Disclaimer: Still not mine.

It was never supposed to be this way, she thought as she looked at the children around her. Her oldest, little Sasha, was only ten, and her youngest was a newborn curled in her arms. She eyed her baby. His birth had caused her much pain, and it was the closest she had ever come to dying. Screams had torn through her bleeding body as he insistently slid into the light of day, and she swore she saw Lord Death by her side waiting to take her to his dark realm. He observed her greedily concealed in his black cloak, sharpened silver scythe in hand. Now, while looking upon her son, she felt only love for the small, helpless creature resting in her arms. His visage was pale just like his father's face and his hair black and straight, but his eyes were hers. They were big, brown and pleading.

Eleven years ago when she married him, she never anticipated she would feel love, at least not for him, and not for his children. But she did. She loved each and every one of her four children dearly. One look at their angelic faces was enough to make her smile, even as they gave her a headache from their screaming and their fighting. And her husband, dark and brooding, had grown on her. As they lived together, she learned to read his subtle nuances. She could tell when he was tired, upset, or sad. She knew when he was happy even though he never smiled. She just knew. She knew he loved their children as much as she did, and it was that love that made her fall in love with him.

She was a song bird trapped in a gilded cage. Her wings were clipped, ensuring she could never fly free of this life and of him. Her voice, sweet and full of sorrow at lost innocence, could still bring a smile to loving lips. The sorrowful caged bird could still sing so sweetly to make others happy while simultaneously bringing them to tears. The bird, trapped in the cage for so long could no longer escape, even if let free. It wouldn't escape, for it was too dependent on its captor.

As much as she despised her cage, she wouldn't leave. She didn't want to leave the man who kept her at home as she cared for his children while he worked to bring home their food and clothes. She didn't want to leave the man who labored to provide their shelter. All these years, she was trapped. At first, her only comfort was that he had no choice either. The law forced the marriage upon him too, and he felt sorry for her still, she knew. So she could not despise him. In fact, as they grew to know each other better, her unable to leave his home, she grew to care for him. His silent brooding was normal, but that didn't mean he didn't care for her. In his own way, he did, and she for him.

Her heart beat faster each time he had come to her. Eagerly, she let him into her embrace, into her world, because without him, she was completely alone, abandoned by all her friends after her wedding day.

He would come to her in the secrecy of the night as man to a woman. She would explore with him, the only pleasure given to her in her monotonous existence. Her talent, her brains, wasted away from misuse and neglect, and she was powerless to resist. Yet even so, she found comfort in his gentle caresses, his searing looks as he showed her pleasure, for that's what their nightly rendezvous came to be.

He never came to her in daylight. It was always under the cover of the night. The darkness distorted the world and concealed the true horror of their scars from the other, concealed the physical reminders of mental pain. She could barely see him so ensheathed was he by the darkness above her, below her, beside her. It was all around. The night was a blindfold over her chocolate brown eyes, heightening each touch, each sound, each taste. Only in the secrecy of the darkness was she a wound clock, muscles coiled and clenched tightly in preparation for the uncontrollable spasm that would shake her to the very core, yet still leave her longing for more.

Some nights, he was gentle and soft, and she could feel her love for him returned as he stared at her, unblinkingly, with passionate, hungry eyes, a fire that could only be quieted, tamed, by the cool water in hers, each of their moves slow and purposeful. Other nights he would be forceful and domineering, possessing her in a way she could not resist. Not that she would resist, even if she could. She loved the way he claimed her body, forcing her very soul to submit to his will. He was the serpent that crushed the song bird. She despised him for it, which made her love him all the more.

It didn't matter how he came, because with the man she loved there, she could, for a brief moment in her flickering existence, forget her pain and heartache, and revel in the indescribable feelings inspired by the man she loved.

She loved him. It was as simple as that. She loved her captor, unfathomable as it may be. Tears welled in her eyes, not an unfamiliar feeling from her marriage of eleven years. The salty wetness left her cheeks wet and her eyes red and blotchy, but it didn't matter anymore. It was nothing new, nothing unusual. It was expected.

"Mummy, what's wrong?" a sweet voice asked from the floor.

"It's nothing, Sasha, my darling" Hermione cooed to her oldest daughter.

"When is daddy going to return?" Her child's voice was so innocent, so oblivious to the horrors of the real world. She longed to return to that time too, when she was a child and could find comfort in her own mother's embrace and loving words. But not now. Now she was the mother who must shield her own children from pain and sorrow no matter how she, herself, felt. And she would. She was determined they would never have to suffer the same fate as her. Damn the law and damn the ministry. Even if they would be cast out of society, they would marry for love.

"Your father's not coming home" she said monotonously, because it was true. As much as it pained her it was true. He was never returning home. He would never again walk through the doors of her gilded prison bringing news of the outside world she could not reach out and touch. He would never again come to her in the night and show her that he cared. He would never fill the house with the light of his darkness, just as he could never say the words, the three little words, that would mean the world to her. She knew he had felt it anyways, but it was always a knife embedded deeply into her chest, slipping through the narrow walls of her ribs to pierce her lungs and heart, rendering her speechless while her heart still sounded. She had never heard it even while they cuddled, sticky sweat and tangled hair mingling on dampened sheets. But deep inside, he loved her too.

Now there was no chance of such a future. His body was cold, still, stolen by Lord Death. She was alone, widowed with children, a fate she once desired above all else. It was a fate where she could regain her freedom. On the night of her marriage, she would have longed for this fate, the bliss of finally being free on restored wings. But now that it came to pass, her crystalline heart shattered into a million tiny pieces no larger than specks of dust.

She missed him already. Her tears were evidence of that. She was free, if she desired it. She could leave, and no one would stop her. She was free to leave the prison of his home and move on, reclaim her life, her friends and her sanity. She could work again and immerse herself in books and learning, gaining the knowledge that would bring her the power she never wielded. But she couldn't. Not anymore. Her spirit had slowly been dulled with age, as rocks wore smooth by the gentle pounding of the vivacious, incessant river river of her tears, until they were eventually freed onto the calmer shores. But it was too late for them then. They had already lost their edge and their sharpness. Such sharpness and independence could never be reclaimed. They were fated to lay there, smooth, as they shrunk over the years and turned to dust, blowing into the wind, scattered into parts to seek the adventure of a life they never led.

She was finally given her freedom, but now he was dead, her love for him drowned the fragments of her heart in sorrow. She would rather be trapped, be powerless, as long as he was there with her showing her with loving caress that she was not alone. His voice alone could turn her to butter and he alone could melt her in his warm embrace. His silky voice would wash over her, and reassure her she belonged to him. She would never hear that voice again.

This freedom, this liberty, it was not supposed to feel this way.

Fin