children and leave the parents frantic? Three hundred years ago that would have worked, but the Muggles have become too observant, too apt to notice that certain babies and young children regularly vanish without so much as a trace. Obliviating the parents is not an option because too many people know about the pregnancies and births. Few in the government recall that we exist, for which favor much thanks, but there are those who are beyond our reach and who could make the connection given the appropriate circumstances."

"And if the routine deaths of various families isn't 'appropriate circumstances' then — "

She broke off with a cry and winced as his hands gripped her upper arms hard enough to bruise, his sable eyes boring into hers with a ferocity she hadn't seen since the war. Anger, love, hate, and desire all swirled in those fathomless depths and she found herself drowning in pools of darkness as his harsh whisper filled her ears.

“We are careful," he murmured, his lips sliding over her temple. "We arrange the accidents or whatever else is needed to disguise the quick and painless deaths we give them. The rise in senseless attacks between the Muggles themselves only serves to aid our cause. They are simply one more unfortunate family fallen victim to all-to-common acts of violence."

Hermione trembled in his arms as his words crashed over her like waves breaking on a stormy coast. How could he say that so easily? How could he DO those things? How could her husband ... how could he after what they had lost ...

"Oh, Hermione," he sighed as he gathered her trembling form into his arms. "I know what it is you believe, what you feel, but do you not realize that they would be forced to bear the same unnatural loss as we if they lived? Better for them to never feel this ache. Better for them to die."

Better for them to die.

"Better for them to die."

She looked up from her patient to stare in shocked disbelief at the man before her. Tired and drawn as much from the war effort as from his own pain, Severus Snape showed little remorse for his words and even less for their effect on the young woman at whom they were directed. Her eyes darted between him and her patient, the senior prefect from Gryffindor who had taken ill the previous afternoon and had been deteriorating ever since.

"How ... how can you even think such a thing?"

"And why not?" he responded archly. "You are expending your energies on him when they would be better suited tending to those injured in battle. We know this Plague now, Miss Granger. If he is going to die he will die, and there is nothing you or I can do to stop that."

Hermione looked away lest he see the anger she knew was apparent on her face and in her eyes. "Maybe so, Professor, but it's my energy to expend, isn't it? And if I can ease his passing ... so much the better."

Because she was looking away she did not see the violent twitch he gave at her words, or the way his mouth tightened with displeasure and his eyes narrowly appraised her. Scant moments later he turned and stalked off towards Poppy Pomfrey and the mediwizards who had abandoned St. Mungo's for Hogwarts upon the death of Albus Dumbledore a year earlier. She turned back to her patient with a sigh, once more wringing out a cloth with which to bathe his fevered head before trying to administer another analgesic potion; it wouldn't do anything for the fever that was slowly but surely obliterating his internal organs, but it might alleviate some of the worst of the pain. If he was still conscious, she realized, despair crossing her features. It wouldn't be long now.

When Snape crossed back through the ward two hours later he stopped only with the intention of relieving her of her post and sending her to get some much needed rest. He had not only realized that she would wear herself out caring for these poor unfortunates but, short of invoking Belonging, there was little he could do to stop her. Pomfrey, however, could and would. What he found when he drew back the curtain, however, was not what he had expected.

He found not a dying patient and a frustrated yet still determined friend and healer, but a witch holding a vigil, looking so much at that moment like a priestess of old that the chills that crawled up his back actually made him shiver. She sat as still as stone before the boy — no, young man — she had wrapped in his shroud, a white witchfire in her hands as she chanted. The voice that emerged was soft but clear, the sound of one unafraid to mourn, but he stilled as he listened to the litany that fell unknowing from her lips.

"Go home now, to the mother of winter," she sang sadly. "Go home now, to your springtime home. Go home now, to the mother of summer. Go home now, to your autumn h-home," her voice caught on the last syllable but she plowed onward and, as she did, he heard other voices join hers in the final refrain. "Sleep, oh sleep now. Sleep, oh sleep. Sleep against her sacred breast. Sleep, oh sleep. Sleep this night, let her give you rest."

Medieval death chant from Ireland, a little voice in his mind supplied as the impromptu choir of voices died away and she set the witchfire into a charmed glass to keep until it would be used to light his pyre. He wondered where she learned it. From a book? From one of her housemates? From him?

She answered his unasked question as if she had heard it spoken aloud. "We sang it for Seamus a few d-days ago ... h-he said that if anything happened ... "

"Come, girl," he said softly as he steadied her before she could fall. "You need to rest and the others ... will do their best. But you must rest."

Her reply was toneless. "Yes, Professor."

"I'm not your Professor," he told her, watching as the shock of his words roused her from her stupor. "I'm no one's professor, nor have I been in nearly a year. Why do you think no one has mentioned classes and books, much less OWLS and NEWTS? Look around. We're all too busy to teach the younger students, Miss Granger, so that particular obligation has fallen to those of your classmates who are still among the living but unneeded on the field of battle."

A frown flitted across her face at his words. She knew this already. In fact, before she had joined the healers working in the Hospital Wing, she had been the one to organize the impromptu classes and find teachers from among those of the Sixth Form who had remained at (or been forced to return to) Hogwarts. It was a way to keep everyone busy, especially those who had lost family members or close friends, to keep people from panicking needlessly or becoming a burden in their grief. So why would he ...

Mahogany eyes filled with tears as the impact of what happened finally sank in, and he pulled her into the relative privacy of the linen storeroom as the trembling gave way to fully-fledged sobs, her chest heaving with the force of her grief. Rather than allow her to collapse he pulled her close, his arms sliding around her middle as he held her through the worst of her grief.

"Cry, Hermione," he murmured into her hair. "Just cry for now."

That her given name had fallen so easily from the lips of the cruelest teacher in the school would have surprised her had she not been so lost in her grief. He tightened his hold on her soft pliable body as she began to mumble, pain for her plight mingling with a sense of satisfaction.

"Ron," she cried jaggedly, her voice growing thick and low with a surfeit of emotion. "Oh, Ron, Ron, why, why, why ... "

"Better?" she hissed as her eyes refocused, the pain of days past mingling with the anger and helplessness that had been stewing for ten long years. "Quick and painless? Then what was the other night, husband? Tell me, why torture the Peploes, why did you — ?"

Her words were cut off when his mouth covered hers in a savage kiss, their tongues and teeth battling for supremacy as the dark passion that burned within them both rose from below. Like a slumbering fire whose flames were fanned nearly out-of-control, he drove their fully clothed bodies together as he continued his assault on her mouth, the need to dominate warring with the almost instinctual desire to fall at her feet in worship. And beneath it all, the desire to claim and consume one another.

"Hermione, enough," he groaned, panting as he broke the kiss and drew back to face her. "We cannot pursue ... pursue this any further until ... "

"Please ... what have you ... please ... " she whimpered, clawing at him in an attempt to divest him of his clothes.

He remained perfectly still as the fog of passion began to clear and she regained her bearings, watching as she lectured herself about submitting without a fight before he pulled away and stalked across the room to the brandy decanter. Two glasses later he turned back to her, smirking as he watched her fuss with the headdress that was sent askew by the force of their passion. "Why, you asked me," he snorted and she jerked her head around to find his eyes boring holes into her. "Peploe was the name of her Muggle husband."

Hermione felt a frisson of shock at his words. "How — "

"Do not interrupt me, wife," he hissed. "You wanted to know. She was a Hufflepuff about three years your senior who gave birth out of wedlock, so the child carried her name when it was recorded by the Enrollment Quill. They both survived the Plague but she somehow found a way into the Muggle world where she married her child's father and both took his name, hence we were unable to discern their whereabouts."

As he spoke his voice cooled and became more even, the soft modulated tones no less frightening than his rage had been. "When Amelia Peploe's name went down on the roster we were understandably confused and the records were searched to see if we had somehow missed her. Or perhaps she had been born abroad or to parents who only recently immigrated to Britain. What we found ... what we found was a woman who had spent years in the Muggle world and who was poised to flee to the States with her child once this term was complete."

"If she had left ... " Hermione trailed off, the true horror of the situation dawning.

"Yes, you begin to see," he remarked. "You, my recalcitrant wife, had enough sense to stay in Britain."

"I," she swallowed. "I knew what could happen if I left. So I didn't. Leave, I mean."

Her husband raised an eyebrow at her sudden inability to form coherent sentences. "Do stop babbling, Hermione."

She flushed in angry embarrassment, but said nothing.

His lips quirked and then his expression flattened. "She was contacted, of course. Every incentive was offered. We even agreed to allow her to bring the Muggle along, provided she and her child returned to our world as quickly as possible, lest she continue to contaminate unsuspecting foreigners who ignored the warnings. Once she declined our offers she was told that we would not — could not — allow her to leave the country. I do not believe that she gave our warnings any heed. Stupid woman. Arrangements were made to keep Amelia at Hogwarts during the holidays and a family was located as well ... "

Hermione felt her eyes water and she bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling as her anger was suddenly and abruptly overcome by something else entirely. The poor little girl; she left her home never knowing that it would be the last time she would see her parents. A rush of empathy brought forth a torrent of old grief, of leaving her parents at King's Cross at the start of sixth year only to discover their deaths seven months later not from Minerva or even the man she eventually married, but from the front page of the Daily Prophet. Anger remained, oh yes, but her heart broke for Daniel's young friend.

"As to the torture," he shrugged. "I care little for such things but I was ... outvoted. Lucius' little gang of hellions were conscripted because Voldemort wanted an example made, nothing more. I agreed to supervise the outing in order to minimize contact with others. Imagine my surprise."

She nodded her head in acknowledgement of the irony. Their perverse but necessary attempt to prevent the spread of the Plague and conceal the truth, the very thing that had hastened her departure a decade earlier, had been the very vehicle through which she was returned to her husband. "Severus, what of Amelia? And ... I know she had a brother, once ... "

"Why the boy died is unknown," he responded as he took her by the arm and led her out the door of their chambers and down the long hall to the central stairs. "The girl has been settled with the Fawcetts, however, and is being told only that her family was tragically killed in an accident. Lucius contrived to make it appear that she was home during the attack. The Muggle authorities seem satisfied."

After a few moments of silent progress during which she wrestled her volatile emotions into a semblance of order, they came to a stop at the head of the stairs.

"Lord Voldemort awaits you in the library, my Hermione," he whispered against her mouth. "I will be down later."

***

When he finally joined her in the library the last vestige of light was fading from the spring sky, the shadows lengthening and stretching their spindly fingers across the landscape as the stars began to shimmer in the ever-darkening firmament. She had changed, he noted, arraying herself in robes of verdant velvet and a heavy high-necked gown in cloth of gold in anticipation of the dinner they were hosting that evening. That she was well and apparently unharmed after her audience with the Dark Lord allowed him to relax his concern a fraction, but his worry had by no means abated. Just after he had emerged from the laboratory the house-elves had informed him that while Lord Voldemort departed hours earlier, he would return in time for the sumptuous meal. So he had hastened his steps and gone in search of his wife. He had not thought that she would return to the library, an oversight he regretted, and had sought her elsewhere, becoming agitated and worried when she failed to appear in each new location. Thus it was with a great relief that he crossed the room to the long window where his wife stood gazing at the gardens as the day gave way to night, the daylilies closing in on themselves even as the nocturnal blooms began to unfurl their petals in the cooler air. Only the roses seemed unchanged, the sturdy and fragrant blossoms planted by some long dead ancestress somehow unpretentious even as they consumed nearly half of the available space. They weathered the flux and turn of the sun and moon with a certain grace that the others did not in much the same manner as Hermione ... or as she once did. He was anxious and concerned for his wife in the aftermath of her encounter, but resolved that she would overcome any lingering uncertainties and take her place at his side with all the pleasure and determination as before.

"It went well," she spoke suddenly, interrupting his slight reverie and anticipating his question.

"And?"

She raised one shoulder in a shrug. "He was ... satisfied that I have seen the foolishness of my actions. Happy that I have returned ... "

"It does my dark heart good to see you, my dear," came the hissing voice as his hands pulled her from where she knelt at his feet. The black robes that came into view were austere, ornamented only by the silver runes that fluttered just above the bottom hem and a silver clasp in the shape of a serpent. She raised her eyes to his, schooling herself not to react to the papery thin white flesh that stretched across his features or the crimson orbs that seemed to pierce her very soul.

"You are too kind, my lord," she murmured, accepting the seat he indicated.

"I think not," he returned, tilting her face upward to study her visage. "My trust in Severus is absolute in this matter, Hermione. He may have strayed from me in the past — and perhaps rightfully so, at that. His dedication to the Law of Slytherin, however, has never been and is not now in dispute. He has assured me that you were punished accordingly. Is this true?"

"Yes, my lord," she whispered, shame and anger vying for dominance as she remembered the pain and humiliation that Severus had visited on her less than forty-eight hours past.

He studied her for a moment, taking in the way she averted her eyes and the way she had colored at the mention of punishment. So, that was the way it was ...

"Yes, I do believe you were."

Hermione closed her eyes, mortified that he had read her so easily and deduced the cause. Why, oh why had he been so happy to hurt her? And why couldn't she maintain her anger over that mistreatment, valid as it had been under the Law?

Voldemort chuckled, a strange raspy sound that was somehow worse than anything she had heard during the war. "Open your eyes, girl," he commanded. "Open your eyes and tell me why you were punished."

"I ... I abandoned my husband," she said softly, her chest tightening as she forced herself to say the words that she knew she must. "I also abandoned my responsibilities to him and our House and, by Slytherin's Law, he had every right to exact justice for the wrong done him."

"And now?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I now comprehend the gravity of my transgression, the danger to which I exposed myself, my husband, and countless others. Never again will I even contemplate such action. I Belong to my husband, Severus Snape, and I beseech you, my lord Voldemort, as the Heir of Slytherin, to forgive me as he has done."

Hermione shuddered as she felt him loop a stray curl around his finger but a smile split Voldemort's thin lips as he replied, "You are forgiven, good-daughter of my house. Rise and we shall forget this transgression."

Head bowed, she murmured her thanks.

He chuckled again and she repressed a shudder. "Yes, I am pleased to see you once more at your husband's side, Hermione. He has missed you terribly. The pain is not all yours, as I am sure you have since learned, but I am certain that the hole left by Marius will soon be filled, yes?"

She nodded.

"Good," he replied. "I'm sure Severus will be pleased."

Hermione absently bit her lip. "My lord," she ventured. "May I ask a question?"

He tilted his head in affirmation. "You may."

"What will happen to Amelia Peploe?"

"Amelia Fawcett," he stressed the difference ever so slightly. "The girl is being settled with her new family who will no doubt help her cope with her grief. A pity she's too old to Obliviate, even more disheartening that she wasn't found sooner. Why do you ask?"

"My neighbor, my former neighbor," she amended quickly, "had a son that was a friend of Amelia's. I know that I cannot tell him anything to set his mind at ease, but I would like to know ... if only for his sake."

Voldemort raised what passed for his eyebrows. "You are acquainted with the boy?"

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. The boy? Did they ... why would they have him? "My lord? Do you refer to Daniel Thornton?"

"Of course," he sounded surprised. "I assumed Severus would have told you. The Enrollment Quill took down his name when he displayed his first instance of talent, mere hours after your return, likely due to trauma, according to the mediwizard who administered a calming potion after he was collected. Minerva assures me that Muggleborns occasionally slip through our searches because their talent does not manifest until they are older — "

"Has he been placed?"

Voldemort frowned at the interruption. "Not as yet. We had no indication of his presence before the other night so arrangements have yet to be made. The Fawcetts cannot take him, however — "

"My lord," she cried, rising from her seat only to fall to her knees before him. "My lord, forgive me for interrupting ... but please, if he has not been placed, please send him to me. I know him, my lord, and surely he would adjust better if he was in the care of a friend."

Crimson eyes studied the woman before him. Unlike her earlier demeanor when she spoke the appropriate words with a regretful honesty, this time she was truly beseeching, all but prostrating herself at his feet. What was this boy to her? Or was it simply —

"This boy is not Marius, my dear."

"I know that," she acknowledged. "But he is now a motherless child and I ... "

"You are a childless mother," he finished. "But likely not for long."

Hermione nodded. "That is true, my lord."

"And?"

"Daniel will still require a home," she whispered. "A family. And I want to be his family."

The Dark Lord was silent while he considered the woman before him. It might be for the best, he decided. Oh yes, she had been punished and it was unlikely that she would leave again but …

Once she again bore Severus' children that small possibility would disappear, as the bond between them would grow with each child that lived, but until then she needed something to occupy her mind. What better than a young boy, a newly discovered wizard with whom she had a preexisting relationship?

"I will speak to Severus later tonight," he told her. "As long as your husband is in agreement I foresee no complications."

"Thank you, my lord," she said softly.

"Hermione?"

"Hmmm? Oh, Severus," she replied as the recent memory faded, her heart pounding and her breathing coming short as the desire between them flared once more. "I'm sorry, my love, I seem to have — "

"It's no matter," he whispered into her ear, coming ever closer until his chest was molded to her back and his arms had reached round her waist to clasp her hands in his. Shock and indecision held her still and unable to pull away, but her choice was made when he lowered his mouth to her head and pressed kisses into her upswept hair that was covered only by a short veil. She shivered when his lips brushed the shell of her ear and slid down the smooth column of her neck, her breath catching in her throat as his feelings washed over her once more. "As long as all parties are satisfied ... "

"Yes," she murmured, turning in his arms and lifting her lips to his and smiling as he groaned. "I do love you, Severus ... "

He pulled away and gazed down into her russet-colored eyes and found in them no guile, no lies, only the affection and desire that had so delighted him the night when he had first kissed her over thirteen years ago. After a moment he returned to her tender embrace and bent his head to claim her lips, inwardly rejoicing that his Hermione had finally returned. Her mouth parted eagerly and he could feel her hunger as he plumbed her depths, knew that she wanted the same thing as he ...

And knew also that they had dinner guests.

He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers, panting slightly as he willed away the hardness that seemed to never abate when in her presence. "Later, love," he whispered.

"Later," she agreed, pulling away to smooth her hair and offer him the first genuine smile in ten years as he took her arm. "Shall we?"