Obiter Dictum

4

Unable to sleep, the young witch wandered from her room. The corridor was eerily silent, though she knew the host could not have possibly yet gone to bed.

Footsteps on the stairs coming down alerted her that she was correct in her assumption.

She came face to face with Daphne. She was carrying down her empty teacup, heading to the kitchens. "Oh, hello," she said kindly, taking in her former classmate. "Not asleep yet? I can understand that. New bed, new house,"

Hermione nodded slowly. "Something like that," she mumbled, her hand resting on the railing.

The blonde pushed her hair away from her face, busying herself at the stove as she prepared the kettle. "I like to make my own tea, it's silly, I know-"

The Gryffindor shook her head, smiling. "Not at all," she replied. "Ritual. I understand. The manual things are the most calming. The most real. I know that,"

And it was true. She had always preferred to do things herself, by hand. As much as she could. Even more so after the war. It brought her a sense of peace, of comfort. To know that there were things she could accomplish without magic.

It was partially the reason she had taken the apprenticeship under the Potions' Master. The manual practice of brewing and creating another form of magic was at once fascinating and soothing.

She had often wondered if it was that aspect of the practice that kept the man sane.

Opening her mouth to speak again, the curly-haired witch was distracted by the quiet, distant sound of humming. The melodic whisper of song floating from the top of the stairs, coming down the hall. She turned to it, her every thought pausing.

"Lovers and children and copper and tin. Medhel, oh, medhel an gwyns,"

Daphne sighed, a small smile gracing her face. Before the other woman could ask, the Aupair spoke up. "The Professor... His wife would sing to them. The children. He hasn't sung to them in a long time. He only does when he's in a good mood. It's been quite a while since he last did,"

Enchanted by the sound, she listened for a moment longer, basking in the rich hymn seeping through the floorboards. "I know that song," she whispered, worried it would cease if she spoke any louder.

"Dreams like the castles that sleep in the sand. Medhel an gwyns, medhel an gwyns,"

The Slytherin's smile grew. "Me too. My mum used to sing it to me when I was little. The children prefer a very short list of songs that the Missus used to grace their little ears with,"

"Slip through the fingers or held in the hand. Medhel, oh, medhel an gwyns,"

Finally turning back to the other woman, Hermione blinked a few times, trying to not be entirely enraptured. "Did you ever meet her? I mean, we went to school together, I know. I just wonder if you ever had the chance," She accepted a cup of tea from her.

Daphne shook her head. "I would have thought you of all people would have, if anyone. Well, maybe Potter," she cleared her throat. "Emmeline Vance, her name,"

The cup slipped from between her fingers, landing on the floor with a cracking sound. The singing stopped then. Everything seemed to still.

"Hermione?"

Daphne's voice was far away then.

Emmeline Vance?

The quiet witch that had attended a few meetings at Grimmauld Place? The one that had escorted Harry from the Dursleys before their fifth year?

The witch...

The witch that had been killed down the street from the Muggle Prime Minister's home?

That Emmeline Vance?

She was Madam Snape?

Oh, dear.

Oh, dear indeed.

Hermione turned to the other woman in Snape's employ. "I did meet her..." Her fingers came to her mouth as she began to tremble. "Oh, dear gods, that poor man,"

The house elf had appeared at the sound of the fallen cup, sweeping it away with a wave of her fingers.

Confused, Daphne pressed further. What did she know to bring on this sort of reaction?

The brightest witch of her age sat down shakily, very much aware of the uncomfortable quiet that had settled over the entire house. Even the warm thrum of magic had turned cold. It was waiting. Waiting, as Daphne was, with bated breath. Lurking quietly behind them, weighing heavily as Hermione struggled to form the right words in the proper order.

No.

No, no. This was wrong.

This was wrong.

They were told Snape had been responsible for her death.

The apprentice nearly threw up, her heart pounding. Anticipation crawling along her skin, threatening to wrap around her throat and suffocate her.

The house seemed ready to pounce. To jump on her and swallow her whole as she came to the full realisation of the situation.

Of how utterly and completely disgusting and convoluted it all was. How utterly appalling and vile it truly had been.

"Hermione, what is it? You're worrying me," said the blonde.

A low, slow voice joined them from around the corner. How long he had been standing there, neither could be sure. What he had heard and witnessed. One thing Hermione was certain of was that he had been responsible for the change in the magic around them. The considerably darker atmosphere that threatened to grasp onto her, consume her. The darkness in this man was nowhere near gone. He was still every bit as dangerous as he always had been, and she would never again doubt the potency of it. "Yes, Miss Granger," he purred, his tone menacing as he slinked about the room, his eyes hard, holding her. "What is it?"

She let out the breath she had subconsciously been holding, the wall halting her from speaking coming down like a bursting dam. "The entirety of our world thinks you killed your wife,"