Lux Perpetus Luceat Eis

Lux Perpetus Luceat Eis

Written by Sabaye Leyr

Chapter One: Murder, Murder

--

Sweet death has taken
This brave man from us...

Requiem Aeternam...

Friends, take what comfort
That you can from us...

Dona Eis, Domine...

Murder, Murder from Jekyll and Hyde

--

Hogwarts was the last place Hermione Granger had expected to be that day. It was icy, windy and generally depressing and horrid outside. At first, she wouldn't have minded the visit to her former school--Hogwarts was always gorgeous and cheery around this time of year. The circumstances of her trip, however, managed to dim any thought of what warmth a few Yule decorations might bring.

Having worked for a small Wizarding science clinic as a researcher, Hermione was quite adept at putting together the pieces that formed the endless puzzle of life. It was, however, somewhat surprising that it had been her that Dumbledore had summoned, and not an Auror, or even Harry or Ron.

Her hair blew around her in a tangled mass as another blistering wind whipped snow and what felt like tiny daggers into her. She scowled deeply, feeling the beginnings of a foul mood come upon her. Hermione was by no means exempt from morning grumpiness, but this morning had taken the cake.

Sighing in relief as the blurred gray mass that Hogwarts was in the snowstorm came into sight, Hermione quickened her pace and practically ran up the great steps to the wooden doors. She slipped and slid and fell, cursing like a seventh-year, knowing that she really should slow down. A small part of her mind chastised her for looking ridiculous, but she decided she didn't care. No one could possibly see her in this damnable storm--she couldn't see two feet in front of her.

Hermione quickly found the heavy iron rings and tugged on them, ignoring the icy sting the frozen metal gave her already cold-bitten hands. She was incredibly eager to get out of the storm, hence her recklessness. But she was also frightened, curious, and pissy, which made for an unhealthy mixture in Hermione Granger. She wanted to get whatever the hell this quick "research project" for Dumbledore over with, so she could return to her flat in the decidedly less snowy London. A gnawing feeling of loss and guilt sat uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach as well--it was rare one ever saw Dumbledore so exhausted and pained. Seeing Dumbledore in such a state connected her only to bad memories of death, pain, and torture, so she wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on, if only to assuage her own fears.

Slamming the heavy oak doors behind her and brushing snowflakes out of her dark curls, Hermione turned around and let out a soft shriek.

Dumbledore was standing directly behind her, his arms crossed. His eyes were flat, almost empty looking, and his beard hung in a limp, wispy mass. He gave Hermione a small, welcoming smile.

"Sorry, my dear, I did not mean to scare you," he said softly, and Hermione took a deep calming breath.

"It is of no consequence, Headmaster," she replied. She paused when Dumbledore reached out and fondly brushed snowflakes off of her face and shoulders. She gave him an odd look, and his only reply was a grandfatherly pat on the shoulder.

"I am also sorry for calling you away from your research in weather as horrid as this, but I fear my need is quite pressing." He explained, and Hermione nodded again. Dumbledore turned on his heel and motioned for her to follow after him.

"Much of the physical harm of spells leaves no marks, atleast in war," Dumbledore commented, and Hermione gave him a confused look. It was true--war was truly horrible, but wizarding battles were never as bloody in the literal sense of the word as muggle ones. It did not mean they were bloodless--just not as blood splattered as wars fought with swords and knives and guns.

"What do you mean, Professor?" she questioned, dropping the stiff title of 'Headmaster' that she had been using. Her annoyance with the old man was disappearing. In fact, she began to feel slightly shamed that she had been being formal and pissy with this fatherly figure just because he'd woken her up early that morning. Dumbledore sighed.

"You did not see much during the war." Dumbledore continued cryptically as they descended down a flight of stairs. Subconsciously, she noted that they were taking a path down to the dungeons of Hogwarts.

"My dear Hermione, are you bothered by blood?" Dumbledore stopped suddenly at the door to one of the dungeon classrooms--Professor Snape's, to be exact, but Hermione was far too puzzled by the headmaster's behavior to notice.

"Er...not that I know of," She replied a moment later, after thinking it through.

"Good." Dumbledore said, his face twisted into a grim expression. He turned around and shoved open the door to the room he was standing in front of.

Hermione gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth. Her eyes grew wide with horror and her skin paled.

"Oh..." was all she could manage to say before she began to gag violently. Hermione spun around and sprinted down the hallway towards the bathroom, while Dumbledore softly shut the door and waited patiently for her to return.

--

Hermione had gotten over the initial horror and sickness that the sight of the Potions classroom had caused, but she was still almost dizzy with disgust. The tables had been overturned, cauldrons strewn all over the room. The spilled potions had scorched the floor or merely remained spilled all over the stone. The worst part, of course, was the blood. It covered everything. There were splatters on the wall, large quantities of it on the wall and floor, and numerous bloody handprints--prints of lean, long fingered and graceful hands. Torn bits of fabric were scattered about the classroom, along with a mostly incinerated faceless mask.

The mask of a Death Eater.

"Who was in here?" she asked faintly of Dumbledore. She saw a glimmer of tears in his eyes, the pain etched across his features. She fell back slightly, her eyes widening.

"No..." she whispered, and Dumbledore turned away, clearing his throat.

"It seems last night Severus Snape was murdered by Death Eaters."

--

The funeral was fairly simple, albeit larger than most had expected. Severus Snape was an icy, distant man, but he commanded respect amongst some. Mostly those of the Order of the Phoenix, who truly knew all that the man had gone through to further their cause. His death marked the loss of a truly powerful ally, and marked the passing of a man who never had the time to enjoy life. It was very bitter and depressing, to the few who paused to think about that particular aspect to the Potion Master's murder.

Hermione had been to many funerals in the past couple years, much to her own despair. None had been quite as odd as this. The general feeling was of begrudging respect and personal dislike, peppered with the almost fatherly aura of mourning from Dumbledore, the silent pain of Minerva McGonagall, disbelief, and fear as thick as the snow that covered the ground.

If Severus Snape, renowned wizard, could be murdered in a particularly violent fashion in his own warded and guarded quarters, what could happen to the rest of them? The thought left a taste of panic in the air.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, pulling at the black wool cape she had on over her robes. It was very itchy, and kept the cold out but not the wetness of the snow. She'd had to wear it far too much in the past couple years, and was one of her most despised pieces of clothing. Hearing muted whispering behind her, Hermione whipped around and glared at Ron and Harry, who quickly straightened and snapped their mouths shut.

She'd forced Ron and Harry to attend the funeral with her. It would be heinous for them not to come--Snape had done many things for everyone, especially Harry, and Hermione would not allow their disrespect to follow the Professor into death. She had little more feeling for Snape than they did--he was a miserable, cruel bastard, but he was still human. Hermione had a rather stringent set of morals for herself, and one of the highest on the list was respect for the dead.

Dumbledore took a weary step onto the makeshift podium, staring down at the polished ebony of Severus Snape's casket. It was securely warded closed; Hermione had never been able to get the information out of Dumbledore whether he'd ever found Snape's body. It was better, she knew, if he had, that the funeral was closed casket. After the scene of his potions classroom, she had no desire to see what had been done to the man. Hermione unconsciously shuddered at the memory of his handprints plastered on the stone wall in his own blood.

"Many of you will be quite relieved to know that, for once, I have very little to say." Dumbledore spoke softly, but the elements seemed to bend to his will and carried his voice across the field so every person could hear him. There was a suppressed rumble of amusement that quickly died down when Dumbledore's eyes did not twinkle as they usually did when he was poking fun at himself.

"Severus Snape was a powerful man and indispensable to our cause. He was also a very dear friend, and a man of many passions," Dumbledore began, and Hermione felt the familiar feeling of loss well up in her stomach. At times she wondered why she, of all people, had been born during a time of such pain. She knew she was too kind-hearted, too caring and loving, and that was why she could not fight in the war. The pain of others cut deep into her heart, as did the thoughts of the futures that had been destroyed.

"Few knew anything about his passions; Severus was a very private man. He was loyal, and hardworking. Most of all, he held an overwhelming desire to be loved and understood. He did not live long enough to have that desire sated, but he is not alone in his story. From the death of Severus Snape, I ask you all learn that everyone is human. Everyone wants to be loved. Don't push someone aside, or else they will end up in the same cold, unfeeling earth with no one to cry for them. Now, he is, without a doubt, scowling at me and denying everything I have said, and I will not embarrass his memory anymore. Remember that war changes people, for good and for bad. It builds up hatred and calluses where there should be none." Dumbledore stepped down, and motioned for the casket to be lowered into the ground. Then he turned away, tears leaking down his cheeks and into his beard. He dashed them away angrily. He could not lose strength, and so he could not cry. That was how it had to be. And he hated it, because Severus, who had become a son to him, would have no one to cry for his miserable and lost soul.

Hermione bit back a choked sob. Large tears spilled down her cheeks and froze in an icy fringe around her chin and lips. She scrubbed at her face with the coarse surface of the wool, sad and hopeless.

Ron elbowed her. Hermione turned to glare at him, but this time the red-haired man ignored it.

"Why are you crying for him, Hermione?" he asked softly in a surprised voice. His comment was not disrespectful and cruel as she had expected it to be, only shocked.

Hermione sniffed and wiped her face again as Ron pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on her curls.

"It always hurts more when there is a face," she said a moment later, and Ron made a soft sound of agreement.

It always did hurt more when there was a face to connect, because without a face, how can mere names haunt one's dreams?

--

Several days later, Hermione stared dismally at her reflection. Her hair hung in messy, listless curls down to her shoulders. She hadn't been able to sleep for days; her dreams were haunted with faces of people long gone, and unforgettable hands that left unforgettably distinct handprints.

Angrily, Hermione stalked into the kitchen. Why was she such a coward? She hid behind equations, books, and experiments while others braved curses and death. She hated herself. What had she done to deserve being cursed with a heart, something that made her too weak and vulnerable to kill or fight unless in involved her life or the life of those close to her.

In a moment of passion, she whipped open one of the drawers in the kitchen and pulled out a pair of scissors. Large quantities of her dark brown curls floated to the floor, and when Hermione looked out her kitchen window, she could see herself again.

It was raining in torrents; the temperature had warmed enough that it was no longer snow, and in the dim light she saw herself reflected almost perfectly in the gray sheen of the window. Her hair now hung chin length, even bushier and harder to control than it had been before. The lack of the weight of the rest of her hair caused it to bounce and curl, but it gave her a harsher look than the longer, softer locks of her old hair. Hermione decided she liked it.

Waving her wand to clean up the hair, and what she liked to think of as her old life, Hermione poured herself a glass of water.

She was settling into a chair with her glass and large book when there was a knock at her door. Blinking in surprise, she let the book slide off of her lap.

Gripping her want tightly, she came to the door and slowly opened it.

A smile broke across her face when she saw Dumbledore, soaked to the bone. He was looking happier than he had in months, and she didn't know why. Then he stepped aside, his face bright, motioning to the figure behind him.

Hermione stared at both figures with intense curiosity. There was familiarity hanging about the man behind Dumbledore. Quickly she stepped aside and let the two in, shutting the door behind them.

"Evening, Hermione," Dumbledore said cheerily, and she nodded in a stunned response. What was the old codger up to this time?

Hermione turned and walked into the kitchen, pulling another glass down from the shelf. She turned to ask Dumbledore what he wanted, and noticed that the cloaked figure had taken his hood off.

Her eyes widened and she gasped, the glass falling from her hands and shattering into a thousand pieces. Her skin took on the color of parchment and she stared at Dumbledore in disbelief.

Severus Snape stood in her kitchen, looking as sour and dark as he ever had.