I shall repeat my disclaimer purely for a safety measure. No-I do not own
them; no-I mean no infringement; no-I make no money. Leave me alone.
As for the rest of you-read on! Reviews would be much appreciated, as this is a crucial point in the plot, in which I must decide whether or not room should be made available for a sequel. Perhaps a glimpse into the war effort and the involvement of our favorite Potions master?
Feedback! Feedback!
Inescapable
Chapter Thirteen
The air seemed to crawl on his skin when he finally awoke to the soft clicking sound of a clock hidden from his view. Gooseflesh covered his arms and his teeth chattered, so unbearable was the abnormal temperature of the room.
What the hell was Poppy thinking?
With a slight growl, he rose abruptly, only to find that his arms were pinned to the bed by a spider's-web of strange tubes and string like medical tools. One especially long needle punctured the skin just beneath the wrist of his right arm, and he could, only through squinting, make out barely discernible drops of liquid slipping through the tube and into his body.
Cursed Muggle contraptions, he thought in an aggravated state. Had Poppy no mercy?
Pushing backward with his feet and gaining some leverage against the abrasive sheets with sheathed his bed, he managed to slide up enough to gain and maintain a sitting position. It was awkward, as though he were half-sitting, half-lying prostrate, but anything was better than the helpless position which he had been subjected to before.
Resisting the urge to call for Poppy, he glanced about him. Cracks of light, playing softly on the sterile white tiles of the floor, came through the Venetian blinds of the windows nearest his bed. He could determine from the intensity and brightness that it was most certainly daytime-about noon, he gauged-and there was no telling for how long he had been unconscious.
A punctured clicking of heels against the tile floor jarred him from his wonderings and the drapes slung about his bed for privacy were pushed back quite suddenly. Poppy stood before him, ever the professional in her long white nurse's robes and stern expression; but her eyes literally melted into tears when she realized that he was awake and fairly alert.
No sooner had the initial tears completed the journey down her skin than she was nearly screaming.
"What is the matter with you?" she shrieked, tossing the fresh bedsheets aside with complete disregard and rushing forward. Severus cringed instinctively-in his physical state, even Poppy would be capable of causing him potentially dangerous harm-but all she seemed intent on doing was placing her hands on his shoulders and shoving him back into a lying position. "You are wounded beyond anything I have seen in my life and you need to lie down!"
"What I need," he retorted with a hoarse, raspy voice, "is a bottle of brandy and some solitude."
"Don't even joke about that," she chastised, running her finger over the display of a thermometer whose sensor was wrapped, most annoyingly, about his neck. "You are still running a fever, and you probably will be for weeks to come. Honestly, Severus"-a more gentle tone had crept into her voice, almost grandmotherly in its grudging indulgence-"how are you still alive?"
"Rotten luck."
She flinched as though about to strike him, but thought better of it. "I ought to hit you for that," she interjected instead. "We have worried constantly about you. The poor Headmaster-"
"I don't give a damn about the Headmaster, I want out of this bloody prison!"
"-has been checking on you incessantly, he's gotten no sleep in weeks, and you wake up raving about your maltreatment. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Tears had filled her eyes again, and before he could shrink, she had collapsed on her knees and taken his hand in hers.
"You have to stop this. I know that Albus gave you a second chance and that you take that seriously with every breath you take, but this has gone too far. You are killing Albus. Killing him."
"Poppy-"
"We can't stand this any longer. Even the other teachers are terrified for your welfare, but I can't tell them what happened. This is no way to live your life, you have all the time you could want and you throw it away as though it means nothing-"
"Poppy-!"
"-but I'll not let you do this to yourself. You're invaluable to our cause, but how can you not see that we need you alive? Fourteen times I've had to drag you back from Death's door and if I have to go through this one more-"
"POPPY!" he roared, and she reared back in sheer terror, having received a glimpse into the prowling demon of the Hogwarts underground. Losing her balance on unsteadily heeled feet, she collapsed against the wall into convulsive sobs.
Summoning gentleness he knew not that he possessed, Severus spoke to her quietly.
"It's over, Poppy. The Dark Lord has been informed of my treason and will accept me no longer into his Circle. I've been exiled, in a sense. There will be no more meetings or summons, no more bouts with the Cruciatus." Here he paused, considering how badly he had contorted the truth. There would be more trips through Hell now than ever before-provided Voldemort could track him down.
Seeing that his arms were bared-no wonder he felt cold, he thought wryly-he lifted up into Poppy's view the terribly scarred flesh where the Dark Mark had once been. Poppy gasped and stretched a hand outward, beckoning him to come within her reach. He bent over painfully, feeling the stretching of the intravenous needles placing tension on his skin, and allowed her to incredulously touch his skin.
"How in the name of all that is good did you get rid of it?" she murmured. Her fingers were rough and callused with work and stress, pulling and irritating the tender, seared flesh. Steeling his nerves against and outburst, he forced himself to answer.
"The Dark Lord did it for me. He would no sooner have his mark of glory grace the arm of a traitor than he would a Muggle."
"You are nothing to him, then." Her eyes were pleading as she struggled to her feet; Poppy was no longer young or sprightly, being Minerva's age and feeling the effects of waning life. "He will leave you alone."
"Hardly. I mean more now than I ever did before. Simply not in terms of value."
She nodded, as though understanding quite suddenly and fully what he meant to convey. Straightening, toughening, she strode purposefully over to the opposite side of the room and began to methodically close the blinds of each and every window that lined the far wall. Severus sighed; the collective Hogwarts faculty would accomplish nothing if they relied on such insignificant material devices to camouflage him from Voldemort's sight. And there was more at stake here than they could possibly fathom.
Hermione, he thought longingly, glancing toward the door. Love had never meant anything to him, and while he was confident he was not in love with the seventh-year Gryffindor prodigy, he knew that he did, in his own way, feel for her with an intensity he could ascribe to nothing but love and protection. In the final moments of his torture, his ex-fellow Death Eaters had administered Veritaserum and laughed themselves hoarse as he reluctantly poured forth the story of the past few months.
'Got yourself in a bit of a spot, haven't you, Severus?'
Hermione would be where, right now? Poppy had, in the manner of the professional recluse, returned to her office and was undoubtedly attending to the various troubles that had arisen due to his prolonged absence. He had no view of the clock, but assuming it was early afternoon, she would be attending Arithmancy.
'What're you gonna do, Severus? Think of anything yet?'
Their voices echoed through is head with cruel vulgarity, and he shuddered, remembering the images their words had called forth into his brains. They painted the picture of a perverted, lecherous old man tripping over his own two feet with his lust for a beautiful young student. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
'I daresay his brain is a bit short on blood.' Lucius Malfoy's piercing smile hit him with full force as he lay, scarcely able to see through the waterfall of blood pouring from the many gashes and dents rendered to his skull. 'It's all gone south for the winter..'
"Bastard," he hissed under his breath, praying fervently that they never found Hermione. He had mentioned her name of course-and Malfoy, damn him to Hell, had recognized it. But of course Draco would have mentioned her at home; he could not possibly have kept himself from raving about the blasted Mudblood that had the schoolteachers whipped into submission and wrapped firmly around her little finger.
If Malfoy Senior told Draco..
* * *
"In conclusion," Professor Vector finished, folding her hands atop her desk in a most scholarly manner, "I believe it is to the benefit of all of you to study extremely hard for this exam. The Ministry demands I follow their curricula this year, and I daresay it will be most difficult for the majority of you."
Her eyes glanced askew to take in Hermione's distant, glazed expression. While the girl's grades had not dropped noticeably, she had been acting most strangely lately. It was unnerving, really, to have her bent over her desk, looking as though she cared nothing for the goings-on of the classroom. Completely uncharacteristic of her.
"You are dismissed," she finished, and Hermione literally leapt from her seat and fled the room at the head of the class. Typically, she would lag behind to initiate a friendly conversation with the professor. Within reason, of course; Vector highly doubted genial small talk would get her anywhere with Snape.
Once in the hallway, Hermione took painstakingly careful measures to avoid encountering Harry and Ron. Ron's behavior had been peculiar, and while she yearned to demand and explanation, she could not bring herself to speak with him. Harry had been most generous and supportive since her outburst in Potions class, and Severus' absence had greatly improved his mood.
Lunchtime was a relief, as it allowed her the chance to slip away from the table virtually unnoticed. Stowing her excess books in the Gryffindor common room and snatching what little she would need for her afternoon classes, she traipsed back down to the Great Hall and grabbed an apple to satisfy her grumbling stomach. Before Harry and Ron had the opportunity to enter the hall and see her, wide open and vulnerable to conversation, she slipped out a side door and into the shadows of the hallway.
Severus' letter was firmly ensconced in her small pocket, hidden beneath the folds of the outer cloak she wore to shield her from the cold. It was an unusually cool spring, odd in that summer was fast approaching. Graduation, in fact, was in-
A week! Her eyes grew wide at the revelation and she nearly choked on the bite of apple in her mouth. In one week, she would no longer be a student at Hogwarts. She would leave the deserted moorlands for-where? London? The Glasgow Institute? No one place in particular seemed to encompass her mind; thus, she had nowhere to go.
But the Ministry had offered that position to her, and yet sent no representative to visit her. In her preoccupied stupor, worrying about Severus and hardly anything else, she had given no thought to post- graduation and the fact that she was, as of yet, without a future and had received no note from the Ministry. Perhaps they would visit in the upcoming week.
The wind whistled about the castle, blustery and uninviting, but she poked her head out a window nevertheless and let the cold wind whip through her hair to awaken her senses. She felt dulled, almost barren, as though when she lost Severus' friendship her every emotion joined it in exile. He had meant more to her than even Harry or Ron-which she hated to admit, granted, but one could not always dodge the truth-and to lose him meant to lose the most promising companion whom she had ever met.
Determined to speak with him, she took another large bite of apple and resumed her trek to the Infirmary. Briefly she debated what her chances would be of seeing Severus were she to simply tell Madam Pomfrey she had urgent business concerning her graduation from Hogwarts and the possibility of employment in the discipline of Potions. But Madam Pomfrey would never believe her. Hermione was, after all, McGonagall's protégé and a budding Transfiguration genius. Madam Pomfrey would have her removed in an instant.
And Severus, no doubt, would have her excommunicated, perhaps with an especially creative method of torture to boot. How he had managed to survive through Voldemort's wrath all these years she could not imagine, but the odds were in favor of his being in an understandably foul mood. Even she was unwelcome during his various bouts with rage and depression.
But then again, when was he not angry?
The Hospital Wing loomed in front of her, its entrance inscribed with the usual crooked, supposedly inspiring Latin above the doorway, which she could not translate. It reminded her disturbingly of a Muggle church, with stained-glass windows lining the walls and benches here and there for the mournful and the concerned to use as a stopping point in their long journey through the night. Creeping softly to conceal herself behind the very same statue, she tucked her apple into a corner for a mouse to utilize as dessert and waited for her chance.
* * *
Ron speared his string beans with unusual gusto and chomped loudly, talking to Ginny most rudely with his mouthful. She frowned at him, picking daintily at her meal as females are wont to do, and considered whether or not kicking him beneath the table would be effective at shutting him up.
Harry's green eyes were set on far sights to which she was blind, and she glanced at him every so often. He appeared to be staring in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, making her mind flitter back to Hermione's absence and whether or not it was Hermione about whom Harry was thinking. Harry was the only one Hermione would consort with lately, as Ginny's own opinions were unwelcome and Ron had been incredibly nasty toward her. Ginny could hardly blame her, but yet she missed the older girl's company; there was an adult presence, an unreachable maturity to Hermione's countenance that both inspired and helped Ginny.
"Harry? What's wrong?"
Harry finally gave up in pushing the various pieces of food around his plate with industry and let his fork collapse against the china, rattling with irritating resonance. "I'm just worried about Hermione. Where do you suppose she is?"
"Probably lying on her bed, pining away for him," Ron remarked scathingly before spearing another string bean. "No point in feeling bad for her, it's obvious she doesn't care."
"You know that's not true." Ginny's voice was gravely quiet and even Ron was forced to rethink his previous statement. "She cares about you more than you'll ever know, and you've ruined it. Why have you been acting like that toward her?"
"Why have you?" he retorted, and Ginny was forced to admit that her initial reaction to Hermione's secret was most inappropriate.
"I apologized," she defended herself, "and Hermione accepted my apology. We're friends again."
"Could've fooled me," Ron muttered. This time, Ginny did kick him beneath the table, but there was no obliging yelp from which to derive satisfaction. He merely kicked her back-only half-heartedly, which infuriated her-and returned to his lunch.
"Snape's absence had really gotten to her," Harry sighed aloud, staring at his lap with his eyes narrowed in concentration, almost Freudian in his careful analysis of Hermione's behavior. "You don't suppose she'll do anything rash, do you?"
"Like hurl herself from the Astronomy Tower because she can't stand the thought of life without him?" Ron gave a derisive snort. "I doubt it. That would mean sacrificing perfect grades and graduation as class valedictorian. Hermione's got too much pride for that."
"That was undeserved," Harry exclaimed, glowering at Ron. Ron merely shrugged and bit into a large biscuit.
"She'll get over it."
Ginny was struck with a cognitive flash then, staring at Ron, who appeared far too confident and unaffected by the behavior of the girl whom he professed to love more than life itself. There was no accounting for his unshakable and resolute sureness unless he knew firsthand that Hermione would eventually overcome her agony on Snape's behalf.
"How can you be so sure?" she demanded, watching the gleam that entered her brother's eyes.
"I made sure of it."
Harry's head snapped up in a flash, and Ginny shrank back, seeing him stare at Ron in with an intensity that seemed inhuman. "How did you 'make sure' of it?" he asked with deliberate slowness. "What'd you do, Ron? What'd you say to her?"
"Me? I said nothing," Ron assured him with a wicked grin. "There was no need for ME to say anything. It wasn't from my lips that she needed to hear those words."
"You didn't." Ginny blanched, fearing the worst. "You told someone? You told Dumbledore?"
"Of course not," Ron scoffed, tossing aside the last remains of his biscuit and wiping his hands on his napkin with apparent pleasure. "If I told someone, it'd be around the school on the rumor track in a second. There's no point in embarrassing her; that would only make the situation worse."
"You're damn right it would," Harry fired back, "and it sounds to me like you did just that. What did you do?"
Ron looked suspiciously around him before leaning forward to whisper to them across the table. His voice trembled slightly with repressed excitement and for a moment, Ginny feared he would burst out screaming.
"I sent her a little love note. Thought she might appreciate a tasteful dismissal."
Ginny resisted the urge to gouge her brother's eyes out with a fork, and Harry was clenching his fists in his lap. She watched his hands consolidate themselves into white-knuckled, tension-riddled balls of pure physical strength, and wished wholly that he had the resignation and wild abandon to unleash his anger on her brother.
"From Snape?" She already knew the answer, but had to be absolutely positive of the circumstances surrounding the situation before she could take action. If Ron had put anything especially nasty or demeaning into the note, Hermione was liable to take it to heart in a most hazardous manner. She always had taken people's words too literally, fearing the ultimate manifestation of ignorance and stupidity in herself. The handling of constructive criticism had never been one of her strong points.
"Of course. Who else?"
Harry rose from the table. Thankfully, as they sat at the far end closest to the doors that exited the Great Hall, it was fairly easy for him to surreptitiously grab Ron's robes and drag him from the room. Ron offered no protest, seemingly aware of his fate and almost enjoying the attention his grave mistake was rewarding him.
Once outside the Hall, Harry slammed Ron into a nearby wall with all the force he could muster. Ron instinctively bent his heart forward to shield his skull, but there was a loud crack and Ginny was positive that spine had been damaged, even if not broken.
Ron groaned in pain, but she pulled her fingers back and would not let herself reach out to offer him comfort. Whether or not his transgression warranted a physical outlet, he deserved what pain they could deal him for what he had done to Hermione. Hermione, unfortunately, would most likely be incapable of exacting her own revenge; they would be forced to do it for her.
Gladly.
"What'd you put in the note?" Harry snarled. He was a good three inches shorter than Ron, who had topped out at six feet and was still growing. Ginny, shorter than the both of them, had to stand nearly on her tiptoes to glimpse the emotions that festered in their eyes. Ron's held maniacal glee and Harry's roiling anger.
"Just the truth. That she's a miserable little-"
"Don't say it," Harry rasped breathily. "Don't you dare. Don't ever call her that in my presence."
"A bit overprotective, aren't we?"
Ginny's palm wrenched his face sideways, and Ron gasped at the injustice of his little sister's blow. She could discern from the look he shot her that while he had not been especially hurt, she would pay dearly for it later. She could not have cared less, seeing the nobility with which he conducted himself throughout Harry's interrogation.
"May I finish?" Ron asked with mock politeness.
"Please," Harry growled.
"I just told her-in appropriate terms, of course; Snape always was quite the gentleman-that she no longer had a place in his heart."
Harry waited, tense.
"Or his bed, for that matter."
Ron recovered from Harry's next blow with a bloody nose, and Ginny herself stepped back. Harry seemed the very personification of feral rage, emanating ire in tangible waves. He reminded her of a father protecting his daughter's honor, but based upon the stance of his body, he saw no wrong in doing so physically, whereas most fathers would frown upon harming a younger male.
Ron leaned against the wall, gangly legs splayed awkwardly, nursing his bloody nose.
"You know Hermione would never do that." Harry was breathing deeply, the sharp rise and fall of his chest visible to Ginny, who had never given him much credit concerning physical muscularity and upper body strength. Harry was rolling up the sleeves of his robes as though intent upon delivering yet another blow to his supposed best friend.
A strange, fluxuating film of emotions passed across Ron's face as he lay there, observing Harry, and he opened his mouth as though to say something; but he shut it again in reconsideration. When he opened it a second time, Ginny was paralyzed by the words that passed his lips.
"You're just jealous because she wouldn't do it for you."
Harry's entire body seemed to tense to a bursting point with unrepressed fury before he rotated on his heel and stalked from the hallway. She watched his retreating form as he took the steps leading to Gryffindor Tower three at a time, nearly at a run, and disappeared from her view.
Ron dragged himself to his feet and observed his younger sister as she turned slowly to face him. She ran a hand nervously through her flame-red hair and it came to rest across her breast, symbolically close to her heart, for a few seconds before she allowed it to fall to her side and the words poured forth.
"What did you mean by that? That last thing you said to him-about him being jealous." Her eyes were nakedly revealing and it tugged at his heart to have to reveal to her what he had known for years was coming.
"Just what I said. He's jealous of Snape."
Ginny whimpered, barely audibly, and when he saw the reflection of his own feelings in hers he sneered at her. "Face it, Gin. We're out of the equation. He loves her, and when all's said and done, she'll probably be back with Snape. We're nothing."
Ginny turned again as though hoping Harry would reappear to sweep her into his arms, twirl her and kiss her, and assure her that Ron's words were merely the rantings of a soul denied love. Nothing of the sort occurred, of course; the doors of the Great Hall opened as the influx of students crowded the hallway and she and Ron were forced brutally against the walls by the flow of traffic.
Ron pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face, making a face of disgust when it came away soaked with bright red blood. "I hope he's fucking maimed," he spat, throwing the stained cloth beneath his feet and kicking it into the crowd. "I hope the Death Eaters came after him and blew his brains out with the Unforgivables."
"You don't really mean that." Ginny wanted suddenly, more than anything in the world, for Severus Snape to make an appearance-healthy, virile, unharmed. He and Hermione would travel to the far reaches of the universe, and Harry.
Would be miserable without Hermione. She placed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob. Without Hermione, Harry would never be happy; she, Ginny, would only be second best. Perhaps she had not even attained that rank in the workings of his heart.
"Come on, Gin." Ron nodded toward the main doors of the castle and the beautiful but windy day that lay beyond. "Let's go for a walk. Clear our heads. It'll all work out." His jaw was clenched tightly, his teeth grinding, but he found himself feeling ultimately responsible for Ginny's pain.
She refused to move, and when he was swept away with the crowd, remained in her position, erect and unreactive.
* * *
Madam Pomfrey exited the Infirmary at a surprisingly quick pace and disappeared down the hallway before Hermione had even managed to lodge her fingers, with excruciating effort, between the door and the doorframe. She pulled the door open, stepped beyond the doorjamb, and let it slam shut, echoing through the hall. Cringing, she realized she had given no thought to the fact that someone might possibly be in the Infirmary, visiting the invalid professor.
But upon inspection, it was empty, and the only occupant appeared to be the body lying on the bed at the end of the hall. She chuckled when she realized that a footstool had been added to the edge of the bed to accommodate Severus' long frame. Well above six feet, he had probably been forced for many years to purchase clothes, mattresses, and other accessories meant for someone of his lofty height.
She went weak in the knees when she ducked into the curtains and found him sitting upright in bed, regarding her with eyes of liquid obsidian. He did not smile; his face remained stoically emotionless, but one hand reached forward, into which she placed her own. His fingers curled about hers, applying warm, gentle pressure, and she could feel the walls of her emotional fortress beginning to fail.
Tears brimming her eyes, she allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. Intravenous needles had left their scars on his forearms, and she choked on tears when she saw the charred flesh where the Dark Mark had once been. Noticing her shock, he allowed his arm to be touched exploringly, and she looked up at him with wondrous eyes.
"The Dark Lord removed it," he explained quietly, his voice inhumanly deep with the hoarseness of malady. "He could not stand the thought of his magnanimous symbol upon the arm of a traitor."
"Only to one cause," she whispered in halting words, and he traced a gentle finger across her cheek.
"What happened in class?" His hands were holding her face upright, forcing her to meet his eyes, an amazingly difficult task. "I never meant for this to hurt you."
"This doesn't. Your letter did."
Genuine confusion covered his face. "What letter?" Her face grew suddenly hot and flushed. What did he mean, 'what letter?'
"This," she expostulated with sudden force, nearly ripping her pocket with the effort of extricating the letter and thrusting it into his hands. "This. This letter."
His eyes scanned the page and grew fraught with concern. She saw him flinch when he reached the horrible portion regarding their supposed sexual encounters. When he finished, he deliberately folded the letter into a perfect white square and handed it to her wordlessly.
She pocketed it, watching the grim lines of his face. "I never wrote that letter, Hermione."
"Oh, really?" Her attempt at concealing tears with outward cynicism was failing miserably, based upon the tremors threatening to wrack her body. "And I suppose you can explain why it's your handwriting."
His tone grew forceful. " 'Scriptus imitaeus.' Use your head, girl." He sat up straighter to better regard her. "I would never write such a vulgar letter. You underestimate me."
"Not at all. It's blunt and truthful in a distinctly male way."
He chuckled, the rich tones of his voice seeing to fill the room. "A low and unworthy blow," he defended weakly, shaking his head. "But well- deserved, admittedly."
"Severus."
"Yes?"
"Who wrote this letter?"
This time, he went as far as to roll his eyes. "I reappear from a trip through Hell and you expect me to play Sherlock Holmes?"
"I didn't know you read Sherlock Holmes."
He sighed heavily, bending forward to place his head in his hands and breathe deeply. "I don't have the patience for this right now, Hermione. Perhaps you should return later. I think there is something we need to discuss."
She nodded knowingly, watching as he straightened again to take her hand and give it one final squeeze. "Do not doubt my affection," he murmured, "only its meaning."
As for the rest of you-read on! Reviews would be much appreciated, as this is a crucial point in the plot, in which I must decide whether or not room should be made available for a sequel. Perhaps a glimpse into the war effort and the involvement of our favorite Potions master?
Feedback! Feedback!
Inescapable
Chapter Thirteen
The air seemed to crawl on his skin when he finally awoke to the soft clicking sound of a clock hidden from his view. Gooseflesh covered his arms and his teeth chattered, so unbearable was the abnormal temperature of the room.
What the hell was Poppy thinking?
With a slight growl, he rose abruptly, only to find that his arms were pinned to the bed by a spider's-web of strange tubes and string like medical tools. One especially long needle punctured the skin just beneath the wrist of his right arm, and he could, only through squinting, make out barely discernible drops of liquid slipping through the tube and into his body.
Cursed Muggle contraptions, he thought in an aggravated state. Had Poppy no mercy?
Pushing backward with his feet and gaining some leverage against the abrasive sheets with sheathed his bed, he managed to slide up enough to gain and maintain a sitting position. It was awkward, as though he were half-sitting, half-lying prostrate, but anything was better than the helpless position which he had been subjected to before.
Resisting the urge to call for Poppy, he glanced about him. Cracks of light, playing softly on the sterile white tiles of the floor, came through the Venetian blinds of the windows nearest his bed. He could determine from the intensity and brightness that it was most certainly daytime-about noon, he gauged-and there was no telling for how long he had been unconscious.
A punctured clicking of heels against the tile floor jarred him from his wonderings and the drapes slung about his bed for privacy were pushed back quite suddenly. Poppy stood before him, ever the professional in her long white nurse's robes and stern expression; but her eyes literally melted into tears when she realized that he was awake and fairly alert.
No sooner had the initial tears completed the journey down her skin than she was nearly screaming.
"What is the matter with you?" she shrieked, tossing the fresh bedsheets aside with complete disregard and rushing forward. Severus cringed instinctively-in his physical state, even Poppy would be capable of causing him potentially dangerous harm-but all she seemed intent on doing was placing her hands on his shoulders and shoving him back into a lying position. "You are wounded beyond anything I have seen in my life and you need to lie down!"
"What I need," he retorted with a hoarse, raspy voice, "is a bottle of brandy and some solitude."
"Don't even joke about that," she chastised, running her finger over the display of a thermometer whose sensor was wrapped, most annoyingly, about his neck. "You are still running a fever, and you probably will be for weeks to come. Honestly, Severus"-a more gentle tone had crept into her voice, almost grandmotherly in its grudging indulgence-"how are you still alive?"
"Rotten luck."
She flinched as though about to strike him, but thought better of it. "I ought to hit you for that," she interjected instead. "We have worried constantly about you. The poor Headmaster-"
"I don't give a damn about the Headmaster, I want out of this bloody prison!"
"-has been checking on you incessantly, he's gotten no sleep in weeks, and you wake up raving about your maltreatment. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Tears had filled her eyes again, and before he could shrink, she had collapsed on her knees and taken his hand in hers.
"You have to stop this. I know that Albus gave you a second chance and that you take that seriously with every breath you take, but this has gone too far. You are killing Albus. Killing him."
"Poppy-"
"We can't stand this any longer. Even the other teachers are terrified for your welfare, but I can't tell them what happened. This is no way to live your life, you have all the time you could want and you throw it away as though it means nothing-"
"Poppy-!"
"-but I'll not let you do this to yourself. You're invaluable to our cause, but how can you not see that we need you alive? Fourteen times I've had to drag you back from Death's door and if I have to go through this one more-"
"POPPY!" he roared, and she reared back in sheer terror, having received a glimpse into the prowling demon of the Hogwarts underground. Losing her balance on unsteadily heeled feet, she collapsed against the wall into convulsive sobs.
Summoning gentleness he knew not that he possessed, Severus spoke to her quietly.
"It's over, Poppy. The Dark Lord has been informed of my treason and will accept me no longer into his Circle. I've been exiled, in a sense. There will be no more meetings or summons, no more bouts with the Cruciatus." Here he paused, considering how badly he had contorted the truth. There would be more trips through Hell now than ever before-provided Voldemort could track him down.
Seeing that his arms were bared-no wonder he felt cold, he thought wryly-he lifted up into Poppy's view the terribly scarred flesh where the Dark Mark had once been. Poppy gasped and stretched a hand outward, beckoning him to come within her reach. He bent over painfully, feeling the stretching of the intravenous needles placing tension on his skin, and allowed her to incredulously touch his skin.
"How in the name of all that is good did you get rid of it?" she murmured. Her fingers were rough and callused with work and stress, pulling and irritating the tender, seared flesh. Steeling his nerves against and outburst, he forced himself to answer.
"The Dark Lord did it for me. He would no sooner have his mark of glory grace the arm of a traitor than he would a Muggle."
"You are nothing to him, then." Her eyes were pleading as she struggled to her feet; Poppy was no longer young or sprightly, being Minerva's age and feeling the effects of waning life. "He will leave you alone."
"Hardly. I mean more now than I ever did before. Simply not in terms of value."
She nodded, as though understanding quite suddenly and fully what he meant to convey. Straightening, toughening, she strode purposefully over to the opposite side of the room and began to methodically close the blinds of each and every window that lined the far wall. Severus sighed; the collective Hogwarts faculty would accomplish nothing if they relied on such insignificant material devices to camouflage him from Voldemort's sight. And there was more at stake here than they could possibly fathom.
Hermione, he thought longingly, glancing toward the door. Love had never meant anything to him, and while he was confident he was not in love with the seventh-year Gryffindor prodigy, he knew that he did, in his own way, feel for her with an intensity he could ascribe to nothing but love and protection. In the final moments of his torture, his ex-fellow Death Eaters had administered Veritaserum and laughed themselves hoarse as he reluctantly poured forth the story of the past few months.
'Got yourself in a bit of a spot, haven't you, Severus?'
Hermione would be where, right now? Poppy had, in the manner of the professional recluse, returned to her office and was undoubtedly attending to the various troubles that had arisen due to his prolonged absence. He had no view of the clock, but assuming it was early afternoon, she would be attending Arithmancy.
'What're you gonna do, Severus? Think of anything yet?'
Their voices echoed through is head with cruel vulgarity, and he shuddered, remembering the images their words had called forth into his brains. They painted the picture of a perverted, lecherous old man tripping over his own two feet with his lust for a beautiful young student. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
'I daresay his brain is a bit short on blood.' Lucius Malfoy's piercing smile hit him with full force as he lay, scarcely able to see through the waterfall of blood pouring from the many gashes and dents rendered to his skull. 'It's all gone south for the winter..'
"Bastard," he hissed under his breath, praying fervently that they never found Hermione. He had mentioned her name of course-and Malfoy, damn him to Hell, had recognized it. But of course Draco would have mentioned her at home; he could not possibly have kept himself from raving about the blasted Mudblood that had the schoolteachers whipped into submission and wrapped firmly around her little finger.
If Malfoy Senior told Draco..
* * *
"In conclusion," Professor Vector finished, folding her hands atop her desk in a most scholarly manner, "I believe it is to the benefit of all of you to study extremely hard for this exam. The Ministry demands I follow their curricula this year, and I daresay it will be most difficult for the majority of you."
Her eyes glanced askew to take in Hermione's distant, glazed expression. While the girl's grades had not dropped noticeably, she had been acting most strangely lately. It was unnerving, really, to have her bent over her desk, looking as though she cared nothing for the goings-on of the classroom. Completely uncharacteristic of her.
"You are dismissed," she finished, and Hermione literally leapt from her seat and fled the room at the head of the class. Typically, she would lag behind to initiate a friendly conversation with the professor. Within reason, of course; Vector highly doubted genial small talk would get her anywhere with Snape.
Once in the hallway, Hermione took painstakingly careful measures to avoid encountering Harry and Ron. Ron's behavior had been peculiar, and while she yearned to demand and explanation, she could not bring herself to speak with him. Harry had been most generous and supportive since her outburst in Potions class, and Severus' absence had greatly improved his mood.
Lunchtime was a relief, as it allowed her the chance to slip away from the table virtually unnoticed. Stowing her excess books in the Gryffindor common room and snatching what little she would need for her afternoon classes, she traipsed back down to the Great Hall and grabbed an apple to satisfy her grumbling stomach. Before Harry and Ron had the opportunity to enter the hall and see her, wide open and vulnerable to conversation, she slipped out a side door and into the shadows of the hallway.
Severus' letter was firmly ensconced in her small pocket, hidden beneath the folds of the outer cloak she wore to shield her from the cold. It was an unusually cool spring, odd in that summer was fast approaching. Graduation, in fact, was in-
A week! Her eyes grew wide at the revelation and she nearly choked on the bite of apple in her mouth. In one week, she would no longer be a student at Hogwarts. She would leave the deserted moorlands for-where? London? The Glasgow Institute? No one place in particular seemed to encompass her mind; thus, she had nowhere to go.
But the Ministry had offered that position to her, and yet sent no representative to visit her. In her preoccupied stupor, worrying about Severus and hardly anything else, she had given no thought to post- graduation and the fact that she was, as of yet, without a future and had received no note from the Ministry. Perhaps they would visit in the upcoming week.
The wind whistled about the castle, blustery and uninviting, but she poked her head out a window nevertheless and let the cold wind whip through her hair to awaken her senses. She felt dulled, almost barren, as though when she lost Severus' friendship her every emotion joined it in exile. He had meant more to her than even Harry or Ron-which she hated to admit, granted, but one could not always dodge the truth-and to lose him meant to lose the most promising companion whom she had ever met.
Determined to speak with him, she took another large bite of apple and resumed her trek to the Infirmary. Briefly she debated what her chances would be of seeing Severus were she to simply tell Madam Pomfrey she had urgent business concerning her graduation from Hogwarts and the possibility of employment in the discipline of Potions. But Madam Pomfrey would never believe her. Hermione was, after all, McGonagall's protégé and a budding Transfiguration genius. Madam Pomfrey would have her removed in an instant.
And Severus, no doubt, would have her excommunicated, perhaps with an especially creative method of torture to boot. How he had managed to survive through Voldemort's wrath all these years she could not imagine, but the odds were in favor of his being in an understandably foul mood. Even she was unwelcome during his various bouts with rage and depression.
But then again, when was he not angry?
The Hospital Wing loomed in front of her, its entrance inscribed with the usual crooked, supposedly inspiring Latin above the doorway, which she could not translate. It reminded her disturbingly of a Muggle church, with stained-glass windows lining the walls and benches here and there for the mournful and the concerned to use as a stopping point in their long journey through the night. Creeping softly to conceal herself behind the very same statue, she tucked her apple into a corner for a mouse to utilize as dessert and waited for her chance.
* * *
Ron speared his string beans with unusual gusto and chomped loudly, talking to Ginny most rudely with his mouthful. She frowned at him, picking daintily at her meal as females are wont to do, and considered whether or not kicking him beneath the table would be effective at shutting him up.
Harry's green eyes were set on far sights to which she was blind, and she glanced at him every so often. He appeared to be staring in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, making her mind flitter back to Hermione's absence and whether or not it was Hermione about whom Harry was thinking. Harry was the only one Hermione would consort with lately, as Ginny's own opinions were unwelcome and Ron had been incredibly nasty toward her. Ginny could hardly blame her, but yet she missed the older girl's company; there was an adult presence, an unreachable maturity to Hermione's countenance that both inspired and helped Ginny.
"Harry? What's wrong?"
Harry finally gave up in pushing the various pieces of food around his plate with industry and let his fork collapse against the china, rattling with irritating resonance. "I'm just worried about Hermione. Where do you suppose she is?"
"Probably lying on her bed, pining away for him," Ron remarked scathingly before spearing another string bean. "No point in feeling bad for her, it's obvious she doesn't care."
"You know that's not true." Ginny's voice was gravely quiet and even Ron was forced to rethink his previous statement. "She cares about you more than you'll ever know, and you've ruined it. Why have you been acting like that toward her?"
"Why have you?" he retorted, and Ginny was forced to admit that her initial reaction to Hermione's secret was most inappropriate.
"I apologized," she defended herself, "and Hermione accepted my apology. We're friends again."
"Could've fooled me," Ron muttered. This time, Ginny did kick him beneath the table, but there was no obliging yelp from which to derive satisfaction. He merely kicked her back-only half-heartedly, which infuriated her-and returned to his lunch.
"Snape's absence had really gotten to her," Harry sighed aloud, staring at his lap with his eyes narrowed in concentration, almost Freudian in his careful analysis of Hermione's behavior. "You don't suppose she'll do anything rash, do you?"
"Like hurl herself from the Astronomy Tower because she can't stand the thought of life without him?" Ron gave a derisive snort. "I doubt it. That would mean sacrificing perfect grades and graduation as class valedictorian. Hermione's got too much pride for that."
"That was undeserved," Harry exclaimed, glowering at Ron. Ron merely shrugged and bit into a large biscuit.
"She'll get over it."
Ginny was struck with a cognitive flash then, staring at Ron, who appeared far too confident and unaffected by the behavior of the girl whom he professed to love more than life itself. There was no accounting for his unshakable and resolute sureness unless he knew firsthand that Hermione would eventually overcome her agony on Snape's behalf.
"How can you be so sure?" she demanded, watching the gleam that entered her brother's eyes.
"I made sure of it."
Harry's head snapped up in a flash, and Ginny shrank back, seeing him stare at Ron in with an intensity that seemed inhuman. "How did you 'make sure' of it?" he asked with deliberate slowness. "What'd you do, Ron? What'd you say to her?"
"Me? I said nothing," Ron assured him with a wicked grin. "There was no need for ME to say anything. It wasn't from my lips that she needed to hear those words."
"You didn't." Ginny blanched, fearing the worst. "You told someone? You told Dumbledore?"
"Of course not," Ron scoffed, tossing aside the last remains of his biscuit and wiping his hands on his napkin with apparent pleasure. "If I told someone, it'd be around the school on the rumor track in a second. There's no point in embarrassing her; that would only make the situation worse."
"You're damn right it would," Harry fired back, "and it sounds to me like you did just that. What did you do?"
Ron looked suspiciously around him before leaning forward to whisper to them across the table. His voice trembled slightly with repressed excitement and for a moment, Ginny feared he would burst out screaming.
"I sent her a little love note. Thought she might appreciate a tasteful dismissal."
Ginny resisted the urge to gouge her brother's eyes out with a fork, and Harry was clenching his fists in his lap. She watched his hands consolidate themselves into white-knuckled, tension-riddled balls of pure physical strength, and wished wholly that he had the resignation and wild abandon to unleash his anger on her brother.
"From Snape?" She already knew the answer, but had to be absolutely positive of the circumstances surrounding the situation before she could take action. If Ron had put anything especially nasty or demeaning into the note, Hermione was liable to take it to heart in a most hazardous manner. She always had taken people's words too literally, fearing the ultimate manifestation of ignorance and stupidity in herself. The handling of constructive criticism had never been one of her strong points.
"Of course. Who else?"
Harry rose from the table. Thankfully, as they sat at the far end closest to the doors that exited the Great Hall, it was fairly easy for him to surreptitiously grab Ron's robes and drag him from the room. Ron offered no protest, seemingly aware of his fate and almost enjoying the attention his grave mistake was rewarding him.
Once outside the Hall, Harry slammed Ron into a nearby wall with all the force he could muster. Ron instinctively bent his heart forward to shield his skull, but there was a loud crack and Ginny was positive that spine had been damaged, even if not broken.
Ron groaned in pain, but she pulled her fingers back and would not let herself reach out to offer him comfort. Whether or not his transgression warranted a physical outlet, he deserved what pain they could deal him for what he had done to Hermione. Hermione, unfortunately, would most likely be incapable of exacting her own revenge; they would be forced to do it for her.
Gladly.
"What'd you put in the note?" Harry snarled. He was a good three inches shorter than Ron, who had topped out at six feet and was still growing. Ginny, shorter than the both of them, had to stand nearly on her tiptoes to glimpse the emotions that festered in their eyes. Ron's held maniacal glee and Harry's roiling anger.
"Just the truth. That she's a miserable little-"
"Don't say it," Harry rasped breathily. "Don't you dare. Don't ever call her that in my presence."
"A bit overprotective, aren't we?"
Ginny's palm wrenched his face sideways, and Ron gasped at the injustice of his little sister's blow. She could discern from the look he shot her that while he had not been especially hurt, she would pay dearly for it later. She could not have cared less, seeing the nobility with which he conducted himself throughout Harry's interrogation.
"May I finish?" Ron asked with mock politeness.
"Please," Harry growled.
"I just told her-in appropriate terms, of course; Snape always was quite the gentleman-that she no longer had a place in his heart."
Harry waited, tense.
"Or his bed, for that matter."
Ron recovered from Harry's next blow with a bloody nose, and Ginny herself stepped back. Harry seemed the very personification of feral rage, emanating ire in tangible waves. He reminded her of a father protecting his daughter's honor, but based upon the stance of his body, he saw no wrong in doing so physically, whereas most fathers would frown upon harming a younger male.
Ron leaned against the wall, gangly legs splayed awkwardly, nursing his bloody nose.
"You know Hermione would never do that." Harry was breathing deeply, the sharp rise and fall of his chest visible to Ginny, who had never given him much credit concerning physical muscularity and upper body strength. Harry was rolling up the sleeves of his robes as though intent upon delivering yet another blow to his supposed best friend.
A strange, fluxuating film of emotions passed across Ron's face as he lay there, observing Harry, and he opened his mouth as though to say something; but he shut it again in reconsideration. When he opened it a second time, Ginny was paralyzed by the words that passed his lips.
"You're just jealous because she wouldn't do it for you."
Harry's entire body seemed to tense to a bursting point with unrepressed fury before he rotated on his heel and stalked from the hallway. She watched his retreating form as he took the steps leading to Gryffindor Tower three at a time, nearly at a run, and disappeared from her view.
Ron dragged himself to his feet and observed his younger sister as she turned slowly to face him. She ran a hand nervously through her flame-red hair and it came to rest across her breast, symbolically close to her heart, for a few seconds before she allowed it to fall to her side and the words poured forth.
"What did you mean by that? That last thing you said to him-about him being jealous." Her eyes were nakedly revealing and it tugged at his heart to have to reveal to her what he had known for years was coming.
"Just what I said. He's jealous of Snape."
Ginny whimpered, barely audibly, and when he saw the reflection of his own feelings in hers he sneered at her. "Face it, Gin. We're out of the equation. He loves her, and when all's said and done, she'll probably be back with Snape. We're nothing."
Ginny turned again as though hoping Harry would reappear to sweep her into his arms, twirl her and kiss her, and assure her that Ron's words were merely the rantings of a soul denied love. Nothing of the sort occurred, of course; the doors of the Great Hall opened as the influx of students crowded the hallway and she and Ron were forced brutally against the walls by the flow of traffic.
Ron pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face, making a face of disgust when it came away soaked with bright red blood. "I hope he's fucking maimed," he spat, throwing the stained cloth beneath his feet and kicking it into the crowd. "I hope the Death Eaters came after him and blew his brains out with the Unforgivables."
"You don't really mean that." Ginny wanted suddenly, more than anything in the world, for Severus Snape to make an appearance-healthy, virile, unharmed. He and Hermione would travel to the far reaches of the universe, and Harry.
Would be miserable without Hermione. She placed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob. Without Hermione, Harry would never be happy; she, Ginny, would only be second best. Perhaps she had not even attained that rank in the workings of his heart.
"Come on, Gin." Ron nodded toward the main doors of the castle and the beautiful but windy day that lay beyond. "Let's go for a walk. Clear our heads. It'll all work out." His jaw was clenched tightly, his teeth grinding, but he found himself feeling ultimately responsible for Ginny's pain.
She refused to move, and when he was swept away with the crowd, remained in her position, erect and unreactive.
* * *
Madam Pomfrey exited the Infirmary at a surprisingly quick pace and disappeared down the hallway before Hermione had even managed to lodge her fingers, with excruciating effort, between the door and the doorframe. She pulled the door open, stepped beyond the doorjamb, and let it slam shut, echoing through the hall. Cringing, she realized she had given no thought to the fact that someone might possibly be in the Infirmary, visiting the invalid professor.
But upon inspection, it was empty, and the only occupant appeared to be the body lying on the bed at the end of the hall. She chuckled when she realized that a footstool had been added to the edge of the bed to accommodate Severus' long frame. Well above six feet, he had probably been forced for many years to purchase clothes, mattresses, and other accessories meant for someone of his lofty height.
She went weak in the knees when she ducked into the curtains and found him sitting upright in bed, regarding her with eyes of liquid obsidian. He did not smile; his face remained stoically emotionless, but one hand reached forward, into which she placed her own. His fingers curled about hers, applying warm, gentle pressure, and she could feel the walls of her emotional fortress beginning to fail.
Tears brimming her eyes, she allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. Intravenous needles had left their scars on his forearms, and she choked on tears when she saw the charred flesh where the Dark Mark had once been. Noticing her shock, he allowed his arm to be touched exploringly, and she looked up at him with wondrous eyes.
"The Dark Lord removed it," he explained quietly, his voice inhumanly deep with the hoarseness of malady. "He could not stand the thought of his magnanimous symbol upon the arm of a traitor."
"Only to one cause," she whispered in halting words, and he traced a gentle finger across her cheek.
"What happened in class?" His hands were holding her face upright, forcing her to meet his eyes, an amazingly difficult task. "I never meant for this to hurt you."
"This doesn't. Your letter did."
Genuine confusion covered his face. "What letter?" Her face grew suddenly hot and flushed. What did he mean, 'what letter?'
"This," she expostulated with sudden force, nearly ripping her pocket with the effort of extricating the letter and thrusting it into his hands. "This. This letter."
His eyes scanned the page and grew fraught with concern. She saw him flinch when he reached the horrible portion regarding their supposed sexual encounters. When he finished, he deliberately folded the letter into a perfect white square and handed it to her wordlessly.
She pocketed it, watching the grim lines of his face. "I never wrote that letter, Hermione."
"Oh, really?" Her attempt at concealing tears with outward cynicism was failing miserably, based upon the tremors threatening to wrack her body. "And I suppose you can explain why it's your handwriting."
His tone grew forceful. " 'Scriptus imitaeus.' Use your head, girl." He sat up straighter to better regard her. "I would never write such a vulgar letter. You underestimate me."
"Not at all. It's blunt and truthful in a distinctly male way."
He chuckled, the rich tones of his voice seeing to fill the room. "A low and unworthy blow," he defended weakly, shaking his head. "But well- deserved, admittedly."
"Severus."
"Yes?"
"Who wrote this letter?"
This time, he went as far as to roll his eyes. "I reappear from a trip through Hell and you expect me to play Sherlock Holmes?"
"I didn't know you read Sherlock Holmes."
He sighed heavily, bending forward to place his head in his hands and breathe deeply. "I don't have the patience for this right now, Hermione. Perhaps you should return later. I think there is something we need to discuss."
She nodded knowingly, watching as he straightened again to take her hand and give it one final squeeze. "Do not doubt my affection," he murmured, "only its meaning."