Ch 26

Mildly Mad

After that fiasco… Hermione learned to play nice or be treated like a mental patient about to start screaming and chewing the matress. She apologized to McGonagall. Hermione claimed it was stress and Harry's reaction that set her off, Minerva was gracious enough to pretend to believe her.

She made up the mask they wanted to see. She smiled when they smiled. She nodded and let them pat her head or her hand comfortingly. She didn't speak much, not with her head aching so, but they didn't want her to. Sometimes she could hardly bear to do more than lie there, just praying the hammering in her skull would lessen a little. But it didn't matter, they didn't want to hear what really happened, they were afraid of how horrible they would discover it truly was, and to confront that was to know she had done it for them. They wanted to talk to her, to make it better, to be the saviors that helped the broken victim. They wanted to convince themselves everything would be just fine and go back to normal.

They had sequestered her here in his bedroom. After the fiasco with Harry she had only seen the women. Mrs. Weasley, with McGonagall as her relief, had made a point of never leaving her alone. Yet, they would answer her nothing she wanted to know, nor let her speak of anything of import.

Was Severus alright? Where was Harry? Could she speak to Ron? Was Dumbledore doing anything? What was the end goal he had had in mind? Where would things go from here?

But she did learn a few things… they did not know what she had gone through for them. McGonagall and Molly knew the barest outlines and she blessed Severus for saying nothing to disgrace her. He knew everything, in full color, gruesome detail, but then… she knew he, who had sinned like she, would not reveal the stain they shared. They knew she'd been raped… but it was an abstract concept for them. They knew Bellatrix had tortured her, but they remembered nothing concrete from her hallucinations. They did not know that she had almost escaped them all. Hermione was unspeakable glad of this, at the same time as it left her terribly frustrated.

She wanted to shout, I'm alright! Really, truly fine! It's been worse, so unspeakably terrible at times and I've survived it. I'm not going to break down. I'm not going to cry. I won't go mad and off myself. I'm worried, not frightened. I'm feeling isolated and cut off and 'sheltered' for my own 'protection' and that makes me absolutely sick. I'm not broken and afraid of the world. She wanted to scream, 'I'm not a child! Respect my opinions, my decisions, my views. I am of a sound mind.'

But they would not even hear her speak Snape's name without launching into comforting speech or outraged diatribe. When she did manage to say she was fine they would pat her head condescendingly and shoot one another knowing looks. Their theories would flash across their faces, so obvious to her it was painful to watch.

The poor child has deluded herself. She's in shock.

It's a wall she's putting up, underneath she's sobbing.

She's been deceived by him. He's playing with her fragile, naïve heart that sought comfort in any form and found false hope in him.

He's threatened her into silence.

No need to threaten a wandless girl, one only needs Imperious.

On Minerva's part… well, Hermione could understand… she had not exactly appeared willing… but the woman should at least give her a chance to explain herself… but then she'd botched that when she'd lost it on the poor woman.

It was absolutely infuriating. Hermione was going mad cooped up here, no contact, no knowledge of what had really happened to her. Something was different, that much she knew. Sometimes the little mark on her palm would twinge and she would clench her left hand trying desperately to hide the dull fear and uncertainty the innocuous little mark caused her. Why was she branded? What did it mean? Was she his? Was it forever? Did he know? Was he angry? Was he well? Did he blame her?

He was angry, furious in fact. She's tried to give up. She knew he was infuriated by that, angry she had lied to him and worried. A small part was undoubtedly self-preservation, but as angry as she was with him for stopping her. She knew it had been the right decision, she knew he did it because he cared. Only a coward ran away… she hadn't really thought through the consequences of her actions beyond the relief of death, beyond being so tired, and hurting so bad, and wanting to sleep forever… she hadn't thought of how bad it would be for Severus. Or of how awful Harry and Ron and all of them would have felt knowing she'd preferred to die.

But no one would listen, and no one would answer her questions, and no one would treat her as a rational human being. She would go absolutely mad. Mad with uncertainty and fear and their GOD DAMNED pity.

She could just feel their shame for her as they contemplated it, but she felt no such self disgust. Uncertainty… a nebulous and growing fear caused by it… She had done what she did… for them, for their lives, because they were the only hope left and even now she loved them.

Yet, their ill disguised disgust, and embarrassment, and… they were ashamed of her. Ashamed of what she had done.

What shame was there in Severus's perfect gentleness? He had not conquered her as a man does a woman, using her as an object for his pleasure. What shame was there in her actions? She had been treated with honor, and a kindness honor did not require. She knew this and did not take out her lingering fear, the false night terrors inspired by the fear of those few terrible moments, submitting to his hand, acknowledging that only he had the fortitude to see the thing through, or worse pressed to hard ground by his solid weight. Just a second, her body pinned, the one instant of utter, blind fear when she almost lost control. She did not curse him as it would be so easy to do and permanently blacken his honor. No, he had kept his word, and caused no harm, she would show him the same courtesy, she had sworn it. Forgiveness no matter what. Where was the shame in that?

Why should she be revolted by it? Why should they? She did not… expose herself like that because she wanted to. Yet no one would meet her eyes. Why would no one look, really look, into her eyes? They talked and talked and talked of how everything was alright, and OK, and…and it obviously wasn't.

Had she done a bad thing? Severus surely believed he had. Was she equally responsible? Not for what they had done they had been equals in that, but was she the reason for the disgust in their eyes?

Alone with her thoughts, and dreams, and the useless, tauntingly empty words they offered. She went… a little mad.

Of them all she preferred Luna. The other girl would appear for an hour or two during the afternoon and sit with her. Although Mrs. Weasley would almost never leave the room, it was a break in the tedium. Luna was a reminder that not all dreams were formed of tears and terror. She would smile her sweet sad smile, and talk about the eating habits of the gulping plimpy, or where a nargle might be found. Hermione didn't know if she was in her own little world, or just didn't think it was important to interrogate her charge, whatever the reason Hermione was grateful and once contributed a crackpot theory on the lifecycle of heliopaths.

This slight response brightened the elfin girl immensely and the next five days spent trapped, were greatly improved by her presence. Although she learned nothing of import from the girl, in part due to Mrs. Weasley's hovering presence, at the least, she was not assaulted by a bevy of weighted glances and condescending head pats.

But… those were the good days, when the anger was stronger than the fear. Some days she was not that rational. Some days she woke drenched in cold sweat, and weakly claimed nausea from the migraine to explain the sallow grey tone of her skin and the uncontrollable shivering.

Those were the days preceded by nights that were too long. When fact and fiction and fear painted pain onto the backs of her eyelids.

…

She always smelled it first, blood.

Sight, the blood was hers, mixing with the black earth into her broken nail beds. It was falling from hands that were broken, bleeding, but no longer gouging wounds into the earth, just scrabbling uselessly, failing in their purpose to crawl away, because of a large, pale hand that pinned them above her head. She couldn't see anything else, not with her cheek pressed hard to the ground, a pebble working deeper and deeper into her cheek every time he bore down on her—

Feeling was a distant fuzzy thing, a blessing. Here, hidden away in her mind. She was safe, he could do what he liked to her body… she didn't really feel it, not anymore. Just the dull discomfort of her knees embedded with grit and straining with the inescapable press of his weight, too much, too strong. Just the other, too large hand pinning her hips against his, the bruising grip keeping her locked under him. Just the heat of his breath, across the back of her shoulder blades, the tips of his hair and forehead occasionally brushing her back no matter how much she flattened her upper body along the ground.

But hearing was the worst.

"Please," the voice was rough, heavy, and too close, just above her ear, but there was nowhere left to flinch away. She whimpered straining her arms, feeling the sharp pain as she pulled too hard and lost what was left of a fingernail in the dirt, but couldn't move herself an inch away. Any distance she gained was lost when his sweat damp chest and shoulders sealed to her back, his powerful haunches flush to her thighs.

"Stop, Hermione, please… stop fighting— please, just stop fighting. It's almost done. Please…"

Pain… pain she couldn't feel, because she was safe here. Safe… it didn't matter. It wouldn't matter. He'd be done… if she could just sleep till it was over.

"Hermione, the power needs your heart to guide it," Desperation, fear, not hers. It was in the lips pressed too close, over her ear, a rasp, "Please—I need you here with me."

And suddenly she could feel, and she was small and vulnerable, and he was breaking her. HER. Hermione. His voice slipping in around the edges of the protective mask and sliding the killing blade right where it did more than hurt.

…

Waking it was all she could do not to scream.

Shut up

Shut Up

SHUT UP

Hermione stirred her soup listlessly around a few times. She didn't want to eat. Today was not a good day. Her stomach was rebelling against all but the lightest meals. It was worse than in the beginning, mainly because her eating habits were being watched with hawk like intensity by several women who were all convinced, though they did not say it, that A) she was starving herself, or B) she had been starved by Severus. They wouldn't stop casting these little disproving glances at her as they shoved more food on her.

God… she would eat, really, once they stopped standing there pityingly watching her choke down food, gagging as it passed into her stomach, the nauseating struggle to keep it down. Severus knew it was hard… he'd seen it before. At least he gave her the courtesy of suffering that humiliation alone. Hermione knew she was eating less than half of what she should be, but for her, that was spectacular.

But she couldn't very well announce,' Two months ago I was being starved to death. I was too nervous to force myself to eat that day… my stomach wants to start rejecting food again. Or better yet, I keep dreaming about him, not as he was, but how he could have been… you wouldn't want to eat after that either.'

She was just so tired all the time… she didn't want to bring it up. A near continuous, blindingly painful migraine kept her on edge even when the dreams left her alone. This contributed greatly to her nausea and tendency to flinch and cringe when people spoke too loudly. It angered the wasps setting up hive and home in her cranium.

Lunch time was therefore a highly tedious occasion. She sat, propped up on an array of pillows, a bowl of soup in her lap. Casually, she squashed the little letter shaped noodles drifting about in the soup with the back of her spoon, pulverizing them against the side of the white ceramic bowl. Molly was pouring her a mug of tea, mixing in copious amounts of milk and sugar... all a ploy to sneak more nutrients into her. She didn't want it. Given her druthers she drank coffee, one sugar, no milk. If it had to be tea, she wanted it black, neither sugar nor milk, but lemon to cut the tannins. Christ… she wasn't dying of starvation anymore, she knew what dying was… she would eat, at her own pace, once the god damned migraine let up enough so she could stomach food again.

The carrot chunks were bobbing about in her soup erratically. Suddenly it occurred to her drifting mind that the noodles in the soup spelled out a word.

DONT

This sank down under a floating circle of onion and a few more letters rose in their place. Curious she scattered them with her spoon feeling a mild charm of some sort. They fought against her and formed around the barrier of her utensil.

DRINK

The K was slightly squashed. It had suffered the back of her spoon.

THE

The H sank and an A missing one leg drifted in.

TEA

She barely kept a straight face as the letters F and G swirled playfully across the surface of the soup. To prevent Mrs. Weasley from pressing the mug of tea into her hands she scooped up a spoonful of the soup she had been ignoring for the last fifteen minutes munching on a G that was still wiggling a bit.

Satisfied Hermione was eating something, Molly put the mug to the side and poured herself a cup putting in just a drop of milk and perhaps a half pound of sugar. Hermione watched her surreptitiously as she sipped at the syrupy beverage.

After about five minutes Mrs. Weasley yawned, covering her mouth delicately with a hand, "Dearie me, I'm just so T-t—" she yawned again stretching the word out, "iiiiiiired. I'll just call Minerva in here, so you won't be alone dearest."

So saying she set the mug aside and rose partially from her chair only to relax back into it as her eyes slipped closed.

Hermione stifled a chuckle when not a minute later Mrs. Weasley began to snore softly.

Patiently waiting to learn the purpose of this prank she finished her soup setting the bowl, graced only by a bit of oil and noodle crumbs on the bedside table, beside the spiked tea.

I'm sorry all, our leading man is missing I know, but here's Hermione. Much love again to my reviewers. Sorry this update took as long as it did. I have a lot of ideas as to where this will go from here and they are warring for space in the written word.