Chapters 241-250

A Dream Within a Dream

Abbé Nihel placed a few sheets of Muggle paper in front of Severus. ‘I printed this off a website. Do you know what that is?’

Severus nodded. ‘Her-’ He cleared his throat. ‘Hermione explained it to me once. Muggle computers, connected to share information.—What has that to do with anything?’

The monk took a deep breath. ‘A lot. I hope! There is a monastery of Trappistine nuns in the south of France that was in the news for a while, oh, around two years ago. You have to know that the Trappistines submit to a strict atmosphere of silence in their monasteries. They use their voices only for praying, singing and reading the Bible.’

‘The perfect place to keep someone incommunicado,’ Harry observed. The Minister of Magic and the Head of the Auror Office looked confused. Father Brown sat motionless, shoulders tense, lips tightened. Severus paid no heed to that audience, his attention focused on the Abbé.

Nihel nodded. ‘This particular monastery roused public interest when they ‘went online’—that is, created a website on the internet. People can send them requests for prayers. The nuns post these requests and their prayers online, on that website.’ He leafed through the papers. ‘Out of idle curiosity I looked at their archives. And I noticed something odd. The website, the requests, and the prayers are in French. But around 14 months ago, suddenly texts written in English appear. To someone with little knowledge of the language, they might appear to be prayers, but they are not. I am not exactly sure what they are.’ His gaze, filled with warm concern, met Severus’. ‘But two motifs appear in nearly all of them: the writer talks about breaking something and how that act kills what he or she loves most of all.’

With shaking hands, Severus reached for the stack of paper. Muggle paper was so thin and fragile compared to the parchment favoured in the wizarding world. The print was painfully clear.

oooOooo

oooOooo

‘The spell you wrought to lead you back to Life,’ Abbé Nihel prompted gently. ‘You called it ‘Sempiternal Solution’, didn’t you?’

Severus could only nod. Hermione. Alive. In a monastery. All this time. And blaming herself for his death. All this time.

‘That just has to be Hermione!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘What do the other…uh…prayers say?’

Abbé Nihel hesitated. ‘They are—very similar. I think some of them indicate attempts to escape.’ His gaze was sad, when he looked back at Severus. ‘In every possible way,’ he added softly.

Severus bent over the papers once more, his hair falling forward like a curtain and hopefully hiding his trembling lips. Carefully he read each text, searching for hidden meanings and secret messages.

At last he swallowed convulsively. He leant back in his chair and curled his fingers around the arm-rests in a vice-like grip to keep his hands from shaking. ‘I—do believe that my wife has written these.’ Severus inhaled a shuddering breath. ‘I noticed that the last of these texts is dated 23 June. Where are the others?’

Abbé Nihel slowly shook his. ‘There are no more.’

‘She gave up?’ Harry asked. His voice rang out, high with incredulity and tight with an almost accusatory undertone. ‘Just like that? That doesn’t sound like the Hermione I know!’

‘We have to go there,’ Severus whispered. ‘At once.’

‘As soon as the Aurors have secured the area,’ the Minister of Magic said with a firm voice.

oooOooo

Hermione was dreaming again.

She lay on her back in the water of a river that was somehow familiar—a shimmering expanse of water cradled between peaceful riverbanks. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of willows, alders and poplars, and sparkled in green and golden flecks on the brown water of the river. Water lilies and high stemmed lotus flowers grew along the banks, brilliant in their beauty.

The river meandered, turning west towards the sunset. The trees grew high and narrow there. They slanted towards each other until they formed a living gate.

When she looked back, the river was hidden in swirling mists. For a moment she thought she could see faces hidden in the haze, and hear an echo of dear voices. From somewhere the scent of roses drifted towards her. But the currents carried her onwards and she turned her head again.

The gate lay clear and golden before her.

At a distance, but not too far ahead, she could make out the silhouettes of two water birds: A black swan and a white swan drifted side by side, necks entwined. Set aflame by the westering sun behind them, the faint fusion of their bodies broke into light.

Hermione reached out with her fingertips, intent on touching them.

A silky voice caressed her. How she had missed his voice!

‘Hermione.’

In her dream, Severus pulled her into his arms. She inhaled deeply, the ever tantalising scents of vetyver, bergamot, nutmeg, rosemary and cypress. She could feel the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the touch of his hands on her skin.

‘So this is death,’ she murmured. Her voice sounded hoarse and harsh after months of silence. But she smiled. ‘Dumbledore was wrong, you know. It’s not an adventure. It’s the most beautiful dream I’ve ever had.’

‘This is not a dream, Hermione. And you are not dying. Please,’ Severus begged, ‘open your eyes. Please.’