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Resonare Mortis by Laralee [Reviews - 8]

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Characters are property of J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter Universe. Thankfully, she allows me to borrow them for a bit of fun.



Resonare Mortis


Chapter I
Delving


The sound of the rain should have been soothing, and any other night it would have been, but not tonight. Tonight, as I lie wrapped in my blanket, the sound is maddening. It seems to assault my bedroom window with more force than necessary. Perhaps it is my lack of sleep or my perpetual state of annoyance, but I can't find the tiny droplets of water peaceful, nor can I understand how something so small and insignificant can grate so heavily on my patience.

I toss restlessly as I pull my flannel blanket up to my chin. Everything grates on my patience lately. Stress was never usually a problem for me but, since starting my latest project, it seems to have weaselled its way into every facet of my life. Closing my eyes, I allow my mind to wander to my newest obsession—something I never normally permit myself to do while in bed because sleep would never come if I did. With the endless pounding of the rain against the thin pane of glass above my head, it seems like the lesser of two evils. I can do nothing about the weather, but perhaps I can reach some great epiphany with my book.

Dead ends are something I loathe, and I have managed to find myself standing right in the middle of one. That was never the intention, of course, but I am there nonetheless. Following the war that seemed to swallow up most of my childhood and the lives of those close to me, I decided it was necessary to tell people the real story. Fabricated versions found their way to the media outlets, painting us all as these god-like creatures that could stare evil in the face without so much as a flinch. None of that was true. We were scared, we were running on fumes, and we fought out of necessity. Those who fought in the war, myself included, knew fear and we knew death. It seemed like a terrible crime to forget everything we went through for the sake of being a household name. From there, my idea was born. I was determined to tell the story as it should be told, grisly details and all, because that is simply the way war is. Once I put quill to parchment, I never looked back.

Thinking of those same sheets of parchment that litter my kitchen table just downstairs makes my stomach turn. I had stumbled into something without truly considering the measures I would have to go to get the information I needed. That is what irritates me the most. Although I always plan my endeavours thoroughly before beginning, this particular undertaking has proven to be more daunting than I originally thought. I feel the twinge of tension roll over me as my face grows hot. I'm angry at myself for not really thinking this through. I feel that a lot lately. Mistakes with something as important as this are unacceptable, yet I can't seem to find a way to dig myself out of this hole without going deeper into the ground. It is infuriating. Realising that it is hopeless to dwell on the details of my book at such an hour, I haul myself out of bed. I need tea and a clear head.

As I make my way out of my darkened bedroom, my mind can't seem to steer clear of the current problem plaguing my writing. I need details, evidence, and primary sources. I need testimonies of people who gave the ultimate sacrifice to see the war end in our favour. There are only so many lengths a person can go to gather the information they require, especially when the primary source has been dead for nearly five years. Writing from my memory will only hold out for so long as I discovered just today while trying to finish the latest instalment. I step over a leather-bound notebook, remembering with a slight grin how I had hurled it down the hall just hours before out of agitation, then I stop before I can take another step. Throwing the book, in retrospect, was a silly thing to do, but it felt good to watch it fly end over end across the room. It was almost like throwing away a bit of my frustration, even if only for a moment. I turn and scoop the book off the floor and make my way into the kitchen. I've got work to do.

Thankfully, the pot of tea I had fixed not an hour before is still warm. I take it from the cooker and snatch a teacup from the drying rack near the kitchen sink, as I make my way to the table. The remaining tea will most likely be finished off before the hour is up and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at that thought. After pouring myself a cup, I start to thumb through the booklet of parchment to find the piece of information that offended me so deeply this past evening. It doesn't take long to find, and I immediately frown when I read the name written at the top of the page. It's none other than Severus Snape.

As I scan the parchment, carefully reviewing my notes, everything on the page seems to rush back into my mind, and I can picture myself standing at the gates of Hogwarts just this evening.

"Hermione!" I recognise the overly Scottish brogue of the Headmistress's voice. Turning on my heel, I spot her striding toward me with a welcome smile on her face. As she nears, Minerva flourishes her wand, and the heavy gates in front of me creak open. "It's good to see you, my dear."

"It's a pleasure to be back." The beginning of a ridiculous smile sweeps across my face, confirming my sentiment. I could never get enough of this place, and it's a welcome surprise to feel the magic of the grounds creep over me as I step across the threshold and onto the path. As asinine as it sounds, it almost feels like coming home. "Thank you, Professor, for meeting with me on such short notice."

Minerva nods sagely and takes my arm, intertwining it with hers as we start down the path toward the castle. "I have to admit when I received your letter I was a bit confused as to why you requested such a thing," the older witch explains. "No one has ever asked for such a privilege, and I am curious as to why you are the first."

Smilingly slightly, I use my free hand to fish my notes from my bag. Thankfully, I've rehearsed this in my mind several times. "I'm writing a book," I say as I hand her the small bound book of parchments. "A book that, when it's finished, will shed light of the sacrifices people made—their true sacrifices."

Minerva drops my arm and takes the book from my hand. I watch her face as she starts to leaf through it. "All of the fallen." Her tone is dripping with sorrow. It is unsettling to witness such strong emotion from her.

Nodding my head, I continue to explain myself. "I'm running out of options, Professor. My research has come to a standstill, and I need a first-hand account to finish this last section."

Minerva flips to the last item in the book, casting me a sceptical look. I wonder if she can detect the nervousness I am failing to contain at the thought of confronting Professor Snape. "You wish to speak to Severus, then?"

"That was what I was hoping for, if it can even be arranged." I shove my hands in the pockets of my denims to keep from fidgeting. There was no reason to be nervous, but that didn't stop me from trying.

"It can be arranged, Hermione," Minerva said with a solemn face. For a moment, I wonder why she looks upset, then she adds, "but I'm afraid you are going to be disappointed with what you find."

That was no surprise, of course. Severus Snape was never a wizard I would have had a casual conversation with. He was a difficult man and equally secretive when it came to his life. Now, given Minerva's statement, it appears as though that fact holds true even in his death.

Regardless, I was curious as to why she thought I would be disappointed. "I'm not sure what you mean, Professor. I know Professor Snape likes his privacy, but maybe once he sees what it is I'm doing, he will give me something of consequence. You've, no doubt, seen
Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?"

"I've seen it," Minerva manages to grind out. Apparently she isn't a fan either. "The man in that book is not Severus, and Rita Skeeter should be ashamed of herself for claiming that it is."

"Exactly, and that is why I am doing this. People should know the truth and not just about Professor Snape, but everyone else as well. Lupin died a monster and Sirius a murderer."

Minerva smiles at me, although the gesture carries a touch of melancholy. I recognise the look because it was one I receive quite frequently when my book is the topic of discussion. "People should know the truth, but that doesn't mean they'll accept it easily, my dear."

"If they do not accept it, then they do not deserve it," I reply pointedly as we climb the stone steps leading to the castle. I haven't the slightest idea where that exclamation came from, though I suspect it is my annoyance with the entire situation trying to claw its way to the surface. Minerva casts a disbelieving look in my direction. "It's just I think people need to have access to the truth, is all," I say.

"You should tread with caution, Hermione. Telling people what they believe is wrong is a sure way to get the door slammed in your face or tarnish on your own reputation." For some reason, that seems like a warning of sorts. The Headmistress is right, of course, and the thought does cross my mind on occasion, but is it fair of me to hide the truth for the sake of what people would think of me? I struggle to answer that question on a daily basis.

"I am not going to force feed people," I clarify softly. "I'm only going to fill the dinner plate and sit it in front of them. Whether or not they choose to delve in is up to them."

Minerva's slight chuckle fills the air around me. "Then let us hope they eat their fill and ask for seconds."

When we enter the castle, a wave of nostalgia floods over me as I follow Minerva toward her office. I pass by row after row of the same portraits and hear the familiar sound of students heading to their classes. In a few moments, we have reached the Headmistress's office. Minerva utters a password and we are admitted entry. The office, I notice, is not much different than when Dumbledore inhabited it. I suspect that is no coincidence. The two of them are more alike than most people realise.

"Here it is," Minerva tells me in a voice that projects nervousness and frustration. The image of the man that I watched die in the Shrieking Shack is unmistakable. He sits in a chair motionless except for an occasional blinking of his cold, black eyes. I approach his portrait with caution. Passed through the Veil five years and two-dimensional to boot, the wizard still makes me skittish.

"H… Hello, Professor Snape. It's me, Hermione Granger, sir. I… I wondered if I could ask you a few questions. That is, if you're not busy." Cripes, how stupid I must sound. Busy? What on earth could he have to do? Nevertheless, I maintain eye contact, hoping to receive some answer from him. I wait several moments, but Snape says nothing. His eyes bore into mine. I have no idea whether he's trying to convey some message telepathically or merely intimidate me. Whatever his intention, it is the latter that he achieves.

I cast a look of utter confusion toward Minerva. She's sitting at her desk with her hands folded under her chin. Her eyes meet mine for an instant, but she looks away quickly. I turn back to Professor Snape's portrait to give it another try. "Professor, can you hear me? Do you remember me? Please say something." He does not oblige my request. He just keeps staring right through me.

I realise it is useless and take a seat across from Minerva. This isn't going as I had planned. "Maybe he doesn't remember me. I'm sure I look quite different than when he saw me last. It's been a few years." What a pathetic excuse that is, but that is the best I can come up with.

"He remembers you, dear. Severus was not the type of person to forget things. Why do you think he was such a keen potioneer?"

"What is wrong then? Why won't he answer me?"

"He never answers, Hermione," Minerva explains sympathetically. "That's what I was trying to tell you."

My eyes travel back to Professor Snape's portrait and I blink heavily, thinking my eyes are playing some cruel joke. He's not there. "Where did he go?"

"To another portrait I would imagine," Minerva says without taking her eyes off me. Obviously, this isn't news to her. "Severus doesn't stay in his frame for more than two days. I suspect he has found a portrait near his old classroom. It is obvious he feels more… at ease elsewhere than he does here, but his obligation as an advisor to the current Headmaster keeps him bound to that frame permanently. He can leave but only for a while."

I'm out of my seat before I can stop myself. Walking around Minerva's desk, I come to stand directly in front of the abandoned portrait. The leather chair painted near the corner looks familiar, and I recognise it is similar to one that sat in his classroom all those years ago. The rounded table next to the chair also sparks a memory. It used to belong in his office. It struck me as odd that he wouldn't be content surrounded by the things familiar to him, but then again, he is Severus Snape—an enigma in his own right.

"He doesn't speak to you or any of the other portraits?" I ask as I study the details of the canvas.

"Never to me, nor have I seen him speak with any of the other former Headmasters."

"That doesn't seem peculiar to you?" My brow furrows as I try to process everything I've seen. A portrait that refuses to accept itself as a portrait! It is bizarre but fascinating all the same. Could anything like that truly exist?

The closeness of Minerva's voice causes me to jump slightly, and I notice she's now standing by my side. "It does, and I've had his portrait checked multiple times for any anomalies. The artist swears by it. He is not frozen in place as you can clearly see. For whatever reason, Severus chooses not to converse of his own free will."

Reaching out, I touch the engraved frame of the portrait with the tip of my fingers. The wood grain is rough under my touch. Something is off, but what it is escapes me. "How long does he stay away?"

Minerva clears her throat. Is she trying not to cry? "Long enough to sort himself straight. Once Severus disappears, it's an hour or so before he returns. When he returns, he stays for a little under forty-eight hours before he vanishes again." I can tell she feels a bit sorry for him. Honestly, part of me feels the same way. To be trapped in a place you can't escape must be madness. I shake that thought from my mind before it manages to snake its way deeper into me and sink in its teeth. The last thing I need to do is paint Severus Snape in some pitiful light.

Minerva's hand is on my shoulder, and she pats me like a child. I suppose I should find it comforting, but it seems like a consolation prize, as if I've been defeated yet again. "I really am sorry that I couldn't help you, Hermione. Truly, what you are doing is an admirable thing, and I hope you find what you're looking for to make it a success."

"I'll just keep looking." The words taste bitter when they dance across my tongue. I feel like I should smile, but I can't seem to make the muscles in my face feign any semblance of contentedness. I am not happy, and I am no closer to the information I need than I was when I arrived. When did this book start to feel like a braided noose tied around my neck? "I'm going to check other sources," I lie, trying to sound like I'm not thinking about kicking the chair out from under myself to be done with it. I've exhausted every possible lead with regards to Severus Snape, forever trapping myself in my self-made dead end.

Minerva removes her glasses, folds them neatly, and places them in the pocket of her robes. She's still staring at Professor Snape's portrait when she speaks to me. "Have you seen his memories?"

Now I laugh. The premise is so absurd it's hard to believe I didn't think of it myself. "In all honestly, Professor, the thought never crossed my mind. It's an even deader end than this. After all, they are considered classified official Ministry business. Only those with access to them can view them."

My former professor shook her head, trying to conceal her amusement. "Hermione, you have an Auror living in your pocket! Make use of him!"

I wince inwardly when I realise she's talking about Harry. "I doubt Harry could even get me what I needed."

"Poppycock! Potter is practically head of the Auror's office, and I'm sure he does as he pleases."

In my head, going to Harry seems like a waste of time, because what happened at Hogwarts almost five years ago isn't something he likes to discuss at great length. Perhaps it's worth a shot. The odds might be in my favour given his current position. Although Gawain Robards was still officially the head of the Auror Office, Harry is in charge of most of the day-to-day duties and, therefore, enjoys a great number of privileges within the Ministry. He would almost certainly be able to get his hands on the information I needed, but would he be willing to hand them over to me for examination given his past reluctance?

"I suppose you're right," I say as I walk back to the chair to retrieve my satchel. "I'm just disappointed that I couldn't talk to the man himself."

"I am disappointed too," Minerva explains as she sees me to the door. "It would be nice to hear his voice, even if it is laced with some cynical comment."

"Thank you, Professor, for a moment of your time." I extend my hand to her, and she looks at it a moment before she wraps her arms around me instead.

"Call me, Minerva," the witch corrects as she loosens her hold. "And if you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

I smile as I feel my black mood vanish. It's difficult not to be in a pleasant frame of mind around Professor McGonagall because, somehow, she always knows what to say to me. "I'll be sure to let you know, Minerva."


The bound book of parchment drops from my hand, landing on the table with a dull thump. Sighing heavily, I settle myself into the kitchen chair but, in my agitation, I don't stay seated for long. I know what I have to do. Retreating to my study which, much to my chagrin, is in a far worse state than my kitchen with parchments and files covering the desk and tea table. I grab the first clean sheet of parchment I can find and a quill and inkpot. When I've procured what I need, I leave the room once more in search of a less cluttered and more comfortable place to pen my letter to Harry.

I decide on the settee in the sitting room. It's the least offending room in terms of cleanliness. I stare at the blank parchment for what feels like an eternity trying to gather my thoughts. Why is this so hard? Harry is my oldest and dearest friend; the words should come naturally. Finally, I conquer my nervousness and touch quill to parchment.

Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I have a favour to ask of you. As you know, I am writing a book about the Second Wizarding War. The problem is I've come to a dead end of sorts. I was wondering if you could help me find some information about Professor Snape's role in the war. I figure that many of the documents might be privileged, and I thought maybe you could help me gain access to them. Please let me know as soon as you can.

Yours,

Hermione


I read and reread the letter several times. It's not perfect, but it serves its purpose. I seal the letter in an envelope and retrieve my owl from her cage. After affixing the letter to her leg and opening the window, I realise how exhausted I am. I need sleep desperately. I don't bother putting away my tea things or writing supplies as I barely make it to my bed before I collapse with my face in my pillow.

It feels like only a few minutes before a pounding at my door stirs me from my sleep. Who in the world would be knocking at my door in the middle of the night, I wonder before looking at the clock and realizing that it is seven in the morning. I get out of bed and glance in the mirror. Merlin, I look a mess. I try to tame my hair on the way to answer the door although I know there is no use. Looking through the peephole in the door, I see Harry standing on the other side.

"Harry," I say as I open the door. "Sorry I look like such a wreck. I haven't been getting much sleep, and you sort of woke me up." I give him an embarrassed smile.

"Did I?" Harry asks sarcastically. "I suppose I should have waited until two in the morning and sent an owl to peck on your window."

"Sorry about that," I say sheepishly. "I didn't realise how late it was."

Harry shakes his head. "No worries. Anyway, what kind of information do you need on Professor Snape?"

"I'm afraid it is a bit of a long story," I begin as I open the door for him to pass through. "We can talk over tea if you have a few moments to spare."

Harry brushes past me as he shrugs out of his coat. "I've got a few minutes, but only if you have those glazed lemon biscuits I like." He tosses his coat on the sofa and turns for the kitchen.

"It's seven in the morning, Harry," I call after him, trying to hide my amusement. "Don't you think it's a little early for sweets?"

"Of course I don't," Harry responds as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. I pull some biscuits from the cupboard and sit them on a plate in front of him. "So, what do you need?" he asks through a mouthful of biscuit.

"Well, as you know, I'm writing a book about the war. I feel like Snape played such a big role in the war that I have to include him. The trouble is I don't have any information about him. I thought some of his memories may be on file at the Ministry."

"Probably," Harry says as he stuffs another biscuit into his mouth. "But they're confidential. You know how I hate breaking rules, Hermione." I give him an incredulous look. Clearly, I haven't been awake long enough to detect sarcasm.

He takes a deep breath, scooting the empty saucer toward me. "You want the entire file?"

My mouth falls open, and for a second I think my sleep-deprived mind is playing a terrible joke on me. "Just like that?" I ask before I realise what I'm saying.

"Just like what?"

"You've never told me anything."

"I know, but I can see this is important to you," Harry says quietly. "Besides, it's time people knew the truth."

"You could just tell me," I suggest, trying to make it easier on him.

Harry removes his glasses and cleans them on the hem of his shirt. I seem to have finally managed to make him uncomfortable. "I'd rather not, Hermione."

"Fair enough, but can you get me the entire file, memories and all?"

For a moment, Harry looks offended, then his expression softens. "Can I get the file she says. Of course I can get the file! Question is, how bad do you want it?"

I fold my arms across my chest. "Harry, I don't really have time for all this. Can you get me what I need or not?"

"It's going to cost you, Hermione. I'm putting my stellar reputation at risk, you know." A grin crosses his face. He's being obstinate; determined to repay me for my early morning disturbance.

I stalk back to the cupboard and retrieve the tin of biscuits. I sit them in front of him, "Is this sufficient payment, Mister Potter?"

Harry opens the tin and sees that it is nearly full. "It'll do. I'll send a package over this afternoon… or perhaps around two tomorrow morning. I haven't decided yet. Either way, I need to get back to the office."

He gets up and puts on his coat. "Thank you, Harry," I say as I wrap my arms around him. "I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," he says as he returns my embrace. He shakes the tin I've given him. "And thanks for these." He turns and exits, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a mound of biscuit crumbs to clean off my kitchen table.



Author's Notes: While I hope you enjoy this story (and I believe you will), I should warn you that it is not for the faint of heart. This story is rated mature for a reason, as there are strong images of death throughout. That being said, it is not my intention to frighten anyone away, but to merely make you aware of the world you are about to step into. Also, a very special thank you to Meladara for her keen eye. And to Anoesis who worked very quickly to Britpick this tale. As always, reviews are welcomed and greatly appreciated! Happy reading to all!


Resonare Mortis by Laralee [Reviews - 8]

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