Mea Culpa

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit spin on the works of JK Rowling who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein. No offense is intended, and it is hoped that none will be taken.

I am so astoundingly lucky to have a reassuring and fabulous beta, Leigh-Anne.

5. MEA CULPA

"Miss Grrrranger!" Her r's rolling like Scottish thunder, Professor McGonagall stormed into the chamber in a swirl of plaid. "And – and you, Severrrus!"

A whisk of white behind her and Nearly Headless Nick peeked around her shoulder, stammering. "I beg your pardon, Miss Granger, but she was so distraught that you weren't in your quarters – "

"I thought for a moment that I had been too hard on you," McGonagall said crisply. "Clearly, you found a way to console yourself."

Hermione looked down at her disheveled state of dress. She'd merely pulled the same rumpled jeans and jumper on over her damp skin once she'd decided to speak to Professor Snape. But her skintight jumper didn't cover her navel, and her jeans had worked their way lower on her slim hips than she'd realized, and – cheeks flaming, she tugged things up and down, trying to make them meet in the middle.

Snape, in the meantime, just slouched on the floor. "Thank god." He tipped the firewhisky to his lips again, and watching that throat work, her own went dry. "Please take your little Gryffindor back to your tower, lock her up and lose the key."

Flames of humiliation licked through her and all she wanted to do was run. Run and run and run and never stop, unless and until she found a friendly Dementor ready to kiss her out of her misery.

But before she could flee this disaster that she had brought upon herself, the flames in the fireplace flared, and could it get any worse?

Dumbledore exploded into the room.

Even Snape jerked to his feet, tucked the decanter behind his back and attempted to look sober.

"Professors – the Ministry of Magic has been alerted to improprieties at Hogwarts."

"Malfoy." Snape slammed the decanter on his bedside table and ground out a curse.

"We must have the wedding immediately before they attempt to stop it," Dumbledore continued. "To the Room of Requirement, immediately!"

McGonagall and Snape were halfway to the fireplace when Dumbledore realized Hermione was shrinking against the wall, unnoticed. "Severus, I believe you're forgetting your bride."

Snape looked between them, then with a barely audible snarl returned to grab Hermione by the hand. As Dumbledore attempted to step back into the flames, Snape stopped him with a forceful (if perhaps ill-advised) snag of the older wizard's robes.

"If you don't mind," Snape snapped and pulled Hermione into the flames with a toss of Floo powder. "Room of Requirement!"

And then he shoved her ahead of him, so that she would be the first out of the fireplace and into –

A crypt.

XXX

Clearly, McGonagall was as taken aback as Hermione, but if Dumbledore was surprised, he hid it well. He moved genially toward the black-robed man waiting beneath a torch-lit Norman arch.

But the icy water lapping at their feet and the man – whom Hermione knew all too well – revealed to her immediately where she was.

The flooded crypt at Winchester Cathedral.

"Hermione!" Father Gadbury's eyes looked a little unfocused. Yet his face lit up when he saw her, and he pulled her into his warm embrace. He held her out at arm's length and studied her. "But look what has happened to you since last we visited. You've grown up!"

"Yes, sir." She aimed a smile up at him and hoped her lips weren't quivering as much as her stomach. She looked around at the familiar and eerie surroundings and wondered who in the hell knew about Winchester Cathedral, and why they were in the crypt beneath instead of a chapel, and how on earth they got Father Gadbury to cooperate – if he really was Father Gadbury, that is....

"I'm using the original Cranmer rite," he beamed at her. "I thought our little scholar might approve."

It was indeed Father Gadbury.

Confounded, she looked to Dumbledore for help, but he seemed more intent upon scanning their surroundings, taking them in. So if he didn't choose the setting, who did?

Dumbledore's robes were no longer emerald green shot with orange, but rather somber and dignified, and Professor McGonagall was clad in a quiet grey tartan dress with its long skirt trailing.

And Snape. Snape wore an odd mix of frock coat and waistcoat and trousers – all in black, of course. And odd as the garb was, it looked perfectly normal in a Snape kind of way. He slung a heavy wave of hair out of his face and glared at her.

Which left – she looked down – her own attire.

No longer in jeans, she now had on the most tasteful of long, white dresses, simple and unadorned, and it hit her like a thud in the solar plexus that the Room of Requirement had flat outdone itself.

Professor Dumbledore put his hand on her shoulder. "Quickly dear – we need one more witness. Who...?"

She looked from one expectant face to another, her mind a blank. What was she supposed to do? Just think of someone?

Her rebellious brain was more than ready to flip through a treacherous series of beloved faces she didn't want within five miles of this spot. She seized upon the first safe face that popped into her head.

And with a loud "crack," Hagrid arrived, bent over to keep from bumping his head. "Aw gee, Hermione... " He snuffled and pulled out a huge tablecloth-sized handkerchief. "I allus cry at weddings!"

Snape's look would wither juice-pumpkins on the vine, but Hermione raised her chin in defiance. Hagrid was her friend, damn it. And probably the only one who wouldn't try to stop her.

Professor Dumbledore stood beside Father Gadbury. "Well, then, I believe we are ready."

"Dearly beloved..." began Father Gadbury at the same moment that Professor Dumbledore began an entirely different ritual in a language she didn't even recognize. Words wrapped around her, sonorous and beautiful and ancient, and tears came unbidden to her eyes as she inhaled faint wafts of incense and heard the echoing prayers of centuries of pilgrims and tasted the metallic tinge of magic on her tongue.

The shimmering of wizard tradition twined its silken strands with holy psalm until she felt the bonds whipping between her and the severe man in black as surely as if they were visible.

She cast a cautious glance up at him and caught her breath at his profile, sharp and contoured in the dramatic shadows. He turned to look at her, and his black eyes as they fixed on her were unreadable.

And then the responses were drawn from her lips without effort, sometimes in English and sometimes in that other tongue. Their voices were part of the sensual tapestry woven in those moments, not even broken by Hagrid's loud, sniffling sobs.

Rings were produced from she knew not where. The ring sliding on her finger was too large, a twining of cold, molten metal snakes that tightened and wound around her finger until their two heads met and twisted and melted into one another, leaving behind nothing but a solid gold band.

She lifted it to her lips and without understanding why, touched her tongue to it, tasted it, and it tasted of lightning and spells, and she hoped she remembered that taste for all of her days. She raised her eyes to find Snape staring down at her with those burning black eyes, and she looked away to see his own ring melting into place on his hand, the last whisper of lions' manes shimmering into a smooth band much like hers, only heavier.

And when Father Gadbury wrapped the stole around their joined hands, silvery magical threads and ribbons joined the weaving, and what hath been joined together let man nor wizard tear asunder....

She looked up at the wizard – the stranger – to whom she was now bound and saw his forehead beaded with sweat, his jaw tight with anger.

"You may now kiss..."

His head jerked low to her, his face rigid, and his lips brushed hers with a lightning jolt, barely connecting but burning as if she could taste his pain and rage, a kiss ending almost before begun.

Swallows of the body and the blood.

Signing a thick ancient book.

And it was over.

XXX

Fuck, fuck, fuck, blast it to hell fuck.

He fought the bile that burned the back of his throat, the pain that seared his left forearm, forced himself to stand frozen until the bloody thing was over, willed himself to take her hand, her bloody hell damn it to hell far-too-delicate hand, and pulled her to the fireplace; where was the fireplace? He spun, not caring that his action wrenched her arm and she staggered to stay on her feet.

In all directions – the crypt, walls, arches, shadows. No fireplace.

The priest was walking toward them, smiling –

Albus not noticing anything was wrong –

"... hope you don't mind our little surprise..." the priest was saying as he motioned to the stone steps that would take them back up to the Nave.

But he didn't want the bloody Nave; he was looking for the fireplace, the way back to his quarters.

He gasped as the mark burned hotter. Started for the stone steps, dragging her with him. And as they reached the top –

Tourists, goddamned tourists waiting in line for their crypt tour, applauding and tossing rice. Oh, what a clever entertainment we have provided you today.

A shimmer of magic, and they burst through to the hallway outside the Room of Requirement.

But as he started running, dragging her with him, there was another shimmer, and they were back in the cathedral, running down the North Aisle, tromping over Jane Austen's headstone, and then, in a burst of desperation, he yanked out his wand – "Finite Incantatem!" – and ran straight into the wall –

They burst through to the entrance hall of Hogwarts.

"What – how did –" Hermione gasped beside him, but he couldn't stop now, couldn't explain, not with the Dark Lord demanding his presence, which he could not – would not – do until the last bond, the last bloody bond was sealed, damn them all to the lowest level of hell.

He pulled her down the stairs to the dungeons, and deeper, deeper, until they could enter his quarters, and he could set the wards to seal them off from the world, and when he'd warded the fireplace and turned to face her, she was staring at him through huge eyes filled with confusion and wariness.

Blast.

Fucking bloody hell.

He had no time to coddle virgins.

He squeezed his eyes closed, fought down the acid in the back of his throat, fought the strengthening demands of the Dark Lord on his flesh – how the ruddy hell was he going to do this?

Do this to her, barely more than a child?

When the pain racking through him closed off any pleasure centers he might ordinarily rely on to get him through it?

He staggered to his cabinet, rummaged through a few vials with shaking hands, finally found the ones he'd readied, and turned to give it to her –

She'd stripped off her jeans and sweater, now that the glamoured white dress had faded into memory, and had her back to him as she folded them with trembling hands.

Seeing the boy-cut briefs low on her hips, the white bra, he let out a low groan. She turned, caught him staring at her, a deer in the headlights.

Was there anything she could have done, any goddamn thing, to make herself look more of a schoolgirl? He flicked his wand, replacing it all with black lace. Winced, flicked again, saw it mold into peach silk. Flicked again and left her naked.

She blushed, first reaching to cover herself, then, lowering her arms and raising her face to him. She was saying something – the roar in his ears deafened him, he didn't know what she was saying, couldn't hear over his pain, over the blood rushing in his body, burning and boiling and threatening to knock him to his knees.

Time. He had no time. Already, he'd waited too long.

Already, he was facing the wrath of the Dark Lord for interfering, but he couldn't – gasping for air – couldn't go, couldn't leave without –

He grabbed her, tried – tried not to hurt her – laughed bitterly (was he really laughing or was that the voice inside his head laughing?) that he should even play the game of not hurting her.

And then they were on his bed, him struggling to loosen his trousers, to free himself – what was she doing? She was – she was –

Kissing him.

Salt.

He tasted salt.

She was weeping.

"I'm so sorry...."

What was she saying?

"... all my fault..."

And he had to shut her up, he had to close his mouth over hers and stop her before she destroyed what will he had to complete this bloody farce.

He reached down between them, probed, found her dry, of course, as dry as the bloody Sahara, but what else could he have expected, and dipped his fingers between her folds to find her moisture, to spread it, to slicken the way – felt her twitch around him, gasp in his mouth, and knew the bitter irony that she would get no more satisfaction than that from him this night.

He poised at her opening, pushed his head in it, and pulled out. Next time, pushed further, and withdrew again. Felt her tensing beneath him and knew a moment's rage and guilt as he gritted his teeth and braced himself and let the roar take him so that maybe, maybe he wouldn't hear her scream –

And before he could move, he felt her shift beneath him, her eyes hollowed and wide as she stared up at him and –

Damn her to hell, she was trying to help but was doing everything wrong –

She grabbed his forearms and shoved herself forward –

He plunged into her in a spasm of agony as her fingers dug into the Dark Mark. His arm – his arm – his arm – And he felt ejaculate spurt from him, but felt no pleasure. Only pain - the pain - the pain –

The scream he heard was his.

What hath been joined together let no one tear asunder.

It was finished.

They couldn't have lain there more than a minute, but it felt a tortured forever as he fought for air, for words to speak, and realized there were no words, there was no time.

He took the other vial of potion and tossed it beside her as he made a half-attempt to tuck his shirt in, leaving it half out. "For – for the pain," he rasped. And then, as he grabbed his hated robe and mask from a hidden drawer in the old oak wardrobe, and saw the potion still beside her, he snapped, "Drink it!"

He uncorked the vial and forced her mouth open and tilted it to her lips until she choked and coughed and swallowed, tears streaming.

"Do not let anybody in. Do not speak to anyone. Do not leave. Do not – do not –" he choked... "Anybody."

She lay there, her legs closed, but blood visible beneath her and he winced. He tossed her another vial. "Use it," he snapped. "Internal and –" His arm, his fucking arm – "and external."

And as he left the chambers and the stones reformed behind him, he heard it again.

"I'm so sorry...."

And felt his lips twist in a familiar bitter twist.

I'm sure you are, Miss Granger. I'm sure you fucking are.

#

She fell back on the bed.

The events of the past twenty-four hours spun in her head, an ever-tightening vortex that ended with her here, tangled in sheets that smelled of him, her head buried in a pillow that still bore the imprint of his head from – when, two nights before?

All she could do was breathe in his scent and suffer the torment of the damned because she was so guilty, so damned selfish and stupid and guilty, and what had she done? What had she brought about?

Her last thought before she succumbed to the potion he'd poured down her throat ...

Never had she felt so safe.

She slept.

#

He cast one last glance over his shoulder before entering the Forbidden Forest. Nobody watching, nobody to see.

Once in, he didn't have too far to go before he was hidden from view and could drop to his knee, bow his head, and touch his wand to the Dark Mark on his arm –

And give himself over to his fate.

~~~~~

I'm greatly honoured to have been given this collage which was created by a Russian reader, Polina. The crypt, the bride, the groom (and the body!). And the mood is exquisite.

A/N More about this chapter here:

http://miamadwyn.livejournal.com/5134.html