DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter 26
- The Imperius Essay -
The first thing the victim of the Imperius Curse feels is a release. Freedom. Free of fear, free of the need to make a decision. Did you know that every moment of your life, you have to make a decision? What to eat, what to say, or whether to remain silent. Where to step, how to hold your arms, how hard to scratch that tickle on your head. Or whether to scream and fight like a wildcat to somehow stop this from happening, to stop this violation that you can't even begin to imagine is really happening, that is ripping you apart, body and soul, or to beg and plead, hoping that the person behind the mask is the one you think he is, the one who is on your side, the one who has always protected you and your friends, despite what everyone else thinks. Those are all decisions which the subject of the Imperius curse is relieved of the necessity of making.
It is a strange feeling, but not an altogether unpleasant one. It is disquieting, this lack of responsibility for one's actions. Imagine that you've been told that you can do whatever you'd like without fear of consequences: Eat fifty Chocolate Frogs; you won't get sick. Don't go to bed for a month; you won't get tired. Do a swan dive down Angel Falls and have the rainbows at the bottom catch you. Or just lie there, head full of cotton, and let the nice man in the silver mask pull off your pants and cleave you and cleave unto you and nothing bad will happen at all, it won't hurt, there's nothing to be ashamed of, it's good and right to have this foreign flesh invading you, to have that part – even though you know what it is, you can't even bring yourself to think the word, to put a mental image to what you know is happening down there, down there is you! you're not even a woman yet, you're still just a little girl, this shouldn't be happening – that part is in you and this is what animals do, this is what people do, but it's all right, this is exactly the way things are supposed to be, as long as you lie still. Does that make sense?Of course it does. That is what the Imperius Curse does. It makes everything make so much bloody sense that you can't even understand it anymore.
At this point, Hermione realized that she was crying because she couldn't see the words she had just written anymore. Her nose was running and she didn't have a handkerchief, so she turned up the sleeve of her robe and wiped it there. She was well into her fourth foot of parchment. The assignment had only called for two. She couldn't hand this in, she knew, and not just because of the length.
On the other hand, how many students – how many people at all, for that matter – had first-hand experience with the Imperius Curse and could describe its effects with such insight? Wasn't that just as valuable as knowing how to detect it in others? Admittedly, she hadn't been entirely objective in her descriptions. She hadn't meant it all to come out like that; she'd only meant to write a few words, two or three sentences tops, about what the Imperius Curse felt like. But once she'd started, the words had kept coming of their own accord. It had felt good to get it all out, to write it down. It was better than talking about it, because she didn't have to justify what she wrote to anyone, no need to be careful about revealing any secrets, nor worry about how the parchment and ink would react to the words.
She wondered what Snape would do if he read it, really read it and not just got angry as soon as he realized what she'd written and scrawled a T across the page or, more likely, ripped the parchment in two and sent her to detention or petitioned for her expulsion. Would he care? Would he understand? Would he try and explain?
She'd had enough of their explanations, his and Dumbledore's. That wasn't what she needed. She'd thought at first that she needed to understand. That if she knew why it had happened, that she'd be able to put it behind her, the same way that an arithmantic problem niggled at her and kept her awake at night until she'd seen the logic behind it, and then she didn't have to think about it again. But then she'd gone to see Dumbledore and he'd talked about soap, and then she'd gone to see Snape, and he'd talked about destroying what she most valued in order to save it, and she'd understood all too well. She didn't want any more explanations. She wanted regret and remorse. She wanted guilt. Their guilt. Especially Snape's. And Voldemort's, if he was even capable of such feelings, which she doubted. But Dumbledore was, and Snape, too.
Dumbledore had told her himself that he was sorry for what had happened, and felt culpable for the leak in security. That wasn't what she was angry at him for, though; it was for covering Snape, for putting her and the other girls in the position where they had to daily see and interact with their attackers. Not that they were supposed to know who the attackers had been. She was only really certain of Snape. She suspected Malfoy, but had no proof, and she had no clue on the others. And still, despite all that she knew, she continued to trust Dumbledore, to believe that he had a plan that would, in the end, make all of this worthwhile. For if they could rid the world of the threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, wouldn't that justify all of this? Wouldn't it? She had to hope that it did. It was the only hope she had to hold on to.
Snape, though, had no grand plan. He was a pawn, like her. What if it had been Professor Flitwick who'd been forced to rape her? Or Terry Boot, or Neville? Wouldn't they have broken down and been racked with guilt afterwards, when she'd figured out their identity? Wouldn't they have begged her to forgive them, explained how they'd been forced to do it and that they never wanted to hurt her? How different that would have been. They might even have worked through it together. But not Snape. He never once even suggested that he was sorry. Just some attempts at justification; that, at least, though, showed that he knew that his actions had been unacceptable. But he acted as if he thought Hermione were overreacting: She wasn't dead or permanently disabled, so she should buck up and get over it. Well, she was trying!
She frowned and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment out of her desk. 'The Imperius Curse', she printed in neat, even letters at the top. 'By Hermione Granger'.
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"Harry!" Hermione's face lit up with relief when she saw him sitting on the common room sofa when she came back from dinner that Sunday evening. "Are you out already?" The Quidditch game had only been the previous morning.
"Hey, Hermione!" he said, grinning goofily and then nodding at Ron, who was sitting in an armchair with his back to the door, which explained why she hadn't seen him right away. "We got sprung together."
Ron turned around and greeted Hermione tentatively. Hermione hesitated, then went ahead and perched on the arm of the sofa. She wasn't sure what to say. She felt like Ron was watching her especially closely. Of course he knew now. He would always see her differently. Knowledge of that fact had caused a barrier to be thrown up between them, one that would mediate all of their interactions from this point forward. She didn't exactly regret having told him; it was definitely better this way, to have things squared between them. They both knew precisely where they stood.
"So," she said finally, blowing out a breath and trying to be upbeat. "Madam Pomfrey got tired of the two of you already."
"I should bloody well say so, I was only there for two weeks!" Ron said with what Hermione felt was somewhat forced enthusiasm.
"It wasn't as bad as it looked," Harry said of his own injury, rubbing his head and messing up his spiky black hair even further.
"Well, it's really good you're back. Really." It was, of course. She was relieved that they had both recovered so quickly. But so much had happened in the past few days, so much had changed. The three of them were back together, but things weren't like they used to be. They would never be. She smiled awkwardly.
Ron and Harry must have felt similarly, for they seemed to be overcome by the same self-conscious silence.
"Oh, hey everyone!" Ginny relieved them all by coming in with Dean. "Harry! Is your head better?"
"Reckon so," he said affably, knocking his knuckles against his head.
"Good." Ginny reached over and slapped him against the back of the head. "What were you thinking?!" she cried.
"Ow!" Harry exclaimed, ducking, while Ron yelped, "Ginny! What are you doing?" Dean merely chuckled and shook his head.
"Whatever possessed you to put McLaggen in for Ron?"
"Uh... he offered?" Harry guessed, watching her hands warily.
"You're the captain! You're supposed to do what's best for the team!"
"Well, excuse me for trying to make sure we had a Keeper for the match. I guess next time we'll just do without and let Slytherin shoot as many goals as they want."
"At least then we'd only have lost the match. Which we did anyway, in case you didn't notice."
"Yeah, I had noticed, thanks. I'm sorry. Next time I'll be sure to consult Professor Trelawney before putting together the team, on the off chance that someone else will turn out to be a homicidal maniac."
"It's not like you need to worry about that anymore anyway," Ron jumped in to Harry's defense. "I'm back. McLaggen's out. And I heard McGonagall wasn't too pleased with him, either."
They continued to talk about Quidditch, and Hermione tuned out as she saw Lavender and Parvati come in. Lavender noticed the group around Ron straight away, and her face hardened as she gave Hermione a particularly unfriendly glare. Parvati put her hand against Lavender's elbow and steered her straight to the girls' stairs. Hermione's heart sank. She knew what it looked like to Lavender. She considered whether to go and talk to her now, but just wasn't up to having a big blow-up this late in the evening. It would be better to let her get it all off her chest with Parvati. Which meant she couldn't go up to bed for a couple of hours. She also wasn't very keen on hanging out with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Dean, and the other Gryffindors who were even now being drawn into the increasingly lively discussion of the Quidditch match. She unobtrusively backed out of the group and sidled out of the common room.
The library was well-frequented by students trying to complete their weekend assignments at the last minute. She didn't have her school bag with her, so she settled for picking up a book on pentagrams, but after a few minutes of riffling through it, she found herself unable to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to her Imperius essay. Not the one she was going to hand in; that was fine. The version she'd written first, with her personal experiences. She'd thought of a couple more things she'd forgotten about before, but that the writing had brought back to the surface. She didn't want to wait until she could go back to her room; she was afraid she'd forget again. She spied Padma at a nearby table and borrowed a piece of parchment and a quill, and then went to a quiet corner and started writing.
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The next morning, Lavender's silent treatment was driving Hermione to distraction, and Parvati didn't seem too comfortable about being caught in the middle, either.
"Lavender?" Hermione tried it for the third time. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what I've done wrong. Whatever's going on between you and Ron, has nothing to do with me."
"Oh really?" Lavender spun around suddenly, and Hermione was startled to see the tears threatening to spill over in her eyes. "All those visits while he was in hospital, meeting behind my back in the library – don't think I don't know about that – all completely coincidental to him avoiding me and being cold to me!"
"I never tried to turn him against you. In fact, I told him more than once how good you are for him."
"Oh, so you admit it! You did talk about me to him!"
"I was only trying to help you!"
"Well, I don't need that kind of help! You'd be most helpful if you would just stay away from him!" And she burst into tears and ran out of the room. Parvati followed, giving Hermione a reproachful look.
Hermione collapsed on her bed. This was not shaping up to be a good day.
Things only went downhill at breakfast, with Ron trying both to be polite to and ignore Lavender, while Lavender tried to both be rude to and ignore Hermione. Hermione couldn't help smiling bitterly to herself at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Let them ruin things for themselves if they must. She was done with running interference.
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In Defense class, she slid into her regular seat next to Harry just in time to beat Ron out for it. Ron looked on the verge of arguing her for it before he grudgingly took his usual place beside Lavender in the second row. Lavender, for her part, couldn't even look at Ron and spent most of the period staring morosely at the blank parchment in front of her. Not even a direct question from Snape and subsequent ten-point deduction could snap her out of her funk.
Hermione shoved her essay into Harry's hand to turn in for her at the end of class. This had become their usual procedure, so that Hermione didn't have to get any nearer Snape than absolutely necessary. Of course, Harry didn't know the reason behind it, thinking it merely a small favor he could do for Hermione in return for her helping him so extensively with all of his other homework.
Hermione had privately written another two feet about her ordeal under the Imperius Curse last night in the library. She had no idea what she was going to do with all the material she was generating, but it was becoming a minor obsession with her, and even now she couldn't wait for a free period so that she could write some more. It was cathartic to put things down on parchment, as if all of the pent-up anger and frustration were flowing out of her arm with the ink.
As soon as classes were over in the afternoon, therefore, she sought out a quiet nook where she could be alone, and took out the small sheaf of parchment papers. She had felt safer carrying them around with her, not only so that she could jot something down whenever she felt like it, but also because she didn't entirely trust Lavender not to go through her things, with the state of mind she was in now.
She shuffled through to find where she'd left off. Right away, she noticed something wasn't right, and she felt the first grip of panic around her heart. There was a page missing. There couldn't be a page missing, it must be... She scrabbled through the contents of her school bag, her heart thudding ever more irregularly in her chest. Calm, Hermione, calm, she said to herself. It's here. The rest of the papers are here, that last one will be, too. It must have just gotten separated... She took a deep breath, then systematically took out every single item from her bag. She fingered every paper to make sure there weren't two stuck together. She shook out every book to make sure there was nothing trapped between the pages. She felt in every fold and turned the bag completely inside-out. It wasn't there. She felt sick.
It wasn't possible that anyone might have taken it. She'd had the bag with her every moment. Also, why would anyone only have taken one page? Surely they would have grabbed everything while they had a chance. She must have left it behind the last time she'd written something. That had been the night before, in the library. But those pages were all here, she ascertained. It was one of the other pages that was missing, from what had started out as the first version of her DADA assignment. She hadn't had those pages with her last night; they'd still been back in her room. And she was certain that she'd packed everything into her bag this morning. She distinctly remembered that sheet on the top of the little separate pile that she'd slid into the side pocket.
She went through all of the papers a third time, willing the missing page to be there after all, but of course it wasn't. It might have fallen out.... She packed everything back in and retraced her steps through the castle, but without much hope of finding anything. Several hours had passed since she'd left Gryffindor Tower that morning, and the staircases were no longer in the same configuration. It was impossible. She had the sinking feeling that someone, for whatever reason, had taken that page out. Lavender was her prime suspect, but really, she'd never done anything mean to Hermione before. She would have had no way of knowing what was on it anyway, possibly hoping only to get Hermione in trouble for not completing her homework assignment.
But there was another possibility.... Draco Malfoy had been in Defense class as well that morning. It was just remotely possible that she'd left the bag open on her desk in such a way that one or more pages had been partially visible. Might he have seen something on there that piqued his interest? But he hadn't been anywhere near her all period, she was certain. Only Harry had been in a position to see her bag, and he wouldn't have taken the page. That wasn't his style at all. He would have asked her straight out if anything had caught his eye. No, it was definitely a Slytherin tactic.
Well, even if Draco had taken it, Hermione decided truculently, so what? She hadn't written Snape's name on it anywhere. And if Draco had been there on Halloween, he would know all that had happened anyway. And maybe it would shock him just a little to see things from a victim's point of view. She hoped he had taken it, come to think of it. If she couldn't make Snape read it and weep, then maybe she could at least have the satisfaction of rubbing another Death Eater's nose in his own filth.
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... make so much bloody sense that you can't even understand it anymore.
Snape sat back, all color drained from his face. He'd been about to grudgingly write an 'E' at the top of the essay when he'd noticed that there was one more page. Already internally grumbling at her overzealousness, he'd mentally deducted a mark for not keeping to the assigned length before he realized what it was that he had in front of him. He didn't even know what to think. Had she meant this as a serious academic treatment of the effects of the Curse? Was this her way of trying to drive home to him how terribly he had mistreated her? (In which case, he wasn't sure whether she was more upset about his use of the Imperius, or the physical violation itself.) The image of her lying there beneath him arose in his mind unbidden, the terrible hissing mixed with the screams of the other girls...
Snape thrashed out with his arm and swept the entire contents of the desk top to the floor. The thumps of the books and clatter of the inkpots was over much too quickly, the fluttering of the scattered papers ceased after but a moment, not enough to distract him from the memories. He let out a groan and seized his head, as if he could clamp the thoughts down and stop them from emerging.
What were his options? She no longer cared about House points. A detention was likewise pointless. If he went to Dumbledore, he would have to share the blasted essay with him, and he knew what the Headmaster's response to that would be: More calls for apologies, restitution, and talk of the state of his soul. No, thank you.
Confronting Granger directly was also not something he desired to do: It was probably exactly what she was fishing for, considering the number of times she'd already attempted to force a confrontation with him. For that reason alone, it was out of the question, although he had to admit it would give him some satisfaction to tell the girl once more to her face that she had no claim over him.
He rubbed his hand over his face and got up, kicking parchments and ink bottles aside. He had no doubt he would return to find the room in pristine order. Right now, though, he found a Fireball or two would be just the thing to turn the evening around. Or at least end it with blissful oblivion.
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Hermione watched Ginny more over the next couple of days. At meals, in the common room, whenever she passed by her in the corridors. She wasn't doing it on purpose, exactly, but she had become preoccupied with comparing Ginny's experience with Riddle to her own experience with the Death Eaters. She wanted very much to talk to Ginny about it, find out how she'd gotten over it (if she had at all), but it wasn't exactly the sort of thing you could bring up casually. She tried not to stare or be obvious, but Ginny must have noticed that something was going on, because she ran after her one morning following breakfast.
"Hey, Hermione, wait," Ginny said as she caught up to her just outside the Great Hall. She flipped her long, red hair back over her shoulder, and Hermione was struck by how self-assured the gesture was. She herself still felt extremely uncomfortable with her body and tried to make her movements as small and unobtrusive as possible.
"You've been giving me funny looks the past few days," Ginny said. "I want to know why. Does it have something to do with Harry?" She seemed ever so slightly aggressive, but kept her tone of voice friendly enough that it didn't come across as rude.
Embarrassment crept over Hermione, tempered by indignation at the assumption that everything should have to do with Harry. She looked around nervously, trying to make sure that no one was listening. "I haven't been giving you funny looks." She tried to sound reasonable.
Ginny also looked around, and, deciding that it was too public of a space, gestured to Hermione to join her in an empty classroom nearby. Once she'd closed the door behind them, she hopped up to sit on a desk and flipped her hair again. It was smooth and shiny and looked just-washed. Hermione was doubly conscious of her own fly-away pile of muddy brown split ends.
"Now," Ginny began again. "It started when we went to visit Harry in the infirmary. We were talking about who you fancy, and you gave me a funny look when I mentioned Harry. Like you thought I was the one who fancied him. And ever since then, it's been like you're watching me. It's giving me the creeps, to tell you the truth. If there's something you want to ask me, just go ahead and do it. I have nothing to hide. And no, I don't fancy Harry like that. I know that Dean and I may be having a rough patch right now, but I promise you it has nothing to do with Harry. So if you want to go after him—"
"No!" Hermione interrupted. "Ginny, that's not it at all. I don't fancy Harry, honestly. Or Ron. Or ... any boys," she ended, and for some reason, she felt tears rising in her throat, but she clenched her fists until the nails bit into her palms to get control.
Now Ginny looked at Hermione strangely, as if something were just dawning on her, and, more than a little shocked, she said, "Oh my God, Hermione. It's not... I mean, you don't ... You don't fancy girls, do you? Is that it? Because.... I mean, it's totally okay, I don't have a problem with it, it's just that..." Ginny was at an utter loss for words.
That broke the tension in Hermione, and she let out a bark of laughter that covered the sob that had been building in her. "No! Ginny! I don't ... I don't fancy you, either! I mean, you're attractive enough and all," she tried to joke.
"Oh," Ginny laughed breathily as well. "Okay then. I mean, if I fancied girls, I'd think you were pretty cute yourself," she said dutifully.
"No, you wouldn't," Hermione said flatly. "You don't need to flatter me. I know I'm nothing to look at. And not much fun company, either."
"Well, you could do something with your hair for once," Ginny mused. "On the other hand, there are fellas who go for the natural look. And Ron—"
"I told you, there's nothing between me and Ron."
Ginny held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I've got it. But if that's not what this is about, what then? Don't tell me I'm imagining things."
Hermione fidgeted. Ginny had given her the opening. She decided to take it. "There is something," she began quietly, looking down at the floor. "It's really personal, so I wasn't sure how to ask. Even if I should ask. I probably shouldn't."
"No, go ahead. What is it?"
"It's about Tom Riddle."
Ginny became very quiet. Hermione risked looking at her after a moment. It was as if the light had been turned off inside her. She looked thin and very child-like all of a sudden.
"I shouldn't have said anything," Hermione whispered. "I'm sorry."
Her words seemed to shake Ginny out of whatever mode she had switched into in that brief moment. "No, it's okay. What do you want to know?" She sat up straighter.
"How did you... I mean, I don't even know how to ask this, but how did you get over him having used you like he did? Making you do those things, nearly killing you... How come you're so... perfect, now?"
Ginny's mouth screwed up in a wry smile. "You think I'm perfect? I'm not, I promise you."
"You just seem so self-assured, so confident. I could never tell that you had that happen to you."
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Why are you so interested now? I mean, it was four years ago."
Hermione's heart started thudding. Should she tell Ginny what had happened? It would make the rest of the conversation easier, certainly, but it would also mean letting another person in on her secret, exposing herself, opening herself up to Ginny's judgment. She didn't feel ready to do that. She was afraid of what Ginny might say, what she might try and get Hermione to do. And so she seized on something that she thought Ginny might buy, as it involved Harry. Everything had to involve Harry. "It has to do with something that Harry's working on. About Riddle. I don't know that much about it," Hermione fudged, "but I just thought... well, you probably know the young Tom Riddle better than anyone else. Maybe there was something he said or did, or even left with you, that relates to that secret." It sounded implausible even to Hermione's ears, but she hoped that Ginny bought it.
"Dumbledore already looked at all of my memories from those months," Ginny said, and now she sounded hard and curt. "Quite honestly, I hardly remember anything."
"Oh." Hermione was sorry now that she'd brought it up.
"He was smooth and very persuasive," Ginny said bitterly. "He knew exactly what I wanted to hear. I was naive and lonely. I thought once I got to Hogwarts, with Ron and the twins, and Harry, things would be like they were at home during the holidays. Or else I'd be part of Ron and Harry's grand adventures. I was wrong. No one was interested in me. But he was interested in me. That was his great trick. I don't think he even had to use any sort of magic on me. At first, anyway. All he had to do was listen and tell me I was right, right about all of my petty jealousies and righteous indignation and wounded eleven-year-old feelings. And I would have done anything for him. I think I let him into my mind willingly, at first." She frowned, and her eyes went out of focus and her voice went soft, as she tried to remember. "I don't know anymore. I supposed I must have. I wanted that closeness, that intimacy. It was comforting, and exciting. Like a best girl friend and a first boyfriend, all rolled into one."
Ginny's eyes became bigger and she seemed to shrink in on herself again as she continued: "But then he changed. Started demanding things, telling me I wasn't grateful, hurting me in little ways if I didn't agree with him. Not physically," she clarified, glancing over at Hermione, "but saying hurtful things, making fun of how I dressed or telling me that no one else liked me. Like I said, he knew exactly what to say to an eleven-year-old girl to break her, to mold her to his will."
She stopped her monologue and gave Hermione a tight smile. "I guess I remembered more than I had thought. Although I don't see what use that is. He didn't happen to mention being deathly allergic to shellfish, if that's what you thought." She slid down off the desk, indicating that the interview was over. "If Harry wants to ask me anything specific, tell him to talk to me directly next time."
Hermione couldn't even bring herself to nod. She felt awful about having lied to Ginny, even more so that she hadn't found out what she really wanted to know. Well, as she'd come this far and probably already lost any chance of Ginny becoming a close confidante, she dared to ask her last question:
"Ginny? Did you ever... talk to anyone? About what happened? Like therapy or something?"
Ginny snorted. "Therapy is a Muggle fashion, Hermione. The wizarding world is full of mad ghosts and other creatures ensnaring unsuspecting victims and making them do their bidding. That's what we have Defense class for. DADA is our therapy." The last thing Hermione saw of her was her red hair flaring out behind her as she disappeared out the door.
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Hermione looked away when Snape handed back their essays. Seeing his hands up close gave her flashbacks. She still shuddered at the thought that she was holding the same papers that he had held, that he had carried with him, touched, fingered, left his mark on. Using her sleeve to shield her fingers, she shimmied the essay gingerly into her bag without really looking at it. She didn't care what grade she'd gotten.
Snape was always a fair grader, anyway, despite everything else. It's just that she didn't put that much effort into her assignments anymore. She figured she'd probably received an E on this one, though. She'd been more than thorough without being brilliant, and had even managed to keep her remarks to the proscribed two feet of parchment.
"What'd you get?" Ron asked her and Harry as they left class together. Lavender trailed behind them, not quite sure whether she was part of the group or not.
"An E," Harry said, shouldering his bag. "You?"
"An A," he said, grinning. "You're a life-saver, Hermione." He nudged her with his elbow. She'd agreed to look over (i.e. write large portions of) his essay for him when it became clear that Snape expected him to hand it in on time despite having nearly died and subsequently been missing from class for over two weeks. "How about you? An O, of course," he said knowingly.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I didn't look. Probably—" She pulled out the top parchment with the big, red letter on top, and her mouth dropped in surprise. "A 'P'!"
Harry and Ron raised their eyebrows at each other and Lavender craned her neck around to try and get a glimpse of the paper.
"Are you sure?" Harry pulled the essay out of Hermione's limp hand.
"Blimey," Ron said, looking over Harry's shoulder. "That's a P, all right."
"Thank you very much," Hermione snapped and plucked the essay out of Harry's hand. She quickly flipped to the second page. No comments. Nothing. Just the great, ugly 'P' at the top.
"Well, there's obviously some mistake," Harry said reasonably. "I mean, he must have gotten this mixed up with Ron's or something."
"Oy!" Ron protested. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means... Oh, nothing, Ron." Hermione tsked impatiently. "It means that you're all right about Snape, he's unfair and he hates Gryffindors. All right?" She stuffed the essay back into her bag.
"Yeah, geez, no need to get all huffy about it," Ron said. "I could'a told you that already."
"Don't worry about it, Hermione. It's happened to all of us," Harry added in a conciliatory manner.
"Not like it has to me," Hermione muttered grimly and walked quickly away.
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What did he mean by it? Hermione had the essay spread out in front of her, the crumpled pages carefully smoothed. Was he trying to send her some sort of message? Was this like those fifty points he'd taken off her for insolence in class, which had actually been for being out alone on the grounds after curfew? Or had he truly thought her essay was 'poor', not even as good as Ron's?
She pounded her knuckles against her forehead. She'd read Ron's essay ... heck, she'd all but written half of it. It hadn't gone into nearly the amount of detail that hers had and hadn't mentioned the victim's perceptions at all.
A curious light began to dawn. Was that it? she wondered. Had Snape found her explanation of what the Imperius Curse feels like to the victim to be inappropriate? She hadn't turned in her very emotional diatribe, of course. She had ended up re-writing that section entirely, putting in nothing more than one very succint paragraph with very neutral-sounding, clinical terms. She flipped to the section in question. Nothing. No comments to indicate what had displeased him. Just the big, red 'P' on the top. It was a real riddle.
Not that she cared, in the end, what her grade was. If the essay had been less than adequate, she would have accepted the mark without question. In fact, if Snape had habitually given her lower marks than she deserved, she wouldn't have questioned it either. It was the change in Snape's behaviour that was occupying her. Because if there was one thing she'd learned about Severus Snape, it was that he didn't do anything without having a reason.
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Hermione watched Snape over the next couple of days, trying to gauge whether he was looking at her any more meaningfully than usual, or whether any of his other behaviour seemed out of the ordinary. She couldn't detect anything. Their next Defense class was on Friday, and Hermione packed the Imperius essay into her bag without even really having a clear plan of what she might do with it. She had a vague notion of asking him about the mark, but she didn't actually want to have to talk to him in person, and she knew it would be a futile endeavour at any rate. He wasn't about to change it. He couldn't admit that he might have made a mistake. And any explanation he might give would likely serve only to infuriate her. Not that he was inclined (nor required) to give any sort of justification for the mark. Still, it niggled at her. Even if all he did was sneer and say she'd misspelled 'definitely' once too often (which she hadn't), she'd be satisfied. As long as there was a reason.
All through class, she was distracted, her heart thudding every time she thought about going up to his desk afterwards. Luckily (or, rather, predictably), he didn't call on her to speak, and she didn't volunteer. It was another one of their unspoken understandings to keep out of each other's lives as much as possible.
Finally, when the bell rang, Hermione heard herself saying, "Wait for me, will you, Harry? I just want to ask Snape something." She wanted the security of knowing that Harry was there, in case things with Snape deteriorated for some reason; at the same time, she didn't want him to actually go up with her, in case something came out in the course of the conversation that she didn't want him to hear. Harry shrugged and leaned against the door jamb while the last of the students trickled out.
Her clammy hand clenched around the essay, Hermione walked woodenly toward the front of the room. She should just let it go, she knew, but some part of her hoped that this had been a message, and that the answer would be what she needed to break away from this episode entirely.
Snape was standing with his back to the room, preparing the blackboard for the next class. His skinny, white hand held his black wand, directing the board to clean itself and then form new words and diagrams. Hermione looked away and cleared her throat delicately to get his attention.
"What," he said flatly without turning around.
"I want to discuss the mark on this essay," she said, trying to remain calm.
Snape's hand paused. "My marks are not an object for discussion. It is not for you to either agree or disagree with them. Merely to take note and endeavour to improve yourself on the next assignment. And you will address me as 'Sir' or 'Professor'," he added coldly before picking up writing where he had left off.
Hermione took a cleansing breath. Well, she'd known he wouldn't be willing to discuss it. Nonetheless, in for a penny, in for a pound. Her innate sense of justice was crying out for recompense. "I didn't say I disagreed with the assessment. Sir. I simply fail to see the reason for this mark. There are no comments, no indication of what makes this a 'poor' essay. Without such guidance, I might just end up making the same mistakes the next time that you obviously feel I've made here."
"That would be inadvisable, Miss Granger," Snape said with an iron edge to his voice. "A continuation of such mistakes may result in things other than your grades being affected."
Now Hermione was genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? I really don't know—"
Snape turned now and looked down his crooked nose at Hermione, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You wrote. Too. Much." His words were dripping with ice. "The assignment called for two feet precisely. No more and no less."
"This is two feet!" Hermione said, shaking the papers at him, and then, suddenly cowed by those hard, dark eyes, added, "...sir."
"Do you mean to tell me you've forgotten about the third page?" he asked dangerously.
"What third page?" she asked.
He placed both hands on the desk now and leaned across it toward her, speaking very softly and holding her gaze. "The third page, in which you whinged and carped in some awful, purple prose, about things which you would do better to forget."
Hermione's eyes grew wide as an awful deduction overcame her. The missing page! Somehow, awfully, ironically, it must have ended up in his possession, and he had taken it to be part of her assignment.
"That was a mistake..." she whispered.
"Yes, it was," he agreed in that same low and treacherous voice. "One which will not be repeated. You imagine that with antics such as this you will gain my attention, press me into some admission. You got your recompense from me, or have you forgotten? The information you were so eager for?"
"That was a cheap trick!" Hermione hissed. "You knew you had nothing that I wanted, and you made me bargain away your debt."
Snape's eyebrows drew together, further darkening his face. "There was no debt! I owed you nothing. It amused you to think there was one. You tricked yourself. I never made you do anything!"
"That—" Hermione was shaking now with fury at his gall and his denial. "—is a bald-faced lie!"
"You will watch how you speak with me!"
"Hermione?" Harry asked from the doorway.
"Stay out of this, Potter," Snape rumbled.
Hermione lowered her voice and whispered fiercely, "You say you never made me do anything? What do you call using the Imperius Curse to hold someone down while you violate them!"
"I didn't bring you there," he answered equally fiercely. "And do not for one moment imagine that it was either my idea, nor that I took any sort of pleasure out of it." He looked like he might say more, but caught himself and withdrew, casting a glance at Harry. "You would do best to forget about it." He held her eye for a moment more before turning back to the blackboard. "The mark stands," he announced a bit louder. "Keep it in mind in future. And now leave."
Hermione backed away, stumbling against a desk. She was nearly blind with anger and disappointment.
"Hermione? You okay?" Harry asked when she reached him. "Was that about the Imperius essay? Sorry about that, but... I could have told you he wouldn't budge on that mark."
"Shut up, Harry. Just shut up!" she screeched, then clapped her hand over her mouth and ran away down the corridor.
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Snape Banished the last of the seventh-years' assignments from his desk. Credit where credit was due, Queensman had done quite an adequate job. As he cracked his neck with a practised motion, his eye fell on the pale yellow parchment corner sticking out from the pile he'd shoved it into. What perversion had possibly possessed him not to destroy it immediately? He supposed he'd had some notion that it might come in handy as 'evidence' against Granger. But for what? Before what body? Or possibly as blackmail material? Blast it all!
He snatched the paper up, scattering the pile, and slapped it onto the floor. The ensuing Incineration Hex was more potent than strictly necessary, blowing ashes out to the edges of the room and leaving a scorch mark on the stone at his feet. The gratification was, however, feeble and fleeting.
He wouldn't know true peace until he could be done with this entire business. His end would satisfy Granger, too, more than any words or gold. She would feel avenged. And then she would forget about him. Or perhaps not, perhaps she would always remember what he had done, who she thought he was. An ignoble way to be remembered, but after all it was true and fitting. He mocked himself: Had he imagined he would be enshrined as a hero in the public memory? As a protector, a loyal supporter of the right? Of course not. He would be remembered in the public mind, even in the minds of those who knew him best, as a backstabber and a traitor. A criminal. A murderer, if it came to that, which it must. This, then would be the legacy of Severus Snape.
"Fuck!" he roared at no one and everyone.
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It was long past midnight when he awoke. The fire was dark in the grate, there was an insistent pressure in his bladder, and his mouth felt like it was full of paste and cotton. He arose groggily from the armchair he'd collapsed in and stumbled across the room, half-wary of falling over the furniture or stepping on broken glass. The house-elves must have been in, though, because everything seemed to have been returned to its normal place.
After a successful trip to the bathroom, he returned, intending to do nothing more than fall prostrate onto his bed for the remaining scant hours of the night, but as he did, in the diffuse light from the high, bare windows, he saw the black mark on the floor. The house-elves must not have noticed it, or else not wanted to wake him in the process of cleaning it and left it for the morning. He swayed there for a moment, knowing he would get no peace that night anyway.
With jerky, mulish movements, he sat down and pulled out a piece of parchment. And then, with the yellow moonlight illuminating his way, he began to write.
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Author's note: I know, in canon Ron and Harry were released on Monday morning before breakfast, not on Sunday evening, but it was easier to write this way. Artistic license.
Also, I know that in the last chapter, Hermione actually gave Ginny a 'funny look' before they started talking about boys, not after, and other things in the conversation were not like Ginny says them in this chapter, but this is the way Ginny remembered it in retrospect.
And yes. You will find out what he wrote. Later.