Ch 14

Lie to Me

"Such a good spy… You may say you don't enjoy it, but actions speak louder than words. You're just like them, a demon," she hissed bitterly.

"Hermione," he warned. She was not accusing him, not really, he knew that, intellectually, but the words angered him despite the knowledge… but he supposed, if he wanted to watch everything burn, she was entitled to a meltdown of her own. It wasn't like this madness hurt anything but his pride… she would be the one left bleeding. She would break.

But she heard only the threat in his voice, and bared her teeth in an animal response. She dared him to act on that threat, dared him to try. Her hands, clenched against the erratic tremors, and her eyes, wide, wide and sharp and scared. They promised she would do her damnedest to kill him first. He was shocked to realize he was not entirely sure she would not succeed.

For one heartbeat, two, he watched in morbid fascination as she gathered what power she could, one hand lifting, perfectly steady now, not, he knew, to shield herself, but to wound.

When he felt battle hardened reflexes making the twitch to bring his wand to hand, he cursed violently and backed down. It took effort to keep his hands open and lax at his side.

After a moment, then two, she lowered her gaze, her hand dropping, sure he was not an immediate threat.

Though the shock of the revealing seemed to be wearing off, her dark eyes looked wild. She pressed the heels of her palms over her eyes pressing hard, a strangled screech escaping her throat, "Why did I have to survive? There's no point!" she crumpled, bowing forward, her dull brown locks falling to conceal her face and tumble over her knees like the fading incandescence of tarnished copper, "It wouldn't even matter if you did," she ground out in a broken voice her next words hurting Snape more than they should have, "I'm broken. I can't nurture any life."

He instinctively recoiled. These were things a woman should discuss with another female. This was something she needed a warm, soft shoulder to cry on over. What did a man know of maternity, of what fertility meant to a woman? This was not something he wanted to contemplate.

At the same time he wanted to reach out and soothe her pain. He wanted to lift the wild fear and stress from her shoulders. The cup was too bitter for her to bear, but he wasn't sure that he was not the one forcing it to her lips.

But she was still speaking, "I suffered so much, because I thought…I thought there was some hope, "She shuddered once and screamed in accusation, "HE TOLD ME THERE WAS A CHANCE!" her voice cracked on the last and she croaked, "A lie, all of it is meaningless… utterly futile."

He began softly, carefully, aware he more than out of his depth. Clinically, he knew the ins and outs. He had brewed enough healing potions, assisted in enough healer's research. He knew the science of it.

Somehow the knowledge did not seem to be of any help, "Hermione… though it does not change the fact that there are some things I will not do for my masters, your body does not menstruate when you are in starvation mode. The blood and fluid loss would kill you."

With obvious reluctance she lifted herself from her lap meeting his eyes across the room.

Her low, dangerous voice matched the frenzied pain in her eyes, "Leave it. Please. Just… You know enough of my shame."

"You need tell me nothing of shame," he stated firmly, "Only facts."

The soothing effect of, 'This is only business', staunched pain as no pointless words of comfort ever could for two such as they. She straightened fully, the awful hysteria in her eyes fading.

He watched her tether herself to sanity in even, almost clinical words, "They were not systematically starving me until the end of what might have been a year. I was strong enough then to grasp at my magic when I went too long between meals. It happened…very early. It's normal I guess… I was...am young. In my prime, so to speak. Time was hard there… We all found out when I began to show. I suppose I must have been there three or four months, is that not the usual time? It's a wonder I hadn't miscarried on my own. Bellatrix was…kind enough to abort the fetus. She was not kind enough to use magical means. There was a lot of bleeding…too much. I don't think Bellatrix ever wanted to deal with the problem again."

He wondered if he should comfort her. Was it, as she said, a kindness that she had not had to birth the spawn of that beast? Did it matter to a woman how a life came to rest in her body? He had seen the strength of maternal instinct.

Lily

Lils…fiery hair and green, green eyes, closed, closed because of him.

Was it that strong? No, her dark eyes did not seem disturbed at all, simply hollow. The pain… no, the shame, of the memory was in letting him know. She was solemnly composed, pale, but erect and calm. A small part of him noted with passing satisfaction the tentative poise in the tilt of her head that dared him to pity her. That awful frailty was fading as she returned to a normal weight, her abdomen no longer caving in under her ribs. Then he saw her hands, small and pale they pressed over her stomach, like white poppies, death, mourning, the only funeral spray her child had been given.

He could almost see the slight roundness that was all Hermione knew of her child. A child who had gone to death, wished fare thee well, and remembered only by his mother's white hands and screams. The child born of blood and anguish unspeakable, had died in the same way he was conceived.

Approaching her, he crouched down, not at her level, below it. He lowered himself to one knee on the floor just to her right. She watched him with no more trepidation than when he had stood across the length of a room.

Reaching out he gently he placed his hand over her two, covering them to banish the chill from her slender fingers and the almost physical sensation of her stomach hard with a life within, "What will soothe you? I could say I am sorry, so terribly sorry, for your loss, but that does not change anything. It will mean nothing to you. I can remind you that this prophesy need mean nothing to us. You are safe here. You have been given into my care, and I will protect you... Or I can ask you a question."

Her fingers twitched spasmodically under his warm palm, but she was a Gryffindor, and so very strong "What question?"

"How did she force a miscarriage? There are certain draughts…"

The little blood that had returned to her cheeks drained away and she trembled, her hands tightening to fists beneath his hand.

"Hermione, I will not touch you. You are safe. No matter what you choose. You are safe. I have and perhaps will again cause you great pain, but I will never touch you against your will in that manner."

She swallowed hard and he was close enough to see the quick, fluttering throb of her blood racing in the artery at her pulse point, and fine lavender web of capillaries across her delicate eyelids.

"The old fashioned way, I suppose… she beat the abdominal region until the contractions…and then the bleeding began."

He nodded solemnly, "So nothing scraped or punctured the uterine walls?"

She shivered noticeably and he tightened his grip on her hands, "Yes," she choked out, "After, to make sure all fetal tissue was removed," she gave a bitter little laugh, "Heaven forbid I get child bed fever if the dying tissue festered," Her lips were quivering, her composure fleeing, "Y-you know…I-I was glad…when it was out of me. I wanted it dead…" she admitted self-loathing evident.

He gripped her small fists lifting and cupping them in his large palms, "There is no shame in not wanting to bring a child into that existence."

Hermione was shaking her head slowly, "Not that kind of relief. I was glad it was DEAD. It was some monstrous, vile thing infecting my body. It was his and it only wanted to cause me pain," She choked on a sob, preventing it from being voiced, "It—was already a child. Not j-just some clump of cells, it was a baby… you-you could already see the face…and hands. God forgive me, it was MY baby."

"Shhh," he found himself petting and stroking her face and hair. Desperate to calm her, anything, anything, to stopper the wound pouring scarlet all over the floor, "Your first thought was, 'I can't have a baby here.' The rest is only a coping mechanism. You couldn't have stopped her. You know that. You know you could not have stopped her. Lestrange is the only one responsible, for any of it."

"You didn't see that," she accused in a low voice, "I hated that…foreign thing. I was so, so relieved when she killed it."

"No, I did not witness that particular thought, but I did not have to. I know you, how you think. I'm not wrong and, if you desire, I can heal the damage."

She pulled her hands from his slowly, her eyes dark, revealing nothing, "You want to fix me,"

The words were not spoken in relief. They were an accusation no matter how soft.

He considered telling her the lie she wanted to hear, no, I am indifferent to your choice. Dark eyes judged him and he knew her elders had lied to her for too long.

"Yes."

She recoiled further her knees drawing up into that familiar warding off position. Her still features revealed distrust, hard to see, hiding behind shuttered, muddied eyes, but there and strong. It was the first time he had ever seen such an expression directed at him from her pale features before. It was not just uncertainty, it was a deeply seated doubt in his intent. It was a quickly solidifying belief that he, like many before him, was using her. But more than that, he was using her and cloaking his manipulation in kind words and gentleness, hiding his evil behind a veneer that was beginning to crack. He saw suddenly that pain could be forgiven; cruelty could be forgiven; and she would willingly absolve him of outright malice and torture for those things were straightforward. She had had enough of manipulation and lies. She had had enough of being used. Quickly, he spoke trying to make her look at him, trying to make her stop closing herself in and away from a world that only ever brought her pain.

Even as he did it he knew it was unjust of him. The world was pain, awful, unbearable pain that smiled its cruel triumph over her heart, which could still be brought to trust despite her sure knowledge that no one could be depended on for anything, but brutality.

"I want to give wholeness of body back to you, if wholeness of spirit has been taken. I want to give you this for the same reason I want to see you walk and run with ease, your bones cushioned with appropriate amounts of flesh, your cheeks no longer hollowed, because, perhaps one day, if you can survive, you will live."

"Why?" she croaked in a thick voice.

'I want to help you. I want to see the bright, innocent girl I knew. I want to know what kind of woman she would have become. I want to be reminded of a time when I was a better man. I want to be able to believe something of that man still lives,' he did not say these things. These things were foolishness, the thoughts of one who had not seen war, who did not know reality.

"Too often I am the destroyer… I only want to repair some small damage. You may say it is wholly selfish, but I used to nurture young minds. It is true, I did not love my work, but… it was a time of peace. Let me remember. Let yourself."

The girl smiled bitterly and almost involuntarily said, "Peace is that brief, glorious moment in history when everybody stands around reloading."

He gave a hoarse bark of laughter, "Whoever said that didn't know the half of it."

"A muggle, Thomas Jefferson, muggles have it easy," she muttered.

The girl bit her lip and pierced his skull with her eyes, saw through the blind of fear that her suspicion was misplaced. Then, almost ashamed of her accusation she dropped her eyes, "What if I want to be a coward? What if I want to stay broken?"

'So you can't hurt me. So I never have to lie beneath a man ever again. So I don't have to hurt for the dead that lie in peace while I suffer. I don't want to lose this momentary haven. I don't want to be thrown back into the madness and pain.'

"What if I want to be selfish?" she whispered.

"You'd be in good company," he told her simply.

She rubbed her face, defeat evident in her exhaustion, "I feel like he's created the perfect game. The moves are as good as predetermined. I feel like nothing I have chosen, choose now, or will choose sometime in the future will have any effect upon the outcome."

"Our benevolent dictator…"

"Tell me it's for a good reason. Tell me it would be worth it."

He looked at her in silence.

She smiled weakly, and reached out with a shaky hand. He looked at the wavering appendage, and then looked at her face. Her eyes were very wide, and she bit her lip in uncertainty, stress and fear made her features look tight. Lightly, he pressed his palm to hers, and then wrapped her cold hand in his warm, firm grip. He didn't say a word and her dark tumultuous eyes were unreadable even to him. So they were joined by fate. Yet, if he had ever entertained any illusions of free will, she, through his choice, through his honor, would be given as much a voice as he in determining their path, however futile it might be to resist their fate. In a way, she was asking not to have to face this alone, but also it was a silent agreement. We are partners in this, they silently vowed. From now on I will be equally damned or saved by your actions.

"Do I have the right to throw away the future of the world, because I'm afraid?" She asked.

They both knew what the Gryffindor answer was, what the 'right' answer was, what the LIGHT would want her to do.

What was their answer?

Severus could see these terrible truths falling on her frail shoulders, like stones dropped by the callous hands of a farseeing general. He was too high. He did not have to see the damage wreaked by his actions. He could be indifferent because he only saw pawns on the board, not the shivering woman he had cornered with three fates of destruction, and no path of retreat save death left to her.

But no, he and not Dumbledore had taken death from her, blocked her final escape. He had drawn first blood… or was it last?

She was faltering beneath the cruel rain. Using their joined hands as a guide he drew her up from her chair. He pulled her to him, chest to chest. He was more careful now, aware of the fine distinction between a safe house and a prison. She did not resist, trusted as she did, because she believed in the honor Dumbledore was asking him to forsake once more. For an instant, she held an inch of space between them. She stood tall, even the tilt of her chin proud and looked up at him, eyes dark. Her eyes searched his face, and must have seen that he had never before acted against the will of their general. The terrible weight of that knowledge pressed heavily on her and when she staggered beneath the load she allowed him to support her. She allowed a warm arm to press her lower back and her head to find rest against his shoulder. She let him tuck her protectively beneath his chin as he moved to the seat with her curled in his lap. He lightly lay larger, stronger arms around her shoulders to shield her from the harsh blows, hiding her frail, trembling body from the cruel truth.

"Why won't you tell me it is what I must do?" She sounded small and lost and scared.

"Say it!" The demand, that was a plea, and an order sounded like the snapping of a bird's hollow-boned wings.

Firmly he covered her mouth with his hand. He felt her soft lips tremble, form words, then stop, the small, warm, sobbing gasp against his palm. Then she pulled her face away and pressed it to his shoulder saying no more.

She was still too weakened to be asked to consider such things, not yet healed enough to face such pain alone. 'Worry about the truth in the morning,' his touch communicated, 'Face that pain only when the light of day is there to penetrate the dark tunnel of fear. Not here, not now, just rest in the safe shadow I cast, only one of us need acknowledge the truth. For tonight, I will shoulder the burden.'

R&R