Chapters 121-130

What More is There to Say

It was almost four in the morning when Hermione and Severus returned to their quarters.

Severus, along with the other professors had spent hours trying to discover what had caused Dumbledore’s portrait to freeze up. But to no avail.

By now Severus looked almost like a ghost. His skin was so pale that it appeared almost chalk white, the lines around his mouth and at the bridge of his nose were more pronounced than ever. He sported dark and swollen circles under his eyes. Yet he was filled with a tense, nervous energy that manifested itself in jerky movements and a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

When he slammed the door of the bedroom shut behind them with a bang and proceeded to pound the wood with his fists, Hermione jumped, her heart thudding so hard that she could feel it inside her throat.

This kind of behaviour she normally expected from Harry rather than Severus. It went a long way to tell her just how much this newest trouble affected her husband. Biting down on her lower lip, she moved to stand next to him. His lips had thinned to tight line, his hair hung in limp strands around his face. She winced when she saw the bruises that were already forming around his knuckles. His eyes were closed, his nostrils flared from the effort of trying to beat in the solid wood of the dungeon door with his naked fists.

‘Damn you, Albus,’ he ground out. ‘Not even in death you can leave me alone.’

Hermione inhaled deeply. Harry had faced a Norwegian Ridgeback while still at school. As Severus’ apprentice and his wife, she should be able to deal with a distraught potions master. She reached up and laid a hand over his fist. ‘You’ll need bruise balm on this.’

To her surprise he allowed himself to be led into the bathroom and when she produced the small pot with the salve, he submitted to her ministrations without another word.

When they were about to climb into bed, Hermione finally dared to voice her question. ‘So you have really no idea what happened to…make him freeze up?’

Severus shook his head. ‘No. Portrait-lore is an obscure branch of magic. The guild of painters is just as reticent about their secrets of trade as the wand-makers or the potions-masters.’ He sighed. ‘All I can say is that he was not petrified like the paintings in the Forbidden Gallery. He was not stunned. The painting itself was not hexed or jinxed. The spells we used tonight would have revealed that at least.’

Hermione swallowed hard. There was one idea she just couldn’t get out of her head, no matter how much she tried. ‘Are you…are you sure that…that nothing could have been done to—to his—’

‘To his remains?’

She nodded.

‘The body was burned,’ he reminded her. ‘They buried only a glamour, an after-image. And when the tomb was destroyed last spring, even that was annihilated. No. Albus Dumbledore will never walk this earth again.’

‘But?’ She was certain there was a ‘but’. Something in his voice…

Severus shook his head at her irritably. ‘Can’t you refrain from asking questions for once? At least for five minutes? Which is about all that is left of this night, anayway.’

‘I think both of us would rather not think about Albus Dumbledore,’ Hermione said slowly. ‘I’m not a psychologist or a therapist. But even I know that you cannot deal with the past by ignoring it. Right now we need to find out what happened to that portrait, and if you can’t even bring yourself to tell me what you think—’

With three strides he loomed in front of her, eyes glittering and black.

‘Shut up,’ he hissed.

Hermione recoiled slightly, but she stood her ground. Although she felt shaky with lack of sleep and all the things she would rather not think or feel concerning Albus Dumbledore.

‘No,’ she said.

‘No?’ He blinked at her, taken aback.

‘No, I will not shut up,’ she repeated. ‘We have never talked about Dumbledore’s death. But obviously you need to before you can tell me what you’re thinking concerning the paralysis of his portrait. Therefore, start talking.’

For a moment Snape looked as if he was tempted to draw his wand on her. Then he took a step back and exhaled a shuddering breath. ‘You’ve seen the memories,’ he muttered at last. ‘What else is there to say?’

‘Oh God, Severus!’

He slumped down heavily. He propped his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. Hermione sat next to him on the edge of the bed. For a long time the room was cloaked in silence. She shivered a little with fatigue and the chill of the nightly dungeons. But this conversation was important. And long overdue. She would wait for as long as it took.

In her mind, she heard Severus’ voice again, as she had heard it in the courtroom of the Wizengamot: ‘And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?’

‘I wanted…I wished…’ When he looked up, his eyes were burning. ‘Merlin!’ he snarled. ‘Hermione, what do you expect me to say? That I wanted his trust, his respect, his friendship, his forgiveness? I did, damn him. I did. The more fool I.

’I was looking forward to the final confrontation with Voldemort. I would not survive, of that I was certain. But I did not mind; I would be free at least, free from my failures. He never trusted me, you know? He only trusted the Vow that bound me to him and my failures. After all, my failures forged me into the perfect tool for his plans. And it was as that tool that he respected me. As a person he pitied me at the most. As for the rest…

‘I did everything he asked of me. What more is there to say?’