Chapter Text
Shoutout to Zelenyi_kit_art for the beautiful cover; they always know exactly what I want and create it for me. It's beautiful.
The sky was bleeding ash, just as it had been every day for the past year. It was a grim, relentless reminder of the turmoil that had plagued the world. Yet, amidst the chaos of war, the Ministry's decree rang clear: “All students are to attend Hogwarts. Those parents who dare to defy this mandate will face the looming threat of years spent in Azkaban…”
The Dark Lord had infiltrated every part of the Wizarding World and that included the ministry. And so, it became clear that whatever Voldemort desired, he would obtain, and every decree he issued transformed into an unyielding law that demanded adherence. To defy it would invite grave repercussions. And no citizen dared to confront that reality, and so the parents continued to send their children to Hogwarts and they attended as if nothing had changed…
Eighth year was meant to be the best and final year of Hermione's life but it couldn't be, not now, not when everything had changed and not while the darkness pressed on.
The war raged on, relentless and merciless; it was the kind of war where you slept with your eyes open, a type of war where secrets meant more than people's lives… The secrets ran deep where they rotted beneath the stones of the castle's very foundations and love, if it dared to exist, was just another curse.
A curse that Hogwarts bore.
The school that was once built on happiness, on love. But now it was not a school; it was a prison and everyone inside was a prisoner. It was no more a school than it was a childhood graveyard…
“Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies…”
Hermione had come across that notion, perhaps nestled within the pages of a book, yet it proved to be nothing more than a fallacy. She had borne witness to the relentless march of death for years. Everyone dies, if not always at the result of another's hand, if not physically, then mentally.
Death seeped into the very fabric of the mind. Death by your own mind was slow and suffocating and it was happening to her. It was happening to her and everyone else around her; even Hogwarts reeked with death.
Voldemort's hold was unrelenting and the more he pressed, the more he lived, and the harder it was to pull yourself out of the hole, the one that he dug.
The childhood graveyard.
But unfortunately for Hermione, she had to get up because when you were the daughter of Severus Snape, you had no choice but to show up, especially when the Dark Lord called, though her father had done everything in his power to keep her away from him and his need for her was sparse, which she found particularly peculiar considering that she was Harry Potter's best friend. She hadn't known how her father had managed to let her escape Voldemort's grasp and quite frankly, she did not want to know, because whatever torture he had to endure… She didn't want to think about it.
Severus made his own choices, even some she did not agree with but that's what you have to do in a war: make choices… Even if they are not always the right ones.
Hermione tried to not fault the choices or those that make them because she knew by watching her father and Harry the toll those types of choices take on a person. But to Hermione, choices were like opinions—none could be wrong, but Severus Snape had made a wrong choice.
The moment he decided to make an unbreakable vow.
The moment he decided to kill Dumbledore.
Or the moment he decided to play for both sides.
“A friend to all is a friend to none,” and when it comes down to the end…
When it came down to choosing the Order or choosing him, how could one decide…? You couldn’t, not without great consequence. Hermione wished for all of it to be easy, but it was never easy per se, but there were definitely moments when it was easier.
It was easier when Dumbledore was alive…
It was easier when her father wasn't angry with Harry all of the time.
It was easier when her father hadn't sworn to protect Draco… again.
Again.
The word echoed relentlessly in her thoughts, a haunting refrain that left her grappling with the question of how her father could once again find himself in such a predicament. In addition, she found herself ignorant regarding the particulars of the vow her father had taken. All she knew was that he had indeed made it, a solemn promise not only to safeguard her and Harry—a vow of her own—but also to protect Draco.
And this time, just as the last time, she was as purposefully left out of those details; all she knew was that it happened again and that this time it would not be any easier to pretend.
The first time it was easy to pretend that whatever feelings she had for Malfoy didn't exist. But now she couldn't, not when her father's life was tied to his, not when there was an invisible stream pulling him towards her. Not when he was a Death Eater and her father was too. Not when he lingered too long after class to speak to her father and she did too.
Not when she knew they existed.
Her feelings for Malfoy quickly emerged after her father had made the first unbreakable vow with Narcissa. Hermione knew that if it weren't for her father's Occlumency skills that he had thrust upon her, she wouldn't have been able to suppress the emotions at all. She just hoped that this time, the second time around, her shields wouldn't falter, that she could occlude him out of her mind until it was over…
Nevertheless, she was curious, and it was at that moment that she engaged in the risky game of "What if."
What if she didn't… What if she wanted to let herself feel it because perhaps he felt it too?
Or maybe she wanted to take something back from the war.
The war took away her childhood, shattering her once seamless moments of happiness and tainting them with death and destruction. But what if she allowed herself to reclaim just one thing? One emotion, one feeling, yet her father's voice echoed softly in the recesses of her mind.
“One misstep, one emotion too long, is one moment of power for him…”
The figure referred to as "him" was none other than Voldemort, and Hermione knew it to be true. Emotions were lapses and to have too many, to feel too much, was a risk and one that she could not take. So she occluded just as her father had taught her.
Sometimes Hermione would immerse herself in occlusion for such an extended period that she would lose consciousness. Her mind would become so blank that she lost awareness of her own breath, and she would do it until the very essence of her memories slipped away and left her questioning their authenticity.
Which memories were real and which weren't? Did she put up fake memories in place of those that were real? Like memories of her mother?
Hermione was acutely aware of the existence of her mother, yet the contours of that woman's identity remained shrouded in mystery. She knew nothing about her, not her name, not her hair color, nothing. All she grasped was the undeniable truth that the person who had once existed was no longer among the living.
Hermione wanted to ask her father so badly. She wanted to yell at him. She wanted to scream at him and beg for answers but no, he wouldn't tell her if she did, so instead of letting herself be curious, to feel curious, she decided that it would be better not to feel anything at all and she would occlude her mind until she was a shell of herself and that is what she was doing right now.
Her father told her to come up with a way to push her memories away, to “bury them,” he would say, so that is literally what she would do.
Hermione would sit, her eyes gently closed, embracing a tranquil mind. She envisioned an expansive terrain, stretching endlessly with undulating dirt hills crowned by lush green grass, and for each recollection, she would transform them into a flower.
Each flower would be different, a new flower for each of her memories, the ones she wished to keep hidden from the world. The flowers thrived in the warmth of the sun conjured by her imagination; they had never required rain to bloom.
In her pasture, on her hill, she found herself at odds with the rain. Yet, deep within the recesses of her mind, a boundless expanse of sunlight flourished, where flowers stretched eagerly toward the sky, reaching for the stars that her imagination conjured in the quiet of the night.
Her flowers remained eternally vibrant, and should they ever fade, they would surrender to the earth, nurturing fresh life from the remnants of their former stems, and a new memory in its place.
She had many flowers among the hills but the one that she always felt compelled to bloom was an aster. It was like a daisy, except they usually bloomed in the fall. She had never understood the reason behind her choice of that specific flower, yet it held a special place in her heart.
She had fields on fields and pastures full of them and they formed an array of colors that painted a sea of secrets and sometimes when she needed a moment to herself, a moment of peace, she would wander through the fields, allowing the flowers to evoke the cherished memories they held within their delicate petals.
She knew what flowers held what memories because she had named each one, not for what kind of flower they were but with a single word that reminded her of the memory. Once she found the one, it would stretch toward the heavens, unfurling just enough to evoke memories.
At times, she would gently extract it from the earth's embrace, inhaling its fragrance, allowing herself to be enveloped by its essence. And after it had fulfilled its purpose, she would release it to the earth, allowing it to sink into the soil, into the earth, and watch it regrow again, usually as a daffodil, as they symbolize rebirth and new beginnings, new memories.
Flowers were forever. Even after they die, because they could rebloom…
Hermione longed for a world where people resembled flowers, vibrant and eternal. She wished for a reality that was devoid of death, a realm where the finality of life was but a distant thought. She wished that her father never made the choice again because in what world would that choice ever have an outcome that didn't result in death?
She didn't know, but she could hope, but hoping for life in the middle of a war was like wishing for rain in a drought, but she figured if she could help at all, she would so that was precisely why she lingered after potions class today, her mind set on having a conversation with her father…
“Yes, Miss Snape?” Severus’s voice echoed through the room as he clumsily handled several vials on his desk; his tone was frigid and detached, and he consistently addressed her solely as “Hermione” or “Snape.” She knew he meant well, but it didn't get any easier being his daughter.
“I—I wanted to talk…” Hermione whispered gently, her footsteps light as she approached him, her gaze flitting around the room, ensuring they were alone in this secret moment. Severus remained silent, his gaze unwavering as he set the vials down on the desk.
He turned to face her, and in that instant, when their eyes locked, Hermione felt a sharp pang of hurt ripple through her, a fleeting moment that spoke volumes between them.
He looked tired; he was tired, but everyone was tired.
It was approaching winter and it was cold and unforgiving and of course the war wasn't helping but even though everybody was tired, she couldn't help but feel sorry for her father. Though she saw him every day, it was only now that she truly began to see him, to understand the weight he carried and the way that his shoulders sagged when there were no students around.
She had never noticed the way that his hands shook when he wasn't holding anything, and she had never seen the way that his eyes were vacant until now, when she was gazing at him and he stood in front of her with his eyes staring into hers.
“Would you like to discuss the fact that you were completely absent-minded throughout the entirety of the class?” His voice boomed out with an air of power, and Hermione felt herself shrinking in response to it. "You may be my child, but you are still a student, and that does not excuse you from not paying attention, Miss Snape," he said.
It was never her desire to neglect the potions today; once, she had reveled in the art, delighting in the intricacies of learning. But, with each passing day, the burden grew heavier, and the joy began to fade.
It got harder to pretend that attending Hogwarts was more important than what was going on outside of the protective enchantments that bound the students to the school's stones.
“It's just quite ridiculous, isn't it?” Hermione spoke softly as she stepped closer to her father. “I mean, how long must we continue to pretend—”
"For as long as it takes! It is the only thing you are capable of doing; therefore, you will continue to play your part for as long as it takes. Now, please, Miss Snape, go and get to class, and don't let me find out about any more juvenile daydreaming!” Severus demanded, his voice powerful but in some way silent. It was only heard between them yet it reverberated off the walls and in response Hermione shuddered.
She loathed the feeling of being a disappointment, and the act of playing pretend weighed heavily on her heart; this was not the first time he had urged her to do it either.
“For as long as it takes!”
But how long? Forever?
Would she have to play pretend inside of this prison forever? Would death be her escape from acting, from pretending?
“Now!” His voice ran out once more, snapping through her reverie and she jolted slightly before she gathered her things and swiftly exited the room.
As she entered the hall, a cold chill enveloped her, a sensation that had grown all too familiar this year, a chill summoned by the looming presence of dementors. Voldemort had orchestrated them, ensuring that rather than standing guard over Azkaban and the corridors of the ministry, they would surround Hogwarts.
Because they were not needed in those spaces anymore…
Everyone within Azkaban knew not to escape because to defy the one that put them in there would be a fate worse than death. They found themselves unnecessary at the ministry, because once again, he had become the very embodiment of it; though a minister still occupied the position, true power had slipped away, rendered meaningless in the shadow of what once was.
In this new order, Voldemort reigned supreme, the law itself.
Every creature in the Wizarding World was on his side and if they weren’t, they were killed or they played pretend, because they were either on his side or they were a threat and he had no threats…
He was the threat.
So, now, all creatures, like the dementors, infiltrated Hogwarts; they filled the halls with their icy presence. Hermione wasn't sure why it was needed; she hadn't known why anything was the way it was these days, only that it was Voldemort's deliberate attempt to instill terror in those who wielded magic and those who called the school their home.
The dementors served merely as another pawn in the elaborate game he orchestrated and it was a way to keep himself as the dictator.