It was a week when Antonin finally relented and allowed Hermione to go back to Hogwarts. Those seven days gouged a streak in her heart as she tried desperately to hold the pieces of her outside self together. He'd so utterly destroyed her facade that she was sure he could see the cracks like lines on porcelain.
She wound herself taut to stay together, using a ribbon of pure endurance to coddle her chipped and broken pieces.
He was a monster. She'd known he would snap on her, but had not anticipated the horror behind his handsome, soft-spoke mask. Yes, he became rough and cruel in bed, but he always healed her, and he hadn't crossed certain lines. Not since that first time in his dungeons.
Hermione had wondered what the long-term repercussions of her actions would set on her, but he had returned to tender care the morning after. He tended to her wounds, stroked and kissed her as though nothing had occurred.
But there were changes. One was glaringly obvious: no more forks. No, Hermione had only spoons with which to eat, and food more frequently featured yogurts and oats, and soups. All of her food was bite-sized otherwise, easy to pluck from the plate with her fingers. Antonin took great pleasure in feeding her from his own fork if she struggled.
It was humiliating, though at least there was only him to see her shame. When he saw her dejected expression upon her realization, he'd chuckled.
"I considered giving you nothing but bowls of soft food to lap up with your tongue. Be glad I settled on this instead."
She'd pursed her lips and schooled herself. "Thank you, Antonin."
But now… How she'd been certain he would never let her leave that wretched house again, and now she was back to dusting off beloved volumes in Hogwarts' library. He was on the other side of the stacks but had a clear view of her as those between them had dominoed to the floor during battle.
It was the most free she'd felt in months, though she had been in this same place a week past. But it felt like freedom after the terror of Dolohov's fury. And it was the first time Hermione had had to process the information she'd gleaned.
Neville escaped. It was breathlessly euphoric news that threatened to topple her over. That was why she had to distract Dolohov. He'd been instrumental in organizing the small resistance at Hogwarts; any students who had escaped the worst would look to him for leadership.
It rankled a tiny sliver of her, the sliver that reminded her she was Harry Potter's best friend. She had researched and been on the run successfully for a full year before the battle. Was she not worthy of escape to join the fight in truth?
Logically, she knew Neville was important. Hermione was well aware of how others viewed her, thank you very much. Unlike Harry, she wasn't a leader. People didn't follow her. They hardly listened to her despite her supposed bossiness. Okay, she was a bit bossy with her boys, but it was the only way the two of them had passed classes and handled every twist upon their path. They had learned that she wasn't trying to harass them; she was just trying to make sure they were alright.
She'd heard Ron murmur to Harry once that they wouldn't last a minute without her. It was before they started their hunt for the Horcruxes. And he'd been proven right the moment Death Eaters struck the Burrow. Hermione was ready.
She was ready for the endless apparation, ready with layers of wards. Ready for arguments with Ron, dealing with Harry's broodiness.
She hadn't been ready for Ron to explode and leave on them. He'd stayed through so much, and she was growing more certain by the day that he liked her. But he left. There was a hole in her heart and an aching chasm between her and Harry, especially after…
Of course Ron had returned. He would always return, no matter how brutal their arguments. Harry was dependable in that he was there come Hell or high water. Ron might leave when the wading began, but he would come back to keep you from drowning and to fight in Hell beside you.
That was how it had always been with them.
But not anymore. A sob tied her chest in winding arms, unable to heave out of her throat, catching all her breath. They were gone and she was left behind with no one to guide her through the darkness, no one to stand by her side, no one to show them she loved them.
"Miss Granger."
The air her silent sob had held captive released in a startled gasp. "Professor. I'm sorry; I didn't see you there."
"Indeed," he replied archly, one black brow rising as he studied her. "No matter. I've told Dolohov I am discussing the library with you. I've also cast a muffliato . From his distance, we should be safe to have a short discussion."
She nodded, her own brows furrowing. "So last week was for Neville?"
"Yes. It went well, and Longbottom is now in his proper place."
"And me? When will I be going?" Her whiskey brown eyes were hopeful, bright amid the red of brokenness.
But she knew from the tightening of his features that she was stuck. "We cannot risk an escape so soon. And… your presence with Dolohov is unfortunately necessary."
Her heart sank like a stone. "Why?"
He looked almost regretful. "Dolohov is not interested in the outside world. He takes on specific tasks as ordered, but he is one of the Dark Lord's original Knights, and thus has great favorability. He allows others to volunteer, others to chase their ambitions. All he desires, Miss Granger, is to spend his days in peace. With you."
Orange firelight and a dark smile as Antonin gestured around him. This , he'd said. This was what he wanted.
"I know," she croaked.
"What do you imagine would happen if you escaped?" She hadn't thought of that beyond herself and some vague hope she'd be joining something like the Order of the Phoenix to fight. But Dolohov, how would he react? And as her expression transformed to horror, he nodded. "He would cut through every tree in the Forbidden Forest, stack corpses like so much wood, do anything to regain you. Do you understand? Where now he is a resting beast, he would rise as a demon to collect you once more. And we cannot afford that currently."
Body thrilling at every little pain still healing, she nodded once more. Those wounds would be as nothing against his wrath.
"He has to die," she said after a silence had settled between them.
"Eventually. But we cannot be seen to be organized as of yet. We need more time." Hermione shut her eyes at that and leaned against the wall, pressing a book to her chest. "I know what I ask of you is cruel. I am not as heartless as I seem. But this is how it must be."
Hermione anchored herself in his words, drawing in a breath and releasing her despair with it. She stared up at the man, double agent who had apparently loved Harry's mum, tool of Albus Dumbledore, and recognized the deep burden he carried on his shoulders. He was, what, thirty-eight? But his eyes hung as obsidian in bruised sockets. Yes, she supposed, he would have an idea what he asks of me. "I understand."
"I- trust- you can manage the library, but feel free to design instructions should he quiz you. I will let you know if we need you again. And." Snape hesitated, grinding his jaw before releasing a sigh. "I will do what I can to ease your situation."
Her fingers scanned the edges of the book. "Thank you."
"Don't." He turned away before she could read his expression. "I'm simply fulfilling my duties."
Her eyes swept the library as he walked away, pulleys of her mind shifting the different sections into place, rebuilding the library as a mirage over reality. Antonin caught her gaze and tipped his head in that eagle-like manner of his, and she nodded and gave him a soft smile she hoped he'd mistake for enjoyment of her task.
She would enjoy her work in the library, yes. But more than that, she knew the reason for her despair and now could try to build what she might within it.
