Chapter Two
"It seems that you and I have more in common than I'd thought."
What he meant by that, Hermione couldn't say. She couldn't say anything, for she was suddenly weeping, great gasping heaves of loss, regret and relief. For years she had hidden, repressed her shame behind a dam of work, avoidance and melancholy. Now the dam was broken, and there was no stopping the flood. She wept without restraint, her face raining, her breaths coming out in ragged gulps. She was swollen, covered in tears and snot, and yet she felt no compunction that he was watching her. Somehow, in her grief, her hands found one of his. Rather than recoil in the face of her emotion, he held on to her. She felt she would be washed away were it not for this one precious anchor to sanity.
When at last she was dry and her sobs had faded to hiccups, she slumped back on the sofa and closed her eyes. She was numb and tingly from her toes to her face. He sat down beside her, and lay that comforting hand on her head. They stayed that way for some time before he uttered "Leviosa."
She was vaguely aware of being floated down the hall and into her bedroom. Lowered gently to the bed, she could focus no farther than her soothing blue sheets. Familiar, safe, good. She crawled into them like a wounded animal into sanctuary.
"Severus… Don't leave me alone tonight. It's too dark now."
He stared at her, his spy's eyes unreadable…he nodded. "Then I will watch over you while you sleep."
No sooner had he said it, than she did.
The next morning, awareness came in stages. First, the headache. Familiar, a gift from her overindulgence with last night's cabernet. Next, thirst. From drinking? No, from crying. Crying an ocean of tears as Snape looked on. Snape.
Her eyes flew open, only to meet his dark, unfathomable gaze. She searched him, for judgment, for revulsion, for contempt. But all she saw was a tired man, in rumpled slacks who had spent an uncomfortable night in her bedroom chair. Other than removing his shoes, he'd made no concession to his comfort. He'd simply sat in vigil, watching over her as he'd promised.
Hermione smiled at him, but was unsurprised when he did not smile back.
"Thank you, Professor."
"You're welcome, Miss Granger."
She flinched as he turned on a light. The headache was, well, spectacular. She turned to her nightstand, rummaged, and pulled out a bottle of Advil. Snape jumped from his chair as if she'd suddenly pulled a viper from the bedstead. On his face was a look of disgust.
"Muggle life or no, you are not going to consume that barbaric concoction."
He muttered something unintelligible, and pulled his wand out of his pocket. He summoned a small vial, and handed it to her. It was from his personal stores; she recognized the double S crest pressed into the wax seal.
She drank it, unsurprised to discover that it cleared her headache immediately. He was a potionsmaster, after all. But she was surprised that unlike the ghastly brew of Madam Pomfrey's, Snape's potion tasted sweet and creamy, like a light butterscotch. Somehow, she'd never imagined that Snape had taste buds before, or that he'd apply his genius to so banal a matter as flavor.
"It's good." She said.
"Well of course it's good," he huffed, but not before she detected a gleam of pleasure in his eyes. She filed the fact that he was not immune to deserved flattery away for later.
"Miss Granger, we should discuss…"
"Shower first. Talk later."
When she returned to living room, she found that Snape appeared alert, tidy and refreshed, not at all like he'd spent a night in an armchair, and altogether less human than he'd appeared earlier that morning.
"We need to speak, Miss Granger."
"I know. Coffee first. Then, I promise we'll talk."
She took comfort in the ritual of blending her morning drink. She liked to make her own blend, so measured different beans from several containers. Strong today. She had a feeling they'd need it. And dark…she doubted Snape was a weak coffee kind of guy. Of course, she'd roast the beans herself if put off the inevitable conversation.
When she was satisfied with the mix, she threw the beans in the grinder. To her surprise, Snapes eyes turned greedy; she knew he was considering the uses such a tool could be put to in his lab. They sat together, and waited, as the brew dripped into view.
When they were both settled with their cups, she gestured for him to begin.
"Your rash flight after the final battle was… inadvisable, Miss Granger. The feelings you experienced, that so repulsed you, they did not come from you. They did not come from within your soul. Yes, you killed. But the other thing, the pleasure, that did not come from you.
"It is a phenomenon called "l'attraction." Only the oldest, darkest magic caries it. It is a siren song for the curse, inherent to it. Like a barbaric muggle drug, it intoxicates the user, seeking to seduce him or her into repeating the spell. The magic, it seeks to reproduce itself.
"For most people, it is a gentle sensation of pleasure, a hushed lullaby, a sweet seduction. For people like us…well, the stronger the witch or wizard, the more intense the thrall. What you experienced, Miss Granger, was what I felt, the attraction, the full blown manifestation of the curse's power. Magic at its most potent.
"There are things that can be done, things to ease the desire. If you had but stayed, if you had told me, I could have… helped you. Eased the experience, provided an antidote, if you will, that would have prevented your re-infection. It was a stupid, rash thing you did to hide here. But I will say this, Miss Granger, you did what I could not do. You walked away from it.
The curse you threw, Miss Granger, out of fear, and anguish, I did for personal gain. I took a life. I fell headlong into the pleasure. I was unable to cease, unwilling to do so. I allowed myself to become enslaved. When the dark lord came, promised an easy supply of opportunity, I went to him like a dog. I wallowed in the attraction while my soul corroded. I lost years in servitude to the darkness.
That you could taste such power, feel such pleasure, and walk away, stay away for almost ten years…it's the single most admirable feat that I have ever encountered.
"I can do for you what Albus did for me. It will lessen the trauma of your memory. It will not change the fact that you have performed an unforgivable, that change is irrevocable. But the other thing, the addiction, that can be helped."
Hermione sat, digesting his story. She didn't know what to feel. Elated that there was an answer, grief for the needless years lost, gratitude for the fact that this man had come to find her. And to her shame, sadness that if she let him do what must be done, she'd never feel that hated pleasure again.
But it must be done.
"I will need to access your mind again. Will you trust me?"
"How can I not?"
