This is a Harry Potter fanfic I wrote while pondering the seventh book and several other things. It's very angsty and kind of pathetic, really; read at your own risk! I absolutely love constructive critcism, so feel free to give it. But please, no flames. If you can't critique my work intelligently, then go away.
Main characters: Hermione, Lupin, and Snape
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling does. No matter how much I want to keep Lupin as a pet, it all belongs to her and I do not reap the benefits of her genius.
Note: The story takes place during Harry's sixth year, but I have taken some extreme artistic license as to when events occured and where characters were at certain times. Just go with the flow, pretty please:)
The Perpetual Play
It was easy for her. Too easy, in fact. It had become so easy she was now wearing her robes as often as possible to cover her wrists. When she wasn't in her robes, she wore long sleeved shirts so no one could see the pain written boldly on her skin. And no one, to both her relief and her disappointment, inquired after her secret.
After Sirius' death, Harry had withdrawn quietly, leaving her to mull over past events. Ron lived in a cloud of oblivion. She found the gap she had always endured with her parents widening again. Of course she had talked to Sirius sometimes, and Lupin as well, but Sirius was dead and Lupin mourning the passing of his beloved friend. How could she dare bother him with her troubles?
As the summer wore on she sought isolation to nurse her wounds. Like a hurting animal she cowered in a cave and licked at the sores, ignorant to the fact that she was not healing them. It didn't really matter to her anymore. The future, which had burned so brightly before the past years' events, flickered like candle light in a vicious wind, and then was mercilessly snuffed out.
The only solace she could find was in the bathroom with a pair of scissors for company. It had become a regular habit. Once, when she'd been in class with Professor Flitwick, the feeling had overcome her with such force and passion she had left without any explanation to the baffled teacher. She raced to the bathroom, convinced that if she did not reach it in time, she would wither away.
"This is the only thing that is keeping me alive," she told herself as she sunk the blade into her skin. The scissors were not sharp enough to pierce further than the second layer, but the pain sufficed. She closed her eyes as she tattooed her hurt in the tender flesh. "The wound is on the inside… I need to see it on the outside," she whispered to the scissors. It obliged, cutting deeper and deeper. The vicious animal stirring in her belly was appeased by this act and stopped prowling, its bloodlust quenched for a time. A wave of relief washed over her and calmed the nausea in her stomach. It was all temporary of course, and she knew that. But at least for another day she could live without feeling so much anguish. What tomorrow might bring she could not even consider, because if she did, she'd have to admit to herself that this was the way it might always be.
"I must stay alive for those who love me," she told her reflection in the mirror. A pale, decrepit creature stared back at her. Hollowed cheeks and glassy eyes were framed by dull, once curly hair. Gingerly she touched her neck, observing the marks of hate that dotted her wrist line.
"My redeemer," she breathed. "My outlet for my pain." Her eyes cried dry tears of gratitude, for she did not have to die to annihilate the pain. This, this act of loathing, was all that was necessary.
She could not bring Sirius back; she could not make Harry happy again. She could not destroy the Dark Lord. Books which had provided her with so much knowledge and answers could not solve these problems. She was tragically hindered. She was just like everyone else.
After several visits to the bathroom, she realized she would need something sharper to continue this tourniquet of pain. Harry watched through blind eyes as she scoured the Gryffindor Common Room in search of a redeemer. She could not blame Harry, anymore than she could confront him with her problems. He, unintentionally of course, was one of her problems. She mourned his unhappiness and grieved his sorrows. His pain tore up her tender insides and feasted ruthlessly on her guilt. Like a starving animal, it wrecked havoc throughout her body in search of nourishment. It ate away the little life she had left inside of herself.
"Harry, do you know where I could find a knife?" Hermione asked, her eyes glossing over the Common Room. "The kitchen is closed at this hour and I really need one."
Harry shrugged and looked into the fire. "What do you need it for, Hermione?"
"To open a package." The lie worked perfectly. Before the death of his godfather, Harry would've asked her why she just didn't use magic to open the box. When she continued to insist on a knife, he would've asked her curiously who sent the package. But now, he just nodded serenely and withdrew a pocketknife from his robes.
"I keep it with my wand for extra protection," he said, offering her only this meager explanation for his possession of a Muggle weapon. She did not have time to ponder the possession, however, because her wrist itched and she desperately wanted to scratch it. With a hasty thank you she left the Common Room, thankful that most people were at the Halloween celebration taking place in the Great Hall.
The bathroom she usually visited was too close to the Great Hall, so she trekked into the lower levels of Hogwarts and went into a small lavatory instead. She wanted the entire place to herself.
The pocketknife sat in her hand, waiting, begging, pleading to be put to use. She turned the nearest faucet on, allowing the water to run freely from the tap, uninhibited. The noise soothed her racing heart and gave her the physical strength to grip the blade.
"This will do it," she breathed, her mind at ease. "This will redeem me." Closing her eyes, she pressed down firmly on her skin. She felt nothing at first, but then came a sharp pain, acute and direct. This pain, however, was trivial compared to the pain she felt inside and she pressed deeper, wishing to articulate her suffering in a tangible form. Blood oozed out from beneath the blade, striking a path around the silver surface to drip solemnly on the ground. Her eyes flashed open, and upon seeing the blood, she smiled.
"Perhaps this blood letting will wrench the insufferable poison from within me," she thought, but then shook her head. That, of course, was not logical. With a sigh she ran her wrist under the faucet and then conjured a small bandage to wrap around the wound. She had to stop the bleeding in case anyone was stalking the halls outside.
Peeking around the door, she saw that the coast was clear. She breezed out, confident in her success and seeking comfort in the knowledge that perhaps she wouldn't have to cut again for several days. With a slight spring in her step, she headed back towards the Gryffindor Common Room.
She rounded the bend and was just about to take the stairs to the upper levels when she was stopped by the sound of a slight rustle behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she realized that she might have been discovered by a fellow student. She took a deep breath, rested her right hand on the stair banister, and fought the urge to turn around.
"Who's there?" she asked nonchalantly, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.
"Miss Granger, may I inquire as to why you are not at the festivities," the voice of her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher asked.
She gasped inwardly and spun around, her eyes focusing in on the malevolent glare of Professor Snape. With a nervous smile she scrambled internally to compose herself.
"Well, Professor Snape, I'm not feeling well."
"Then you should be in the Gryffindor Chambers at this moment, should you not?" he said smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest. She gulped and gave a slight shrug.
"I'm actually on my way now," she said, taking a small step backwards. Her heels collided with the base of the stairs and she struggled to mask her skittishness, to no avail. She could tell by the gleam in his eyes that he was not fooled at all.
"Where, Miss Granger, are you coming from? There is not much of use to a sick Gryffindor down here."
Beads of sweat began to sprout along her brow. Snape had never intimidated her, but she did find him disconcerting at times and harbored no good feelings towards him whatsoever. He was the last person in Hogwarts she wanted to meet on this night. The happiness she had felt for her success had been striped away by the Potions Master and she now despised him for it, regardless of how childish she knew her feelings were.
"I was merely taking a stroll," she said lightly. Her vision clouded over and for a moment her eyes met darkness.
Snape raised his eyebrows and strode out of the darkness her eyes had created. "Did you hurt yourself in the process?" he commented.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," she said, groping for a place to rest her trembling hand.
"Your hand, Miss Granger. You're bleeding."
She looked down and saw her hand was stained with blood. The sudden movement of her body caused her to wrench forward, and she caught herself from hitting the ground by landing on her knees.
"I daresay you are not well at all, you stupid girl," Snape sneered. He gripped her unwounded arm and hoisted her to her feet. "If I take you to Madame Pompfrey, she will insist on sending you to the psychiatric ward. Do you want that?"
She looked up at him through bleary eyes and shook her head no.
"Very well. I will attend to the wound, and then you will tell me why you are doing this. But if I deem it necessary, you may have to visit the Hospital Wing after all."
She could do nothing but follow her least favorite professor blindly to his office.
After the wound had been bandaged and she had been given several potions to drink, Snape sat her down opposite him. He calmly folded his hands and the professor and student sat in silence for two arduous minutes. She refused to look at him. Finally Snape broke the silence, and when he did, his voice was low and disapproving.
"Miss Granger, what are your motives for this?" He said, motioning to her wrist. She quickly held her arm to her chest, cradling it.
"Is it Potter?" he asked.
She shook her head vehemently. Of course, Harry was part of the problem, but not in the context Snape was thinking.
"The Weasley boy?"
Again, she shook her head no. With a huff of impatience he leaned back in his chair, his eyes glimmering dangerously.
"Miss Granger, it is my responsibility as a professor at Hogwarts to ensure the welfare of all the students, regardless of their House affiliation. If you refuse to disclose why you have been driven to do this, some drastic measures may have to be taken."
"I wasn't trying to commit suicide, if that's what you think," she snapped. Immediately she began to apologize for her rude tone, but a vicious headache coupled with her intense dislike of Snape stifled her attempt.
"I am well aware of that. Do you want to visit Madame Pompfrey after all?"
"No, Professor Snape. I can take care of this on my own."
"And you have been doing a beautiful job of it so far, I must commend you," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Something clicked in her brain, and she then realized that he had known for some time about her suffering, and even perhaps her self-mutilation. Anger burned up inside of her, but she forced it down.
"You knew."
He shifted in his chair. "Yes."
"How?"
"The life had gone out of your eyes, and your work. Excruciating agony radiated from you so heavily it's a wonder anyone could breathe in your presence for an extended period of time, Miss Granger. But then again, you are surrounded by a lot of thick minds."
"So I take it most of the professors have noticed, then?" she asked, ignoring his rude jab at her male companions. At the moment she didn't have the strength to hold a respectable argument with him.
"Professor Flitwick certainly noticed that something was amiss, yes," Snape answered. "But unless it is obviously apparent that a student intends to inflict harm on himself/herself or another, teachers are not encouraged to interfere." He paused for a moment to glance outside. The sun had set an hour ago, signifying that the later hours of night were upon them. Curfew would soon be in effect for most of the Hogwarts residents. He sighed and turned his gaze back to Miss Granger, who still would not look at him.
"And," he continued, "Professor Flitwick believes you to be an intelligent, practical, and respectable young woman. He took no offense to your sudden departure of his classroom, for he thought you must have had a good and logical reason, hence his apathy on the matter. Most professors think you are quite the adult."
"I am not in the mood for arbitrary compliments, with all do respect," she stated, her temper flaring. "I know who and what I am."
"But you must have endured some confusion, since a witch who knows who she is would never do such a thing to herself as you have done. Miss Granger, if you do not wish to speak with me, I understand. But I cannot let you leave my office without promising to never do this again, or if you consider it again at any point, placing confidence in someone you can trust." His abnormally gentle tone caused her to look straight at him. There was no smirk playing on his lips and his coal black eyes held no malice. It appeared to her that he was indeed sincere.
"I… I would like to write Remus," she said, suddenly overcome with an inexplicable desire to talk to the werewolf. She knew it was selfish to burden her problems on the already overwhelmed man, but deep inside her being she knew it was the only alternative to her cutting.
"Do you think that if you speak with him you will feel better, Miss Granger?" Snape said, bristling slightly at the mention of one of James' best friends. "Is he the best confidante for you?"
"I don't know, Professor Snape. But I need to speak with someone who understands my condition. I need to speak with someone who is older, wiser, and is already aware of some my feelings towards others. Remus certainly fits those qualities."
"And what are your feelings towards others, exactly, if you don't mind my asking? Are they feelings that need to be brought to the attention of the Headmaster?"
Hermione recoiled. "No," she said flatly.
"Very well. I will write Remus myself and ask him to come here." He put up his hand when she started to protest. "He is of course quite the busy Order member, but I think with my persuasion he will be willing to drop by." Snape began to stand, signaling that the conversation was almost over. But she wasn't about to let it go that quickly.
"It's just…" she stated, ignoring his frustrated sigh as he settled back into his chair, "I don't think I want Remus to know. I don't really want anyone to know what I have done. How can I possibly explain it? This… this mutilation is not something people who are in a right state of mind do to themselves. And I've… I've always prided myself on my ability to think logically, Professor Snape. What will people think if they find out?"
Snape steepled his fingers and regarded her severely. "Miss Granger, if this is kept quiet, you will not have to suffer those fears. If you do not wish to tell Remus, is there anyone else that you would consider as a confidante? As I stated before, I cannot and will not let you leave my office before you promise me that this does not happen again."
She thought of Dumbledore, but he had been looking extremely tired and almost sickly. She could not bring herself to bother him with her problems. Harry passed through her mind again, but she knew he would be deeply offended and hurt by her actions. He would blame himself for her pain, which was the last thing she wanted. And Ron would become paranoid, destroying every sharp object within one hundred feet of her and keeping his eye on her constantly. They would've meant well, of course. But their intentions were not what she needed to battle this angry animal inside of her. She needed an individual who possessed enough wisdom and compassion to understand her plight without overreacting and searching for scapegoats.
"Write Remus, then," she said, defeated. "I'll tell him everything." Sighing, she stood and looked down at her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who was watching her with blasé interest.
"Do you promise to confide in him and never let this happen again?" he inquired, his face impassive.
"I… I promise, Professor Snape. I will try my hardest to destroy this animal within me." She headed to the door, but when she reached the threshold she turned back towards Snape. He was still sitting at his desk, a face of ennui blocking any emotion she hoped to glean off of him.
"Professor Snape?"
He jerked his head in her direction and arched his eyebrows. "Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Thank you."
Four days later Hermione lay in bed on a late Saturday morning, languishing in the fact that she did not have to wake up early to attend any classes. She heard people milling about downstairs in the Gryffindor Common Room and stuck her face in her pillow. How could people find the strength to rise out of bed and socialize after everything that had happened? She wished that she too could dispel the grief inside her and get on with her life. But she could not bring herself to do so, no matter how hard she tried.
Snape's concern had astounded her initially, but as the days progressed and she was given the chance to mull over the events, she concluded that he had only cared for her well-being because he treasured his position as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Had Dumbledore discovered that Snape could've stopped her from committing self-mutilating acts, the Potions Master would've certainly lost his job. His worry for her, she concluded, was only motivated by his own selfish interests.
She tried not to let this fact bother her, but it did. The smaller things, things that other people found trivial or insignificant, troubled her greatly. She was vulnerable and easy prey to anything that could potentially cause stress. And worse still, she knew it. She struggled against her illogical feelings, but her heart was not coinciding with her head. She hated worrying over things that did not really matter in the end. But she worried nonetheless.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Ginny raced in, her beautiful face aglow.
"Hermione, what are you still doing in bed?" she exclaimed. "Ron is looking for you. It just began to snow a couple hours ago!"
"Snow in November?" She murmured. "Well I guess it's entirely plausible…"
"I also brought you some hot cocoa. You've seemed down lately and I thought it might cheer you up." Ginny offered a cup to her.
Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away furiously as she reached for the cup. She didn't want Ginny to ask what was wrong because she was afraid she'd tell her. She choked out a thank you and then sent Ginny away politely, promising to get dressed and made plans to meet her for dinner later that evening.
After throwing together something that halfway resembled an outfit and changing the bandage on her inner arm, she treaded downstairs and out into the halls, intent on going for a walk. To her surprise, Harry was not sulking in the Common Room. She figured that he had probably hit the library in a desperate attempt to escape the hellish reality he lived in. She really couldn't fault him for it.
She was passing through the Courtyard when to her utter amazement she spotted Lupin sitting on a bench reading a novel. It took her a few moments to register that he had gotten here so quickly, and then several more moments to take in the physical change that had wrecked his features. His hair was even grayer than it had been the last time she'd seen him, and he had lost more weight. His physical state was clearly not healthy. She instantly regretted telling Snape that she wanted Lupin as her confidante, but the damage had been done. Lupin was here, at Hogwarts, and she had to deal with it. Wringing her hands, she approached him tentatively.
"Remus?" she asked, dipping her head to catch his gaze.
"Ah, Hermione, I was told you were still feeling ill. I'm glad to see you up and out," Lupin said, looking up from his book. His voice was thin but full of concern. She smiled weakly and sat beside him, glancing at the book in his lap.
"Goethe's Faust," he said in response to her unasked question, and put the novel aside. "I received an owl from Severus on Tuesday and came as soon as I was able," he said, getting straight to the point. "Do you wish to talk here, or would you prefer somewhere more private?"
"Here is fine. Who told you that I was still ill?" she inquired, wondering who had acquired such knowledge and by what means.
"Well, Severus, of course. He says you have been off all week."
"But I've only been in class twice this week. How would he know about my health?"
"Hermione," Lupin said patiently, "I don't know. However, I do know that you are trying to avoid the topic that brought me here. You are clever, but not that clever to outsmart this old man," he said, placing a thin hand on top of hers. She avoided his gaze and instead stared at her feet.
"I'm afraid the antidote to your pain is not written on your shoes, Hermione," said Lupin gently.
"I'm sorry that I made you come here. I shouldn't have bothered you, I know that now. I just feel so helpless, so afraid…" she bit her lip to stifle the continuous flow of words that threatened to escape from her mouth. When Lupin didn't reply, she looked straight up at him. His warm eyes shone with a desire to understand, to comprehend her predicament. She knew he was not judging her, and that knowledge gave her the courage to keep on going.
"I just feel so foolish… so inadequate. I can't help Harry with his grief. I can barely control mine. I'm mourning the death of a friend and fighting not to let the sorrows of others weigh me down. I'm not emotionally strong like other people. I never have been, and now it is seriously catching up with me. Nothing makes sense anymore." She let out a sigh of frustration. "I walk around in a daze, begging silently for someone to kill me, but knowing that it will never happen. I wanted to escape from this pain and my only outlet is marked on my wrist." She shook her head. "Once I would've never been able to conceive why a person would want to hurt themselves, but now it all makes sense, in a deranged sort of way. My perspective on life has been drastically changed." She placed her hand on top of his in an effort to convey to him without words her appreciation for his patience. He did not acknowledge the maneuver, but somehow she still knew he had noticed it. The shimmer in his eyes had brightened a tad.
"You have always been quite the people pleaser, Hermione," commented Lupin after some time. "It saddens me to see such an intelligent and compassionate young woman succumb to the unpredictable whims of the human emotional spectrum. Do not make a martyr out of yourself. No one is asking you to die for them."
They sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the beauty of the scenery. She also was trying to absorb his words, for she knew they were loaded with wisdom. When she spoke again, her comments took a new direction.
"I wanted to wear the pain on my skin instead of on my heart," she said softly, so softly Lupin had to lean closer to her to hear what she said. "It is necessary for me to appear happy and cheerful to live up to the high expectations, while all the while my insides are being ripped apart by a vicious animal of grief and misery. Emotional outbursts that occur in public are viewed unfavorably by society, for they make people feel uncomfortable. All of this…" she swept her arms across the Courtyard, "… is like a play. Life is a play, a perpetual play. We wear the right costumes, memorize the correct lines, and don the most aesthetically pleasing make up, all in return for the thrill of success, the approval of a fickle audience. But thrills and approvals are short lived. It is necessary to keep the play going in order to establish a permanent sense of accomplishment. And of course…" she then saw that Lupin was chuckling, a splash of color resting at the base of his otherwise pale cheeks. She blushed and looked sheepishly at him. "I suppose I am rambling. Forgive me." She smiled apologetically. He quickly dismissed her embarrassment with a wave of his hand.
"There is nothing to forgive, Hermione. There never has been. You're young and confused, but you also possess the maturity and insight common to my ancient generation. When your inexperience and perceptiveness collide, it creates many a problem for you. And unfortunately, there is no magic potion I can give you, no special charm that I can say to remedy your situation. All I can offer is my guidance and support, Hermione. The days of intense suffering are not over; in fact, they have just barely begun. Sirius' tragic death is, I fear, the harbinger to more pain. And the only way you can survive is by asking for help whenever you need it. Hopefully my coming here has partially convinced you that people do care for you, and want to help you with your problems, regardless of their own." He patted her shoulder and with a quick, sterner change of tone inquired, "May I see your wrist?" When she shot him a surprised look he said, "I need to see that you haven't cut since Tuesday."
She bit her lip and obliged, displaying the white bandage to the werewolf. "Professor Snape did do an excellent job of healing the wound, I must admit," she stated as he scrutinized the bandage. "It's a shame he only helped me merely to keep his job."
Lupin's eyebrows shot up as he rolled her sleeve back down, content that she had, so far, kept her promise to the Potions Master. "Do you honestly think that, Hermione?"
"Well, yes."
"What if I told you that Severus is the one person in Hogwarts who can actually fully understand your situation?"
She was puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"When I went to school with him he had his own emotional problems, of which some you are aware. His coping mechanism was identical to yours, except his goal was to kill himself, and he used magic via his wand to cut. I know this only because I caught him in the bathroom slitting his wrist, and was able to get him to the Hospital Wing before it was too late. I swore I'd speak of it to no one, and up till now I have kept the promise. But I honestly think you have the right to know." He patted her shoulder. "I'll risk his wrath. I've suffered much worse," he said with a grimace. Lupin then stood, his thin frame barely supporting him. She was flooded with a tirade of compassion for her old professor and embraced him in a hug, using her weight to support some of his. Her body met the hard shell of skeletal bone, despite the two layers of coats he wore. Her brow furrowed with concern and she pulled away. He noted her look of discontent and chuckled quietly.
"Oh Hermione, do not worry about me. For once, worry about yourself. Will you promise to do that?" His tone left no room for argument, but she didn't want to argue with him. It occurred to her that Lupin meant more to her than she had been willing at first to let herself believe. It was nothing more than a platonic friendship, but it was a friendship that sustained her soul.
"As long as you promise to take care of yourself," she countered to him.
"To the extent that I am able, I will," he said with sincerity. "Please write if you ever feel the need. I apologize to be leaving with such haste, but evil never sleeps, it seems." He smiled sadly. "Tell Harry to forgive me for not staying to see him. I'm sure he'll understand."
"Of course. Thank you so much for coming. I can never make it up to you; I am eternally in your dept… "
He interrupted her by thrusting a small brown package into her hands. "Hermione dear, now you are rambling. Please have some chocolate."
Hermione never harmed herself again after Lupin's visit. When the two witnesses to her cutting were murdered the following year, a piece of her heart died along with them. By that time, the scars on her wrist had long since faded. Life, she found, would continue, in spite of the feelings and emotional states of others. To honor their memory, she was determined to prosper and thrive so their efforts had not been in vain. And although she knew that mourning their deaths was not the way they would've wanted her to spend her time, she could not help but wish sometimes that her two redeemers were still alive.