FotF Chapter 12: Sorrow

Just a quick photomanip cover for Chapter 12 of my SSHG fic, Faith of the Fallen.

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Hours later, Hermione’s room at the top of Gryffindor tower had settled into darkness. No fire flickered in the hearth; its ashes lay cold against the ancient stone. No candles burned brightly in their holders; the wax had long ago stilled and hardened. Silvery moonlight bleed through the large glass windows leading to the balcony – empty on such a cold night – and illuminated the young witch sleeping fitfully in the curtained four-poster. Her body twitched and writhed as she dreamt, not of lazy summer days or childhood memories, nor of passion-filled nights or loving caresses…

Her dreams were horrifying.

Screaming babies are being swallowed up by the Darkness while she is helpless to save them. She finds herself clothed in flowing robes of purest white, lost on a barren, black field of ash. A sharp, slicing pain in her heel makes her glance down. She steps back, leaving a glistening crimson trail behind. Kneeling, she reaches for the source of her pain, her fingers dusted with black as she touches the hard edge hidden in the drifting powder. She knows what it is the moment her fingers touch it, just as she now knows what the cinders and swirling dust around her are made of.

As she pulls the jagged piece of charred human jawbone from the slag, she knows she should feel revulsion, disgust, anger even… but all she feels is fear; powerful, overwhelming, earth-shattering fear. Discarding the bone with what she knows is a terrifying indifference, she wanders alone until suddenly, in a swirl of ash, she sees a billowing figure slowly emerge from the barren landscape. Whether it is an unholy wraith, intent on destruction, or a fallen angel wandering through Hell, perhaps looking for lost souls to save, all she knows is that she is overjoyed to not be alone. Her irrational joy turns to pure elation as the figure comes closer. His harsh features are softened in the dark, sooty air, but she would know him anywhere.

Severus.

She rushes to him, and he holds out his arms, his beautiful smile beckoning to her, calling her to safety. She doesn’t think it strange that his black cloak is as pristine as ever, his pale skin and dark hair unblemished. No ash covers him, no blood or wounds mar his body. He is just Severus, as he always has been, blessedly unscathed by battle and the aftermath.

However, just as she reaches him, his smile – his beautiful, loving smile – turns to a mask of anguish, and he throws his head back in agony, clutching his forearm. His Mark, she knows, is burning… burning as his Master calls to him.

Desperately, she reaches for him with her ash-blackened hands, hoping to save him from his fate, like she could not save the screaming babies. He looks to her, his black eyes wet with unshed tears, as the fire-brand of the Mark spreads outward in a sizzling ripple of crimson and gold, consuming him until the ashes of his body fall in a sickening fluid rush to join those of the other Fallen.

She doesn’t scream or wail; for all her terror and anguish she cannot find her voice. All Hermione can do is stare at the mound of ash that was once the man she loved, her breath coming in ragged gasps as her tears fall to the ground in small puffs of gray. Encased in her sorrow, she does not notice the warmth that has gradually started to fill the air around her. When a gritty, hot gust blows suddenly and violently from the South, it causes her to lift her head. Her eyes remain closed, and she is soon covered in gray, her mouth and nostrils assaulted with the powdered remains of lost hope. She finds herself still unable to move. Her tears leave streaks in the darkness and despair covering her cheeks, but she doesn’t raise a hand to wipe them.

Why, when there is no one to see her weep, no one to care?

Excerpt from Faith of the Fallen, Chapter 12: Sorrow, by

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Severus Snape is (c) JK Rowling and WB Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended, and all images are the property of their respective owners. I am making no profit from this artwork; I do this for my own enjoyment and hopefully that of others.