DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.
Chapter 35: The History Lesson
A young wizard with unruly black hair stood outside of a nondescript sort of house, banging relentlessly on the door. Two red-haired persons stood behind him, a man and a woman, with so many features in common that their close familial relationship was immediately apparent.
The door opened and a tall man dressed all in black gazed down at them, thick black hair falling around his face.
""Can I help you?" he said dryly, not looking all surprised by the appearance of the three people that he addressed.
"Yeah," said the wizard. "You can let us in to see Hermione."
The black-clad man's lip curled into a sneer. "Ready to come in and see her, now that someone else has finished the difficult bits and rescued her for you, Potter? I think not."
"Didn't know she needed rescuing, did we?" said the red-haired young man defensively. Potter made a restless movement, apparently intending to silence his companion. The man in black narrowed his eyes.
"Miss Granger is… indisposed," he said crisply. "And you three are here on sufferance only and under orders to stay with Professor McGonagall," he looked around, raising his eyebrows, "who, oddly enough, I do not see here."
"Please, Professor Snape," said the girl plaintively. "We just want to be sure she's all right."
"Miss Weasley, in spite of the mistaken belief imparted to you by your siblings, it is not the way of the world to reward rule-breakers by giving them the very thing they broke the rules to attain. You will leave the premises immediately. She is under guard by Aurors and when the Headmistress—who I remind you is also head of the Order—decides that it is appropriate to allow you to see her, you will do so. Not before."
The door closed in their faces.
0 0 0
The wall was blue. Hermione looked at it, because looking at the wall was better than any of her other options at the moment. She could not say anything to Professor Snape, because she couldn't for the life of her think of anything to say. She could not scream and cry and throw things, no matter how badly she wanted to, because she was not allowed to get out of bed. Her muscles ached from the exertion of walking to the bathroom and back.
She could not see her mother and father. They were dead.
Neither could she bring herself to go and look at their bodies—not yet. She'd already seen them, after all, and cleaned up or not, she didn't relish the idea of being near their corpses just yet. She didn't like dead bodies.
She could feel him, sitting on the chair behind her. It made her uncomfortable, knowing that he was staring at her, that she had her back to him. She was vulnerable, and even if she turned around to face him, she would be vulnerable. She would be vulnerable forever now, if he hadn't lied to her.
"Potter and the Weasleys were here," he said, once he had got comfortable in his seat again.
"I don't want to see them." Her voice was rough and husky. She frowned at the wall, closing her eyes. It was a half-truth. She desperately wanted to see Harry, but not if Ron was there. And if she were to be completely honest, she wasn't sure she was ready to see even Harry, as many questions as she wanted to ask him.
"I… know," he said. Of course he did. She cringed at the reminder.
"I still don't understand."
She heard a heavy sigh and another soft rustle as he readjusted his legs. "I cannot explain it to you more clearly, Miss Granger."
"But how could it have worked?"
"I cannot answer you!" he snapped. Oh, how he must hate her for doing this to him. She drew her knees up to her chest, wishing that she could curl herself up into nothingness. She'd ruined his life without even knowing it. Regret blossomed through her until she was enveloped in it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. How many times would she have to say it before it had an effect on her guilt? Would she spend the rest of her life apologizing in the futile hope that someday it might erase a little bit of her self-condemnation?
He didn't answer her. Why should he? She rubbed her thumb against the side of her index finger, wishing that she could go back to sleep.
"I have spoken with the Headmistress," he said at length. "We are to remain here until you are sufficiently recovered to travel, and then I am to escort you back to Britain. You may spend the remainder of your holiday wherever you choose."
"Why you?" she said. It was out before she could stop it, and only after she heard it did she realize how cruel it sounded.
He, apparently, realized it as well, for his voice went icy cold. "Because I am capable of protecting you, Miss Granger, and I am here, and the rest of the Order is involved in hunting down Damien Wilkes' co-conspirators and too busy to escort a headstrong girl back home to finish her Christmas holidays."
She tried to feel comfort in the fact that Professor Snape had, at least, not changed. He was still the same impatient, snappish man, who refused to bear her questions with equanimity. In spite of his familiarity, though, she was not comforted. Hermione felt terribly alone, and being snarled at by her Potions professor did nothing to change that.
"I have things to attend to," he said, standing up. She felt him lean over her and heard the soft clink of a bottle as he placed one on the windowsill. "Drink the potion. It will reduce the pain."
He left without another word, and she opened her eyes. The potion was in a blue bottle. She uncorked it and raised it to her lips, swallowing it without bothering to note the smell or the taste. It took effect almost immediately. Her weariness overwhelmed her and as the bone-deep ache in her body diminished, she drifted back to sleep.
0 0 0
"No! I have changed my mind!" said Severus, ceasing his pacing long enough to slam the flat of his palm against the wall. "I cannot do it, Minerva! Assign the task to somebody else. She is incapable of even looking at me, and you already know that I do not relish being in her company either."
Minerva McGonagall sat on the Grangers' couch, looking at him with very little sympathy. "Severus, who do you propose I give the job to? I refuse to put her in the hands of someone she does not know. Kingsley and I are both otherwise occupied, as you are well aware, which leaves me only two other options. I can send her with you, or I can send her with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley."
He scowled. "Why not Potter and Weasley, then? It's a simple matter of a Portkey and Apparition back to the school, Minerva, I do not see why I—"
"It is not a simple matter of a Portkey, Severus. The Australian Ministry has shut down all Portkey Stations until the Death Eaters have been apprehended. I must say, they're quite embarrassed about the whole affair."
Severus looked at her warily, a sense of dread stealing over him. "Trans-oceanic Apparition is hardly a feasible option…"
"Of course not," she said, a little too briskly. She didn't meet his eye. "Kingsley and I were thinking you might use the Muggle transportation system."
Severus prided himself on being a man who was not easily rendered speechless. In this case, however, there was absolutely nothing he could say. He simply stared at her, uncomfortably aware that he was gaping, but unable to stop himself.
"I'm told it's quite safe," she said, looking slightly guilty.
"Do you mean to tell me, Minerva, that you intend to put me on an aeroplane?" he hissed.
She most definitely would not meet his eye.
"Not just you," she said. If it wasn't absolutely inconceivable for her to do so, he would have said that she was mumbling.
"I categorically refuse. There is no way you will convince me to get into one of those things, especially not with her."
"Be reasonable, Severus. With your background and upbringing, you're the most qualified—"
"The fact that my father was a Muggle does not mean I have any experience with the Muggle means of air travel!"
"Well, perhaps Hermione has. I'm sure she could help you."
"I do not require help! I require a life in which I am not asked to strap myself into a giant flying piece of metal, propelled across the Pacific Ocean by means of explosives!"
"Don't be silly. You drive a car, don't you? It's the same principle."
He gritted his teeth. "The principle may be the same, but unlike some people, I have never driven a car that flies. In fact, if it comes down to it, the Order member with the most experience in these matters is Potter."
"Harry Potter and Ron Weasley will not be the ones to transport Hermione back to Britain, Severus. It is not an option."
"Why not?"
"Because I hold them personally responsible for the fact that she is in Australia to begin with. I am given to understand by Ginevra Weasley that were it not for an argument with her reprobate brother, this would not have happened. She originally intended to avoid her parents until she was assured that all rogue Death Eaters had been apprehended." She narrowed her eyes. "I'm surprised nobody mentioned it to you when you barged into Grimmauld Place and began railing at people."
In spite of himself, he felt rather embarrassed. "Miss Weasley might have said something," he muttered.
"I thought so. Now sit down and discuss this like a reasonable person."
"I am not a reasonable person!"
She pressed her lips together tightly, but something in her eyes made him think it was to mask a smile more than it was to indicate her displeasure. "I am, in actual point of fact, very aware of that, Severus. You are, however, a consummate actor. Sit down."
He sat, with bad grace, and glared at her.
"If you're not careful, your face is going to freeze that way."
"It hasn't yet," he growled.
"If you're not careful, I'm going to make an effort to be sure that it freezes that way. If you recall, I am a witch." There was a definite twitch about the corners of her mouth now, and he looked away sullenly.
"The hat gives it away, you know. You have no sense of subtlety."
"This, from the man who dresses like he could not decide whether he most preferred to imitate Rasputin or a vicar?"
"Black is subtle," he said grumpily, unpleasantly aware that he'd lost the argument.
"All things in moderation, Severus. Now, Kingsley and I have procured tickets. You are leaving tomorrow. The Weasleys will meet you at the Plane Station—"
"Airport," he snarled.
"Oh, are they more like boats, then?"
"Take her back to Britain yourself and find out."
"No," she said thoughtfully. "I think I will be staying here until the Australian Ministry reopens the Portkey station. You, however, do not have that option. As Deputy Headmaster, you must return to Hogwarts as soon as possible. Honestly, I had to leave Flitwick in charge, and you know what he's like. No discipline at all. I could never have done it if there weren't more than a handful of students still at the school."
His lip twisted. "I concede that my presence is required at Hogwarts. I do not see why Miss Granger cannot remain in Australia with you."
"Hermione Granger," she said tensely, "has been through an ordeal. I will not ask her to remain in Australia and spend Christmas hunting Death Eaters. She ought to be in Britain, recovering, and she ought to be escorted back there. Good heavens, Severus, do you want the poor girl to travel alone?"
"Minerva, have you any conception of how long it takes to fly from Australia to Britain in the Muggle way?"
"Well, they go quite fast, don't they?"
"Oh yes," he said through his teeth. "Halfway across the globe in fifteen hours."
"Very inefficient, these Muggles, aren't they?" she said conversationally.
"You are nowhere near as adept at pretending senility as Dumbledore was."
"I'm still learning. He coaches me on it, you know."
He glanced up at the ceiling, his eyes finding the spot where he knew Miss Granger lay, hopefully asleep. "Has it occurred to you that she will object to this scheme as strongly as I do? We recently had a… heart-to-heart," he sneered at the phrase, "and she appears to be of the opinion that no distance is too great to be put between us."
She cocked her head, looking interested. "Did she actually say that?"
"No," he admitted, "but—"
"Do not underestimate Gryffindor courage, Severus. I'm sure she'll rise to the occasion. Now, we'll need to find you some Muggle clothes. I can send an Auror out to get them, as I'd prefer you stay here."
He frowned. "I hope the Australian Ministry does a better job than ours does of training its Aurors how to blend in to Muggle society. I tell you now, I will not wear a dress."
She chuckled outright at that. "I will be sure to pass that along."
With a sigh, he brought a hand up to the bridge of his nose, squeezing it and trying not to think about his upcoming ordeal. "Very well, Minerva," he said venomously. "I see I have no choice. Once again, I bow to your authority." He made no effort to pretend that he was happy about it. He most assuredly wasn't.
She smirked, but had the decency to smother the expression almost at once. "Excellent. Now, I need to return to the Ministry. Try to be kind to her, Severus. The girl's just lost her parents, her best friend, and any last vestige of innocence that she had." She sighed quietly. "Surely you remember how that feels."
He grunted. He had no interest in remembering how it felt.
"Has she eaten anything?"
Ah. Food. Yet another thing to consider. He felt rather like an idiot for having forgotten it thus far. "No," he said slowly. "She has not. I shall endeavor to concoct something tempting, shall I?"
"You are a Potions Master."
Severus narrowed his eyes. "I fail to see why everybody assumes that an understanding of Potions makes me a good cook."
She got slowly to her feet. She'd finally been able to stop using the cane, but it was obvious that she still had some degree of stiffness and pain. He made a mental note to brew her a potion for it when he got back to Hogwarts. A Headmistress in pain was far less efficient than one at her best.
"Nevertheless," she said, "I'm sure you'll be able to muddle through." She paused at the door and gave him an appraising glance. "And do take a shower, won't you? Your hair looks awful. I'll never understand why you insist on keeping it that way."
"I find," he said haughtily, "that it deters lice."
Her eyes widened. "Gracious, Severus. I had no idea that the students in your House were so—"
"I wish you would leave."
0 0 0
This time, when she woke up, she remembered everything that had happened right away. She wasn't sure if it was better or worse that way.
Rolling over so that she could look around the room, she noted that she was alone. It was a little disappointing, to be honest—although she couldn't blame him. No doubt, he wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Professor Snape hated her. Ron hated her. She wondered if Harry and Neville would be next.
She couldn't bear the smell of the house. It smelled too much like her parents, and she was too painfully aware that eventually it would fade, and she would never smell it again. Sitting up, she found that some of her strength had returned, and she wondered if she could stand on her own.
If she tried and failed, Professor Snape would surely come in and berate her again, but it was better than calling him to help her. Mustering all of her courage, she swung her legs around to the edge of the bed and slowly, slowly pushed herself onto her feet.
She felt weak and unsteady, but her ears did not begin to buzz this time, and blackness didn't begin to fill her peripheral vision. Not sure how long she could maintain an upright position under her own strength, she stumbled across the room until she bumped into the far wall and leaned against it gratefully.
It felt strangely forbidden to be out of bed, and she listened carefully at the door for any hint of Professor Snape before she cautiously turned the handle and peered into the hallway. It was empty, and she slowly crept out of her room, one hand trailing along the wall in case she needed to catch hold of it for support.
As she went, she regained a little more of her equilibrium. The potion she'd taken had done more than put her to sleep, it seemed, and the throbbing ache in her nerves had diminished significantly. She was stiff and uncomfortable, but she could walk on her own.
Shuffling down the hall, she opened each door as she went. The first was the bathroom, she knew, and she skipped by that one. The next was only a linen closet. The third, at the very end of the hall, opened to the master bedroom. After a moment's hesitation, she went in.
The curtains were drawn, and the room was dark and slightly stuffy. Her parents' large bed stood at the opposite end of the room, and she could see their bodies laid out on it. As she approached, her heartbeat seemed to grow louder and louder, and she had a sudden, wild fear that Professor Snape might hear it and come after her.
Due to the stasis charm, their bodies still looked fresh, as though they were only asleep. Someone had cleaned them and even gone so far as to bandage their few visible wounds and dress them in clean clothing. The nauseating smell of vomit and urine that she remembered from the kitchen was gone. She was standing up against the edge of the bed now, and all she could smell was the pleasant combination of her father's cologne and her mother's perfume. Whoever had cleaned and dressed their bodies had placed them close to one another, so close that their hands overlapped between them.
Hesitantly, she reached out and touched her father's arm. She expected it to be stiff and cold, but it wasn't. The muscle gave slightly under her touch, just as it would on a live person, and although it wasn't up to body heat, it wasn't cold, either. His eyes were closed. If she tried very hard, she could convince herself that he was only asleep.
Careful not to jostle him, she climbed onto the bed and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head down on his chest. There was nothing there—no heartbeat, no intake of breath, but she didn't care. She closed her eyes and did her best to pretend.
"I'm sorry, daddy," she whispered, her voice catching. "It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." She began to cry, not quietly as she usually did, but with great, despairing sobs that tore her breath from her chest. He didn't move, didn't respond. His body simply lay there, moving up and down slightly as her cries shook the mattress.
She finally understood why Harry would choose the Resurrection Stone out of the three Deathly Hallows. She knew with a terrible certainty that if she'd had the Stone with her in that moment, she would use it without a second thought. The knowledge wrenched a high, keening wail from her. Even now, when she should have learned her lesson, she was so selfish that she would sentence them to a despairing half-life rather than allow them some peace.
She never noticed Professor Snape standing in the doorway.
0 0 0
"I'm sorry," she sobbed, clinging to her father's body as though she were a little girl instead of a grown witch. For the first time in years, Severus Snape was moved close to tears. His eyes burned with the unfamiliar sensation and he wished that he could turn away, but he was transfixed.
She had nearly stopped crying before he stole away again.
0 0 0
Hermione cried until she couldn't cry anymore. It was strangely cathartic, in a way, to know that she'd literally run out of tears. There would be more in the future, she was sure, but for now she'd used up her grief, poured it out on her father's chest. For now, she was empty.
Slowly, she let go of him. He still looked exactly the same. She leaned up and kissed his cheek—it was cool and smooth beneath her lips. She did the same with her mother, and then left the room, walking slowly. She was not happy, but she was oddly comforted, for the time being.
She was also hungry. Her stomach growled loudly and she wondered if there was any food in the house, or if she could venture downstairs to the kitchen without incurring Professor Snape's wrath for being out of bed. She didn't like the idea of being in that room again, but she was beginning to be hungry enough that she'd attempt it.
The question was answered for her when she saw the Professor mounting the stairs, carrying a tray. She froze when she saw him, and as he lifted his head, he did the same.
His eyes widened slightly, but he kept the rest of his face as smooth and controlled as ever. "Miss Granger," he said evenly, inclining his head. She breathed a little faster, waiting for the tirade that was to follow. "I thought you might be hungry."
"Oh," she said, thrown rather off-kilter. "I am, actually."
"I imagine you do not wish to return downstairs at this time." Holding the tray with one hand, he opened the door to what she vaguely had begun thinking of as 'her' bedroom. Hesitantly, she entered, ducking underneath his arm to do so. He followed her in and set the tray down on the chair, looking at her with an unreadable expression.
"I have already eaten," he said slowly, "but there are things we need to… discuss. Do you feel able to attempt this while you eat?"
She did not, but she wasn't about to let him know it. She sat on the bed and picked up the tray (Merlin, it was heavier than it looked), setting it in front of her and nibbling on a piece of toast.
"Professor McGonagall, on consultation with Kingsley Shacklebolt, has now decided that we are to return to Britain tomorrow." He said it with a look of such extreme displeasure that she ducked her head as guiltily as if the decision had been her own. "The Australian Portkey Stations have been temporarily closed down, and we will thus be required to travel by Muggle means. Have you ever," he said, fixing her with an intense stare, "been on an aeroplane, Miss Granger?"
She was hit by a most unlikely thought—could he be nervous? There was nothing in his face to give it away, but the timbre of his voice had altered ever so slightly. She swallowed her bite of toast and nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Ah," he said. "I assume, then, that you will be able to do so again without an undue amount of anxiety?"
She nodded again. He drew a deep breath, looking relieved. "Very good. Where you go after we return to Britain is up to you. Hogwarts is, of course, an option. The Weasleys wish me to convey to you that you are also very welcome at the Burrow." He seemed to find even the name unpleasantly tainted by Weasley-ness. "And Mr. Potter has informed me that you ought to consider Grimmauld Place as your own home."
There were too many choices. She peered into her cup, wondering if the skills of a Potions Master extended as far as making good tea. "I don't know," she said, lifting the cup to her lips. It was delicious. When was the last time she'd had a real cup of tea? It had been a lifetime since she came to Australia. A lifetime without tea.
She took another sip.
"Very well," he said. "You will have time on the aeroplane to consider the matter."
"Yes, sir." She poked around the plate. Besides the toast, there were a few slices of cheese and some wilting vegetables. She ate something, but didn't register what it was, beyond the fact that it was edible.
He watched her eat with an intensity that made her wonder if he was mentally cataloguing every bite she took and filing it away somewhere with some purpose or other in mind. It seemed like the sort of thing he might do.
"Professor?" she said, more out of a desire to break the growing silence than anything else.
"You have a question?"
"Yes."
He leaned back in his chair with a longsuffering sigh. "You never fail to be predictable, Miss Granger. The world could be ending, and you would ask questions."
It did no good to take it personally, she reminded herself. At least he was talking to her. At least she wasn't alone. That had to be worth something, even if her only companion was the least personable man she knew.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said, retreating from him instinctively. He had enough ammunition to use against her already without her showing him any more weakness.
He looked at her appraisingly. "Miss Granger, I warn you… I do not share details of my personal life with students, as your friend Potter has already discovered." She couldn't help but feel disappointed at that. She was curious, she realized. It was strange, feeling curious; strange to remember that there were still things in the world to be discovered and wondered about.
Professor Snape's gaze had not left her face. She felt her cheeks growing hot under his withering scrutiny. Nobody had ever looked at her like that, as though she were utterly transparent.
"However," he said, his voice so soft that it was almost inaudible, "I must confess that you are not in exactly the same position as my other students." The reminder did nothing to make her more comfortable, and she hid her face in her teacup. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps it is better that you know some of these things, Miss Granger, as it is possible that they may have some transferred impact on you."
"What sort of impact, sir?"
0 0 0
It was only with effort that he could stifle his despairing groan as soon as the fatal words had left his mouth. He wondered how many things he would need to explain to her, now that he'd essentially given her free range to ask. He hardly expected it to be the torrent of questions that he could have got from the girl at one point, but the few that she did ask were sure to be just as unwelcome and intrusive as her questions always were.
"Miss Granger, if our souls are linked together—" and how he hated to say such trite-sounding things "—then it is reasonable to expect that events which affect the soul of one will affect the soul of the other, even if they do so subtly."
"Oh," she said. She was not looking at him. In fact, she was looking everywhere but at him. Apparently he was doomed never to be looked at by a Gryffindor woman again. Severus nearly smirked. He was sure that he could live with that, if forced. Her nose wrinkled slightly, presaging another question. He braced himself.
"What if the things happened before the… the… you know?"
"The enchantment, Miss Granger." He liked that wishy-washy avoidance of the proper term no better than he liked it when perfectly competent witches and wizards refused to say the Dark Lord's name. He himself had not been able to bear it in their presence, but that was the fault of the Mark, and the Mark affected him no longer. "Think logically for a moment, if you can. The events and experiences of your life leave a permanent impact on your soul, no matter how small it is. They are the things which make you what you are. Seminal experiences leave the most powerful imprint, of course, and therefore it is appropriate that you should know about them."
He wanted to swear, creatively and loudly. The world had finally gone completely mad if it was now appropriate to share the darkest details of his life with a nineteen year old girl not even out of school.
"So things that have happened to me will affect you as well?"
He inclined his head. "I have you at a disadvantage, Miss Granger. I have been a witness to every important event of your life since you were eleven years old."
"Not every event," she muttered with a hint of rebelliousness. It came as a bit of a surprise to him. Her tone had been quiet and rather blank throughout their exchange.
"Perhaps not," he said thoughtfully. "But there is, unfortunately, time to fill in those holes."
She flinched. He'd said it was unfortunate… he did have to throw that dig in there, didn't he? Damn her eyes.
"I… it's not really my business, but what was Damien Wilkes talking to you about yesterday?"
Something tightened and went cold in the area of his heart. Of all the questions she could have asked him about the past, why did it have to be that one which was the very first?
"Not yesterday," he said with a sort of quiet despair. "Two days ago."
"Two days ago, then."
He steepled his fingers, looking down at them and saying nothing. "Why," he said, watching from behind his hair as she crumbled a piece of the cheese into pieces on her plate, "do you wish to know?"
She bit down on her lip. "I need something else to think about," she whispered.
Guilt twisted in him like a knife, and he thought of the pathetic scene he'd witnessed earlier that day. Of course she needed something else to think about. He clenched his hands into fists, listening to the quiet popping of his knuckles as he did. For God's sake, did it have to be that?
She seemed to think that his silence meant he needed prompting to begin the story, and she mumbled, "He… what did he want to know if you'd put in a jar?"
"This is not a story you will wish to hear, Miss Granger."
That seemed to get her back up, and she stuck her lower lip out in something that would have been a pout, if she didn't look so mournful. A muscle tightened in the vicinity of her jaw, and he suddenly appreciated how it was that she managed to keep her otherwise incorrigible friends under some degree of control.
"If you can tell it, I can hear it," she said stubbornly.
He frowned, rather stung by that. "Very well. But do not ask any more questions until I have finished. I would prefer not to be interrupted."
"As usual," she muttered. He pretended not to hear.
"The… nature of my relationship with Lily Evans is now common knowledge. I will not repeat facts that you already know. My relationship with Damien Wilkes appears to be of slightly less interest to the public. To give it to you in a very brief summary, we were school friends."
She'd pushed the tray aside, and he noted that she'd cleaned her plate. He filed the information away to report to Minerva later, who would surely wish to know. "What you most assuredly do not know," he continued, "is that I…" he stopped abruptly. How could he bear putting these things into words? How could she bear listening to them? She had the same look of expectant curiosity that she so often wore in the classroom, but now it pierced through him. He closed his eyes. If she insisted that she was strong enough to listen, he would not be the weaker of the two. He would tell her.
"I begged for her life, Miss Granger. I fell before the Dark Lord and promised him anything, anything in exchange for her safety. I had recently given him a very valuable piece of information—"
"The prophecy," she said, momentarily derailing his thoughts. He blinked at her.
"Yes," he answered slowly, not asking how she knew. "The prophecy. He was… pleased with me for that, I believe. He agreed to spare her life. She, however, was not willing to step aside and let him kill her son."
Her eyes were like gimlets, boring into him. He stood up and turned his back on her, pretending to examine a painting on the wall and speaking over his shoulder. Anything to avoid that look. "I discovered later that he was most unhappy with me for my attachment to… Lily." Could he not tell the story without halting at every turn? He scowled darkly.
"Wilkes, it seems, was in his confidence. Before he went to Godric's Hollow, the Dark Lord boasted of the punishment he had planned for my… indiscretion. He planned to spare her, oh yes, but he also planned to cut off her wand hand as payment for her life, and give it to me."
He heard the soft gasp that he expected. Picking up a book, he examined it with what he hoped passed for idleness, pretending to read its cover. "When Potter overcame him, Wilkes completed a descent into madness that had begun long before. He went to Godric's Hollow and waited until she was buried."
Something hard seemed to become stuck in his throat and he had to swallow several times before it retreated. "He exhumed her body and he removed her hand, as the Dark Lord had intended."
"Oh, God," she whispered. He winced.
"Indeed, Miss Granger. He was not the first Death Eater to come to me at Spinner's End. Many considered it a safe haven in which to mourn and plan their escape from the Ministry. He was distraught when he arrived, and I let him in. I had no reason not to."
He closed his eyes again, his imagination returning to that day. Wilkes' face was haggard and twisted, the madness in his eyes mirroring that of their master. Severus, so newly aware of and hungry for goodness and mercy, had found it utterly repellent.
"But he was not there to commiserate over the Dark Lord's death. He took me into a private room and gave me a box. I did not know—how could I know what it was? I took it and I opened it. I knew then what it…. She wore a ring. Not her wedding ring. She wore that on her other hand." His eyes were still closed, and he could see it before his eyes. A nondescript silver ring, a first, shy love-gift from a teenaged boy who'd spent a year squirreling away every spare penny.
"I recognized it because I had given it to her, several years before. Wilkes could not have known its origins. He had no reason for counterfeit." Wilkes' mad, maniacal laughter rang in his ears and he shuddered, his skin crawling.
He realized he was still gripping the book, and he set it down on the bookshelf again carefully. His voice was colored with self-loathing when he spoke again:
"I should have killed him then, but I did not. Who knew if the Dark Lord was really dead? I had to keep my cover, at least for a little while longer. I accepted it meekly and gave him dinner before he returned to his own home. A few weeks later, the Aurors reported him killed, and I could do nothing but hate his memory as much as I hated the Dark Lord's."
He settled into blessed silence at last, keeping his back to her. She seemed to be holding her breath. All he could hear were the telltale sounds of his own body, persistently being alive.
"Why doesn't Harry know?" she asked finally.
"Nobody knows, foolish girl!" he snapped, turning around to give her the full extent of his anger. "Who was I to tell? Not even Dumbledore knew. It was a desecration! Would you have had me expose it to the world?"
"What did you… do with it?" she whispered, horrified.
He could not keep his voice from shaking. Was he to lose all of his self-control because of this girl? "I buried it," he said hoarsely. There were tears swimming in her eyes and she was most certainly looking straight at him now, intense pity written on her face. He wanted to sneer at her, to hurt her as badly as he could for forcing him to tell her this.
Her bottom lip quivered. "I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. Nobody deserves for that to happen to them."
Severus could not bear it. He fled.
Author's Notes: Phew. Another chapter done.
Thanks, as usual, to RenitaLeandra and JunoMagic, for indispensable help and forbearance with my constant nattering about the story.
And, of course, endless thanks to you, reviewers. You are my motivation and my inspiration.