I hold the universe when I hold you

10 il buco nero

'March came in like a lion', an idiom she learned as a child and hated more and more as she aged. Hermione was tired of the bone chilling cold. Moreover, Severus had not returned to the Dumbledore house and had sent no messages. All through February and into March, she had not had word from anyone. The Floo chime remained silent though supplies would appear weekly. In the first batch of supplies after Severus' departure, twelve boxes of parchment and six bottles of ink were among the casks of red and white wine.

Hermione sent messages daily, short missives, begging curtly for some news. As the weeks went on, the messages became more persistent in receiving some kind of word from either Severus or Irma. The last she sent the morning of March 20th was demanding.

Hermione was left alone.

The greenhouse was built and all the exterior plantings transferred. She had the time to layer charms on the small structure, expanding it on the inside and installing all she could with what she had to make it rather tidy and slightly impressive. She went so far as to make a small area in the back with trellises of flowers and beds of sphagnum moss to lay on. Hermione spent many hours in the humidity and daylight, staining her fingers and nails black with soil. She understood better why Neville enjoyed Herbology. He, despite his grandmother, had been a lonely child like Harry...like her. Still, talking to plants, caressing the more sentient buds, it was not enough.

Hermione collated all her notes, organizing the parchment on the empty shelves and affixing labels for easy searching. She did all this frowning, knowing that perhaps Severus was angry with her after going through her papers. It had been her fault that she had left them in open view, but she had never expected Severus to snoop. Hermione cringed as she organized all her notes on the Shack on one shelf, knowing that her observations and memories had been thorough, detailed, and potentially brutal to read.

She thought about sending missives of apology. She also thought about popping through the Floo and into his rooms, demanding that he speak with her, talk it out.

Of course, by the 20th, Hermione was brooding, sitting before the fire in the kitchen, back against the stone topped counter, smoking bagweed. She had awoken in a full on panic, grasping her left forearm. Every year since March 20, 1998, she had problems with bouts of panic and flashbacks. Hermione never knew when they would suddenly strike her through the rest of the year, but on that March day, every year, she knew to expect it. And why that day, why that experience and not anything else from that time? Hermione had spoken to a Healer about it, and they figured it had to do with the concentrated violence against her person, the helplessness, the pain, and, of course, the lingering effects of the Cruciatus.

Hermione had taken a Calming Draught after picking at breakfast. It was not helping. The bagweed mellowed her thoughts, but still, her arm itched and her heart would thud painfully and randomly. Staring into the fire, Hermione rested her forearms atop her tented knees, hands dangling with a cigarette between her right fingers. Breathing slowly, carefully, she went through it in her mind.

The Snatchers and Greyback would come. Hermione would slam a Stinging Hex into the faces of Ron and Harry. Greyback would touch her, the boys would protest. There would be an argument about who they were, and eventually, Scabior and Greyback would Apparate them to Malfoy Manor. Wiltshire was cold, just as Godric's Hollow was cold, only in Somerset.

The image of Narcissa Malfoy's face, and the thought that it had not changed much in all the years made her smirk. Of course, now, Narcissa Malfoy was her daughter's in-law...and Lucius. The head of the Malfoy house had been so pathetic, nearly shouting every word while his wife was more calm, composed, and frightening. And then, there was Draco. He could not look at them, look at her, not until his parents demanded he identify them. Only then did he study her face, his eyes wet, his mouth soft. Even then, Hermione felt pity for him. Draco looked as if he wanted to evaporate into the air and be far away from his ancestral home. It was no home, she knew, not of any sort for him then. The years after the War and marrying Astoria, Draco had gutted the manor of everything that was touched by Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange. He had caused his parents to nearly duel him in the rooms when he and Astoria took out whole panels and boards, even windows and marble.