Breaking the Chains

The Day

Hermione scooped her porridge out of her bowl and let it fall trickle back of the spoon for what felt like the thousandth time that morning. She was desperately hungry, and she had taken to eating heartily as her pregnancy had advanced. That was mainly due to Severus's nagging, and the knowledge that he was watching every mouthful she ate from the high table, and taking note, though. At the moment, even the thought of his complaints, could not overcome the waves of nausea that swept over her every time she brought the spoon near to her mouth.

Today was the day.

There was nothing out of the ordinary to mark the significance of the day though, bar the swarm of butterflies currently in residence in her stomach. She had woken up as normal, and reluctantly crawled out of the warmth of Severus's bed and embrace, grumbling to herself as usual, before she had remembered that today was The Day.

Immediately reverting to On-A-Mission mentality Hermione had left through the fireplace and washed and dressed in her own room, as was her habit, and then had departed for breakfast. Everything has to appear normal, she kept reminding herself, no-one can expect what is going to happen and that what we know, or it might not come to pass.

Normal, usual, habitual . . . standard, regular, commonplace . . . customary, typical, natural . . .

Hermione distracted herself from the gravity of the situation by listing every synonym she knew for the normality she strove for.

When she entered the great hall, Severus had already been seated and eating. He looked as aloof and arrogant as normal, sitting separate from the rest of the teachers, even though he was physically next to them. Dumbledore looked serene, damn him, she thought, chastised herself for being so disrespectful.

However she was not the only one suffering, she could see. Harry looked gaunt and pale, dark rings under his eyes hinted at a series of late nights. Hermione had heard a few rumours about what he did during those late nights, and then had encouraged the assumption that the rift between them had been caused by her jealousy over these trysts.

They were welcome to him, as far as she was concerned. Unconsciously, she fingered the glass vial containing strengthening potion Severus had given her in her pocket, then stroked her bump reassuringly. She was still hidden beneath her robes, despite being six month pregnant, but she had to be careful about physical contact with her fellow students, lest her secret be found out by anyone.

Severus seemed to be studiously ignoring her, she concluded after she looked at him to find him still staring at the opposite wall as he ate. Until midday, she was on her own, it seemed. She ran through a series of mental exercises she had developed to help her develop her ability in manipulating chi, and was comforted by completing them quickly and easily.

Forcing down a mouthful of porridge, she swallowed deliberately. It wouldn't do to collapse from lack of food at the critical moment. When the main body of students started to leave the hall, Hermione left with them and headed towards the charms classroom for her first lesson. She felt like her legs were made of lead.

* * *

Hermione crawled out of his arms, which was tacit permission for him to move. She had taken to sleeping nestled against his shoulder, which gave him a numb arm, stopped him from getting up hideously early in the mornings for fear of waking her, and the most incredible feeling of being wanted and needed. It had taken him a while to sort out what the strange emotions that had overtaken him had been, but once he had, he had become incredibly protective of her.

Normally he didn't mind the enforced stillness in the mornings as it gave him time to watch her sleep, without her thinking that he was examining her somewhat critically. No matter how many times he told her she was perfect to his eyes, she never seemed capable of believing him.

However, this morning he had been forced to think of the day to come. On any other day he would have found her peace and proximity relaxing, but today it just reminded him what he had to loose. The only chance he had of a life outside this place, a life that meant something.

He had been graced with an angel, and he vowed to himself over and over that he would protect her no matter what. He did not like that she would have to take on this fight pregnant, in what would become the front line, though to be honest he did not like the fact that she would have to fight at all.

But they had both known from the start it would be like this, and had prepared too long and hard to allow this chance to slip away from them. Unconsciously he held her a little tighter knowing that this was the last peaceful embrace they might share.

"I love you." He had whispered to the darkened room. In her sleep, Hermione had smiled.

Now, as he worked the blood back into his arm, he reminded himself of the need for this day to tick over like clockwork. He did not doubt that rumours had reached Voldemort from his spies within Hogwarts that both he and Hermione were planning something. If Voldemort had the slightest suspicion that Severus was aware of his plans, he could abort the whole mission.

So they had agreed to act as regular as possible, which for Hermione had meant a charms lesson, and for him a fifth year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff potions lesson to teach. He watched as the realisation slowly dawned on Hermione of what was to come, and told himself he would nee to be strong for her. He was the master spy, the expert of subterfuge and deception, the one who would have to mask his emotions, so that she could follow suit.

With which realisation, he rose and helped her fasten her robe, kissed her and sent her on her way through the fireplace. Any more and he would have come close to breaking down. He dressed hurriedly and stormed off in the direction of the great hall, where he would be surrounded by people. Once there he knew that he could put up his usual façade with ease; because they expected him to behave like a man without scruples, conscience or emotions, he found it easier to do so.

When Hermione arrived he could not help following her with his eyes, his face fixed into a worried frown. Good start, he told himself. Then, hard as it was, he forced himself to ignore her and watched the wall over her head, mentally running through the alphabetical stock listings of the general students' potions store to distract himself.

He found that doing so gave him a typically disinterested look.

He sneered a little.

* * *

Dumbledore was more nervous than he could remember being for a long while. He carefully schooled his face into a look of pleasant contemplation and tried to forget the significance of the day.

Today was the day where the boy he had saved from the wreckage of a destroyed home and a destroyed life would try to kill him. The day the boy he had protected and watched over and favoured since his birth would finally succumb to evil. He desperately hoped that Severus and Hermione were wrong, that nothing of the sort would happen, but in his heart he knew that they were correct. The verdict was in, and once again he had failed.

The thought made his morning tea taste bitter despite the two spoonfuls of sugar he had added.

He stirred another in, knowing it would make little difference and began studying the major players.

Potter was there, the pawn, looking tired and distracted. He wanted to reach out to him, to try one last time to help, but every movement the boy made spoke of the distance between him and the rest of the world. He was out of control, but unfortunately someone else had taken up his reigns. He hoped that the rumours that reached his study were untruth and exaggeration, but he feared they were nothing of the sort.

Severus sat some way down the table, to a casual observer as hard and uncaring as ever. Most definitely the knight, though the shininess of his armour was open for debate. Long fingers moving deftly, no hint of the pressure that must be crushing him, no outward display that anything bothered him. Just he deep sorrow buried in his black eyes that told Dumbledore that Severus was fighting for his lady, not his life.

And the lady herself, a queen despite the absent way she played with her food and patted her unborn child. Sure of herself in her seat despite the flood of worries he expected she felt. Regal, self assured, and able to move in any direction she chose, at any given moment. Worth fighting for. Dangerous.

And you? He asked himself. Considering how constricted he felt by events, probably the king, the ultimate target, but at the moment a bit useless, in need of protection. It was not a good situation.

He sipped his tea, and wished that everyone else looked as terrified as he felt.

* * *

Harry Potter didn't feel himself this morning. In fact, he felt positively distant, and tired. Ron was talking in his ear, but he couldn't focus on the words let alone comprehend their meaning.

The world was spinning. He felt . . . drained.

And he was sure if he had remembrall that it would be glowing red by now. There was an unmistakable tension in the air, as sense of something pending. Something important . . . something crucial . . . something terrible. And it was going to happen today, he was sure of it.

It had to do with him, of that much he was sure. The constant ache along his scar made it difficult for him to concentrate, but he made an attempt to think about things anyway.

Through the haze he tried to remember where he had been last night. After a moment or two he gave up. It was as futile this morning as any other morning to try and reorganise his fragmented memories. On the edge of his consciousness there was a glimmer of something, screaming for attention, but every time he tried to examine it, something blocked it from his view.

He had to find out what it was.

He was going to do something today, and whatever it was, it was wrong. A part of him, however deeply buried knew this, and began to gear up for a fight, as the rest of his being ticked over on autopilot.

* * *

Hermione felt that sneaking of like this was somewhat undignified, but necessary anyhow. She settled herself on the bottom step of the spiral staircase that led out of Dumbledore's office to his private rooms on the floor above. The entrance she had been surprised to find was hidden behind the picture of the first headmaster to take the post after the four founders had left the school to run itself. She noted with some smugness that he had been a Gryffindor, then reminded herself that history is written by the victors.

Salazar Slytherin had been the one thrown out on his ear, and it was only fitting that the man in charge once the founders left was the protégée of the winner of the scuffle, rather than of the loser. The thought that any army should have a historian included as standard to do the onerous rewrites was entertained briefly, then dismissed as irrelevant. Anyway historians these days had been replaced by spin-doctors added the voice of trivia, before it was ruthlessly suppressed.

This was not the time to let her mind wander she told herself. But it did provide a welcome diversion from the harsh light of day, and the torture of waiting.

Beside her on the step was Severus, and together they were covered in his invisibility cloak, and around that Dumbledore had set up a series of wards and glamours to prevent either of them from being seen. The stairs were the only place in the office that could be guaranteed to be undisturbed, and so the only place where they could be sure to remain hidden.

This fact, however, did not succeed in making them any warmer or more comfortable to sit on. Dumbledore looked perfectly comfortable in his plush chair, reading, as if he had not a care in the world.

At half past eleven, Hermione had made her way under the cloak into Dumbledore's office, which had included some lively sidestepping in halls full of students. That was the sneaking she had found so undignified.

The next fifteen or so minutes had been taken up running over the plan once again, and getting all the measures necessary to hide them in place. Ten minutes of uncomfortable silence had passed since then, as none of them wanted to risk speech in case Potter arrived while they were talking and so discovered them. He had a habit of being where he shouldn't when he shouldn't.

It was five to twelve, and it seemed the Boy Who Lived was cutting it fine.

Just when Hermione had resigned herself to the fact that they were wrong, and that he wasn't coming, there was a knock on the office door. Dumbledore nearly fell out of his chair, and beside her she felt Severus tense in readiness.

"It's him." He whispered.

Dumbledore called out for him to come in.

"Harry." Dumbledore opened amiably. "To what can I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I needed to talk to you."

"About?"

"Well, I've been feeling not myself for a little while now. There are these whole periods where I can't remember what's happened, and it's like there's someone else in my head . . . I can't explain it . . ."

Don't fall for it Hermione pleaded silently he remembers everything, he's trying to fool you . . . don't buy it.

But Dumbledore it seemed was buying it. His relief that Harry had come to him to tell him the truth instead of try to kill him was almost palpable. He was glowing with the knowledge that when it came down to it, his brave Gryffindor had the courage to fight back, to draw the line at murder.

Which was what led him to make an almost fatal mistake.

He turned.

The motion was probably going to be one intended to tell Hermione and Severus to quit their hiding place, that the attack was no longer needed. However it was never completed, as the instant he began to move, Potter drew his wand.

"Petrificus totalus"

Dumbledore, unfortunately, never even saw it coming, and slumped back into his chair.

Beside her, Hermione felt Severus react, summoning up his energy for the empathic gymnastics he was about to undertake, and downing the contents of the strengthening potion in a single gulp.

Harry Potter's voice began to fill the office, taking on a strangely resonant quality peculiar to rituals in high language.

"Spirits of air, water, earth and fire, I call on thee;

Watchtowers of the north and south, east and west, I beseech thee;

Guardians of sun, stars and moons, I command thee;

On this day on reckoning and balance, hear my voice.

The alignment of elements, direction and the celestial temples shall be thrown open at my decree.

Draw back that which you have granted -

Half way through the opening incantations, Potter faltered, or rather Voldemort speaking through Potter's body faltered. He could obviously feel the gathering clouds of death and desolation that Severus was gathering over him. He stumbled on a little more in the invocations, before becoming ensnared in the web of pain and destruction that Severus was weaving for him.

Hermione felt the gentle squeeze of her fingers and knew it was time to do her part. She downed the contents of her vial and winced at the foul taste. Now she knew the reason for the hours and hours of practise she had done. Her mind followed the well established pathways and sought out the rifts in the chi of the individual before her.

They were not so much rifts as deep chasms - the man (if you could call him that) simply refused to believe that he was dying. And he was stubborn.

That was to be expected. Voldemort had a lot to loose; she supposed he valued his life even if no one else did.

She began to smooth over the cracks, skilfully melding one angular plane into another, reuniting jagged edges seamlessly. As each fissure was closed the next one came a little easier; it was obvious he was succumbing to what the choking emotions around him were telling his mind.

Slowly, but surely he was loosing control of his surroundings and faculties and Hermione was pressing her advantage. Fleetingly, her mind told her she was winning, but that thought was ignored. There were no winners in a fight like this.

By the end of this day she would be responsible for taking a human life, no matter how despicable the human was, or she would be dead, or worse, a captive at the hands of Voldemort. There would be nothing as prosaic as a winner on this fateful day.

That knowledge as much as anything else was draining Hermione. And she was feeling drained. Leaning against Severus for a little support, she drew comfort from his warmth beside her, at the same time as she registered his tiny shudders of exertion. She hoped it was just exertion and nothing worse; that he was not becoming ensnared in his own traps.

Taking each rupture became an exercise in will-power as she ploughed on regardless, until she finally realised that there were no more. Her part was almost done - all that remained was the incantation of binding, and then the day would be over, if not won.

"Now, Severus." She whispered.

Together they began the incantation:

In status naturum ligo - in locus naturum impedio.

Erebus spectator derelinqo.

Hoc veritas est - ut te sentio; tam credo

Esto immotus; hoc meus issum est

[Erebus (god of darkness) forsake your acolyte.

Bind this being in this state - restrain this essence in this place.

This is the truth - as you feel; so believe.

Be still; this is my command]

Together they let out a collective breath of relief. Potter had collapsed to the floor. His body was shaking slightly and a faint keening was escaping his lips. Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow at Severus, who shook his head, and answered;

"Something's wrong. Voldemort's weak, almost dead, but he's hanging on. He always was a tenacious bastard."

"I think he's loosing control of Potter's body though . . ."

Hermione stood, casting away the cloak, leaving Severus beneath it, and crossed the floor to Dumbledore. Releasing him with a 'finite incantum' he briefly asked after his welfare before continuing on to Potter.

Kneeling by his side she could feel the waves of negativity stemming from where she had been sitting. Somewhere deep inside her the faintest stirrings of pity began; not for Voldemort, but for the boy he had destroyed. The boy who had been her best friend for six years and who had shared countless adventures with her, and the father of her child.

With a sure touch, she removed the wand from his limp grasp, and then on an impulse stroked his unruly hair back from his forehead. The scar was red and terribly inflamed, and his eyes were screwed shut as if trying to block out some nightmare.

Harry Potter can feel it too; she realised, and rolled him over so he was half on his back and half on his side. He was pale and sweating, for a moment she just looked at him, wondering if she could ever truly forget.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open, and she jumped back as if burned. For a moment he tried to raise himself, the irises glowing a fiery red, trained directly on her. Then he slumped back, his eyes suddenly becoming unfocused, their colour fading back to the natural green. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but a dry rasp was all that escaped.

Behind her, Hermione could hear Dumbledore calling the ministry to send aurors over immediately, giving the bear bones of the situation. She listened with half an ear, watching Harry like he was a coiled snake, ready to spring at any moment.

"Hermione? . . . Are - you - there? . . . Is - that - you?"

Each word was punctuated by laboured breaths, gasps of real pain that made his speech falter. But it was the look of lost vulnerability on his face, desperation and fear that made her answer. For a moment he looked like the boy she had once known and loved, not the monster he had become.

"Yes, Harry I'm here."

"Wha . . . wass . . . what's happening?"

Someone had once told her that you couldn't lie to the dying; you just had to tell the truth, because they had a way of knowing what it was anyway. Time to hit him hard, because there had been too many compromises made up to this point.

"Voldemort had been possessing you body all year. At this moment he's put all of his essence into you, and we're trying to kill him while his soul is separate to his body and so weaker. He's nearly dead, but not quite."

He paused, processing the information, and for a while she thought he was going to fall into unconsciousness. But then, a shadow passed across his face, a spectre of determination and honest courage. Looking up, he asked in a grating voice,

"I can feel him, Hermione. Tell me how to kill him. How to get him out of my head once and for all . . ."

Hermione scrutinised him, after all he had fooled Dumbledore, and she wasn't going to be taken unawares. But in the end she had to concede for the first time in a while that this was just Harry, and that he was telling the truth.

"Voldemort is using your body to keep him alive, so you need to force him out. Summon up all your anger and rage and hatred for him, and use it to separate him from your mind, just focus on getting him out!"

He looked into her eyes and nodded. Somehow one of his hands found hers, as he squeezed his eyes closed again. She could feel the energy running through him, and the influence of Voldemort growing weaker as Harry concentrated on driving him out.

Steadily she could feel it was working. Finally she saw Severus stand, the stunned amazement on his face speaking volumes across the room. They had succeeded.

Dazed, she looked down to Harry, whose clammy hand she still held in hers. There was a trickle of blood running down from his scar, the old wound had reopened, and this wrist felt suspiciously heavy in her grip. His whole body was limp, but his eyes were open, green and staring into hers.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. Please. Believe that. Can you accept my apology? Is it unfair to ask?"

He coughed, and the spittle that appeared on her lips was flecked with red. The awful pallor that had descended on his skin had worsened, taking on a definite grey and cyanotic tinge.

"I forgave you so that I could get on with my life Harry. I'll never forget, but I can remember the good times too. If that helps."

He looked up at her again, the look in his eyes making her feel as if all pretence was being stripped away. Vaguely she was aware of the fire flaring green and the room filling with people, but her attention was trained on Harry.

With the last of his strength, he moved the hand which clasped hers to brush against her swollen stomach, before letting it drop. He didn't say anything, but the brightness that appeared in his eyes spoke more than any words right then could have. The regret was written there clearly as well.

His head dropped back, and his eyes fluttered shut, and in that instant, Hermione knew that whatever his crimes, she didn't want him to die. The reality that he might had been something she had blocked from her mind, telling herself she didn't care, that it didn't matter, that he deserved it. Now she knew that she could never hate anyone that much.

Leaning in closer, she grasped his shoulders and shook him, succeeding in rousing him briefly.

"Hang on, Harry, it'll be okay." She forced out of building emotion.

He regarded her with that look that had always sent a shiver down her spine. That look that said he'd seen his parent's ghost; relived their murders over and over. That look that said he'd know neglect and loss and fear; that look that made her thing of lost dreams and crushed hopes. That look that told her of the constant struggle to prove himself, to find his place in the world, that had ultimately ended in disappointment. That look that held every brush with death he had ever had, and made him look older than any teenager should ever be.

Harry Potter managed to hold her gaze for several seconds. When he spoke it was in a voice so distant, removed from all emotion, and the constraints of this world. It had an almost ethereal sound.

"S'okay now. S'not cold here, s'okay, I've found . . . whatever it was I was . . ."

His voice trailed away with the though that he never finished. His eyes drifted shut, and overcome, Hermione leant forward to nestle her face close to his ear.

"I accept you apology." She murmured, as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek and into his tousled hair.

But in her heart of hearts, she knew that he hadn't heard her. Not in this world anyway. Wherever he was, she hoped he knew.

Lost for anything else to do, she wrapped her arms around him, willing his chest to rise again under her.

Time. She thought. Time had won today.

* * *

Severus Snape had watched the woman he loved cross the floor to the boy who had violated her, and kneel close to him, touch him. He was detained from going to her by the need to keep up his empathic transmissions. Rather like drinking and walking, he couldn't do both at the same time.

Then the aurors had tumbled out of the fireplace at Dumbledore's request moments after he felt Voldemort finally quit and die, who detained him still further with pointless questions and attempts to catch up with what was going on.

The distance across the floor seemed to have opened up into an impassable ravine, and all he could do was watch as she continued to hold his hand, and talk to him. There was no anger on her face, no hatred. Her face showed utter calm and complete composure. It seemed she was building bridges, just not ones that would allow him to come to her.

When Potter hand moved his hand to touch his baby, Severus felt white hot rage course through him, and jealousy surge up. The fact that Hermione didn't flinch, his Hermione, caused bile to rise in his throat. No words were said as Potter fell back, but he recognised the expression on her face.

It was the look of compassion she had until now reserved for him. It was the set of her features that made her skin glow lighter, her face grow more beautiful than he had ever seen. In short, her whole body was transfigured into that of an angel by sorrow and care. And she was sharing that with Potter.

In his shocked and horrified state, he watched her as if in slow motion lean forward as if to hug Potter, then at the last moment, shake him as if to rouse him. She had succeeded, he could see, and the lingering connection that was established made his heart race a few beats faster than it already was.

He couldn't hear the words that Potter spoke, but whatever they were, he was cracking Hermione's composure. He saw the tears well in her eyes, and a mask of grief settle on her face as she collapsed forward to hold Potter in her arms.

It was too much to bear. He finally broke out of the restraints - imagined or real - that had been preventing him from reaching her. It was only when he reached her side that he first noticed that Potter wasn't breathing. Hermione had wrapped her form around the boy beneath her, and was shaking all over. He grasped her trembling body in his arms and lifted her away, calling Dumbledore as he did.

As he cradled Hermione in his arms, he watched Potter be levitated onto a stretcher and the shocked whispers growing among the assembled masses. He could catch bits of phrases, but emotions racing through his mind were far more intense than he could remember and seemed to be shutting down all his cognitive processes.

". . . say's that You-Know-Who is . . ."

"Potter's dead, what on earth had been . . ."

"Well, we can't be sure until we find a body . . ."

". . . those teams should start a search immediately . . ."

". . . already contacted the minister for warrants . . ."

"We'll have to keep this under wraps until we have full details . . ."

It was all too much, Severus decided, then looked down at Hermione, and saw she had reached the same conclusion ahead of him. Her shudders had subsided, but it appeared she was now talking to herself. Above the din and commotion he strained to make out her words.

"This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening. . ." her voice alternately trailed away to nothing, then picked up again. Whatever was going on, she had retreated into her own world. Briefly he considered joining her, trying to block out the overwhelming gamut of stimuli that were assaulting his senses.

As he closed his grip around her, huddling into their own private cocoon, he felt hands and heard voices urging him up. It seemed the party was decamping to the infirmary, and he was expected to follow.

Focusing on the need to help and support Hermione he staggered to his legs and lifted the girl in his arms with him.

Together they wandered down the steps and into the corridor, arms entwined around one another, Hermione with her face pressed into his chest.

Trouble was, there was a group of people waiting for them in the corridor.

* * *

After that first tear, Hermione couldn't seem to summon any more up. Tears seemed to be such a useless way to express her, so she merely hugged Harry a bit closer, praying to any deity that would listen to grant him safe passage to wherever he was going.

Shortly afterwards, she felt strong hands lifting her away, and voices calling around her. The arms seemed to be shaking, which was strange, so maybe she was the one shaking, she reasoned. That's good, she told herself, you can still reason.

Arms enfolded her, and she recognised the familiarity of the embrace without knowing from where. Once again, thinking was not good, and she allowed the familiar dreamy separation to come over her mind and body, and started up on her personal mantra:

THIS WAS NOT HAPPENING

She could not tell where the words came from, but they rang in her ears, and she shut her eyes as tight as she could.

Thus removed from the world, she had no concept of the passage of time. Hence it could have been seconds or hours later that the same strong arms pulled her to her feet. She could think of no reason to resist, she associated the arms with safety, after all.

The process of walking helped bring her back towards reality slightly, enough to recognise that she was in Severus's arms, and part of a very strange procession. Instinctively she grabbed tighter onto the solid body beside her, and turned her face away from the light, which was the reason she did not see the gathered students in the hallway they had just entered.

The sound of angry clashes reached her ears without any of the words being processed by her mind. The sound of her name made her ears prick, though.

"Hey Granger!" she knew that voice, just couldn't place it.

"Congratulations Granger! How very unGryffindor of you!" Ah, now she knew. The ferret himself, Malfoy.

"Finally got your revenge, did you? Though killing Potter was excessive -"

His sentence was cut off as Dumbledore finally managed to silence him, but he had the aurors intrigued. Cutting through from the side of the group came Cornelius Fudge himself, Hermione saw with horror. And he was interested.

"This was an attempt to kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Successful, if we are to believe . . . what do you mean?"

Hermione could see the slow look of triumph spread across Malfoy's face, quickly masked by a look of innocent cooperation.

"Yes Minister, I'm sure that's what granger has you all believing. But she was in this to kill Potter. She's pregnant. By Potter. Because he raped her. And now she's out for revenge. Looks like she got it."

His gaze fell on Potters supine form. Haven't I suffered enough! What have I done? Why me? Hermione felt like screaming out to whatever controlling force was doing this to her. She settled for letting out all the breath she hadn't realised she had been holding in her lungs.

Suddenly, she felt very dizzy, and leaned on Severus for support.

Fudge was turning towards her, asking something, but she couldn't hear. The blood was pounding in her ears, and it took all her effort to keep breathing. Regular, remember? She told herself. In, out, couldn't be simpler. Then why was it so difficult?

She lurched as the horror of the whole year and tonight washed over her, a surge of conflicting emotions and thoughts, stockpiled fears and hopes, worries and memories, that made her feel like she was drowning in accumulating feelings. She groaned as the baby she carried moved within her, and made a last grab at consciousness as it flowed through her mental fingers like sand.

Finally giving in, she let the darkness take her safe to Morpheus's care, and vaguely felt arms catch her as her knees buckled and her body went limp.

Though she wasn't aware of it, the corridor around her suddenly became as silent as the ether through which she was currently drifting. Neither cold nor warm, neither thin nor cloaking; it just was and was not at the same time. It was nothing and everything, and she floated on, temporarily buffered, until she was ready to return.

In deathly hush, Severus picked up Hermione's unconscious form and moved towards the infirmary. His sense of purpose made him the undeniable leader of the procession, and the rest just followed him tamely.

The grief that exuded from every pore ensured the quiet was maintained longer than reason would have dictated.