Notes: Thank you for your continued interest in the little piece. Here we are at the end of part two.
WARNINGS: References to canon violence and death.
28. You Survive When I in Earth Am Rotten
Hermione watches Draco sleep. Her hands tremble as she lifts the empty vial from the nightstand. She put him in a different room than the one they've shared. The curtains are still coated in a thin veneer of dust and the air smells of disuse. She doesn't think he'll mind.
She knows the silver potion dripping from the vial was a kindness. But she also knows how addictive its oblivion can be.
She smooths his platinum bangs from his forehead. His skin is cool to the touch, a far cry from the flushed heat he radiated earlier. Hermione knows he suffers from no physical ailments—the effects of the Cruciatus Curse have run their course.
But she saw green fire burn away a piece of him when his father fell to the ground.
She can't imagine killing a parent. It's abhorrent to her in every way imaginable. But neither of her wonderful, loving parents ever looked at her the way Lucius Malfoy looked at his son. Like she is nothing. Like the world would be a better place without her.
Sighing, Hermione presses her lips to Draco's brow.
He won't appreciate that she drugged him into oblivion, but he'll likely understand it. She leaves a lamp burning in the corner of his room, spelled to hold the darkness at bay until dawn.
She leans against the door as she closes it, head rocking back with a loud thump. The air in her lungs feels too thin, hardly enough to fortify her against what is yet to come.
They're in a house of corpses now. The downstairs is littered with silver masks that will rise no more. She hasn't worked up the nerve to pry the masks from their faces and truly document the dead.
Harry lies in another bedroom, his skin ashen and his eyes forever closed. It took all her strength to levitate him there without shattering to pieces. But Draco already tipped off the edge of sanity and now Hermione is all that's left. She will mourn later, when the world knows it's free. When she can bear to think of the Boy Who Loved Her. When her hands no longer shake and her chest doesn't strain for oxygen.
Until then, she is responsible for all of this. For the mess and the bodies and the consequences.
She stops in front of another door.
Her shoulders stiffen and her breath catches. This is the room she dreads the most. Not the parlor with the remains of what they have done. Not the halls with blood and gore infused into every surface. Not even Harry's makeshift tomb.
Her hand trembles on the knob. She swallows and tries to breathe, but her lungs are too tight. She chokes instead, stumbling into the bedroom.
He's as still as Harry, his skin just as pallid. Her legs wobble beneath her. Hermione places a fortifying hand on the dresser, the cool wood pressing into her feverish grip.
She ignores the chill tearing down her spine, the certainty that the boy in front of her is yet another casualty of victory. She moves one foot in front of the other. She sways, worse than when her muscles atrophied beyond use. Her breath is a rasp in the complete stillness, a sign of life where no others exist.
He doesn't stir when she drops to the bed beside him. He hasn't stirred since he collapsed face-down in the parlor hours ago. But his chest rises and falls, without any vigor, but enough that she knows he lives.
Sporadic enough that she's not sure how long.
He needs a proper healer, but Draco is the one who knows how to contact the Order. That's a lie. Hermione knows how, but she's unwilling to risk Tom's life without Draco as backup. She worries she's risking it now.
But she won't bring him into a hostile environment, a place where people will only see the Dark Lord behind another face.
She may be worrying over nothing. Tom hasn't looked like this since the 1940's and only a very select subset of the Order can make the connection. But it only takes one. One former professor, one visitor he helped at Borgin and Burkes, and he's in a cell with Hermione on the other side.
Tom never left her, not until he had to. She won't leave him.
Which severely limits her options. If Draco were awake, she's sure he'd have some inclination of what to do. But he's left her on her own for this particular drama.
She tries not to be bitter about it. Patricide is a reasonable excuse.
She's already scoured the shelves of the Malfoy estate, searching for whatever healing volumes they might possess. In a surprise to absolutely no one, the Malfoys don't own a single book on the subject. Hexes to turn your insides slowly into rotten maggots? Absolutely. An astute guide to the best locations to apply the Cruciatus Curse? No problem. The best ingredients for a poison your spouse won't detect? Pick a volume. But actually try and help someone? No bloody way.
Hermione has already tried the bevy of healing spells she knows and while some seem to reduce the gravel in his breaths, none have made a significant difference.
She edges onto the bed. When Tom's breathing remains steady, she curls into a ball beside him, her head resting against his shoulder. The soft silk of his ebony curls brushes her skin with each inhale he takes. She fights the urge to curl fully into him, to bury her head in the warm crook of his neck. She doesn't know the extent of the damage he's endured. She won't risk further harming him.
Her lips are clammy, her voice a distant echo of itself as she begins to speak.
"I never realized how much this could go wrong. You and Harry both seemed untouchable. You, especially. I've been with Harry throughout this fight. I know he bleeds. I know he's mortal. But you, Tom? You don't get to be mortal. You're something else entirely."
She swallows shards of dread.
"So why aren't you moving? Why aren't you opening your eyes? Harry bloody died for you and all you've done is lie there. He can't have bloody killed himself only to have you throw it in his goddamn face, Tom."
Her cheeks are wet. She doesn't bother to brush the moisture away.
"He died for you," she whispers again, soft and broken. It's impossible that Harry would have made such a choice. The Chosen One dying for the Dark Lord.
Hermione takes a shuddering inhale. The air smells of salt and sorrow and the barest hint of clove. Her fingers twitch, craving a cigarette between them.
"He can't have died for you because that means that, in the end, he died for me. Because he knew how I felt about you."
Harry's decision had a million and one other motives, but she's not sure how she'll survive this one. Especially if Tom's sapphire stare never rests upon her again.
"And what I feel, it's wrong, isn't it? Some twisted product of the time we spent together when I didn't understand who you were."
But Tom never lied to her about his identity. He never obscured what he had done, even when she didn't remember. She may not have had the entire picture, but she knew the pieces that mattered. The murders. The choices. The darkness in his soul.
She always refused to define him by such simplistic terms.
Now, with Voldemort's demise, she knows she was right.
He is not good—he never will be—but he is not inherently evil either. He has made choices that sent him down a different path. That left him defenseless in a bed beside her, his lungs on the edge of life.
She does not allow herself to imagine the worst. Not after Harry.
Hermione finds his limp hand and weaves their fingers together.
The seconds crawl. There is no time outside the unsteady rasps of his breath. She holds fast.
The curtains shift, a subtle swoosh of fabric that draws her from uneasy sleep. She must have left the window open.
But when? It was the dead of night when she collapsed here. Her fingers trace the coverlet beside her. They find nothing but cool material.
She jerks upward, eyes snapping open. For a frantic moment, she sees nothing but blurred light. She staggers off the bed, tripping over her own feet.
Strong hands catch her.
Hermione blinks up into eyes of the deepest sapphire. Her knees give out and Tom stumbles forward, barely managing to guide them both to the bed.
She should probably say something, but her throat won't make a sound. He's paler than he ought to be, but seems to breathe easily. The lead brick in her gut dissipates. She takes another breath, unabashedly drinking in the angelic glory of his features.
He shudders when she presses a hand to the strong line of his jaw. Hermione smiles, the edges of her mouth pulling wider than ever.
Tom bites his lip and then, slowly, grins back. It's isn't the sly grin that tells her he knows a secret she doesn't. Or the seductive smirk that promises a thousand sinful delights. It's the awkward smile of a boy, lost but happy to share this moment with her.
She buries her hands in his silky hair and presses her lips to his.
This kiss is different than all the others that have come before it. This is a kiss that contains a love she can't explain, a love that is deeper than lust and romance, that burns in the very pit of her soul.
Her lips are mere messengers, trying desperately to convey how very much he means to her. How his loss would have splintered her beyond recognition.
He devours her message and writes one in return as he worships the column of her throat. She has never felt so delicate, so treasured, as when he skims his lips across the planes of her face, dipping into every hollow like he will never get enough.
Their lips return to each other, poetry in motion. She relishes every sigh of his ode.
When they do part, his cheeks are hale with color. Another shard of dread melts away.
Tom bows his head, his forehead dropping to hers. "I…" he clears his throat, the timbre of his voice raw.
She knows he won't say what she sees etched in the depths of his crystalline sapphire eyes. That he has tried to express it, even with a single syllable is more than she expects.
Hermione trails a hand over his brow, sweeping away his ebony bangs. "I know."
Tom swallows. "I can't fight it anymore. There isn't a reason to fight it anymore."
Hermione thinks of Draco in the adjacent room. Of the jumble of hearts the three of them have made.
Her chest aches, but it doesn't stop her from pulling Tom to her. He sighs, deep and full of every stifled emotion. They settle against the rumpled covers. Hermione places her head upon his chest. Each beat of his heart is a declaration of survival.
"You don't have to."
Draco raises a pale brow and looks over his shoulder. Tom sits with his feet propped on what is left of a coffee table, azure eyes surprisingly serious.
Draco glares down at the wand in his hand. "I can't stand the other one."
"And how is this better?"
He makes a fair point. As much as Draco despises the wand he inherited from Tom, he knows it works. Simply working isn't enough, though, not with an uncertain future stretching out before him. He's plucked the wands from every rotting corpse and this is the only one that feels right, whose magical signature matches his own.
"It fits." He twirls the wood experimentally between his fingers. "Magically."
Tom snorts. "I imagine it falls short, emotionally."
That's a massive understatement. "I need something better."
"Why, exactly?" A cigarette—Merlin only knows how Tom got it—spins between his fingers. "Are we planning to fight another epic battle? I'm fairly certain I've not recovered from the last one."
Draco gives him a sardonic look. "You look fine. You've got your whole bloody soul and everything."
"And everything," Tom repeats, voice soft and lost, as if he hasn't just gained everything he desired. He shakes his head and stuffs the cigarette between his full lips. "Well, be useful, Draco and give a boy a light."
Draco lets out an aggrieved sigh, but extends the wand. The pale wood vibrates pleasantly beneath his hand as he conjures a small flame. Tom passes the cigarette through the arc of fire and collapses back onto the ruined divan.
"You know, you're not alone."
Both of Draco's brows reach for the ceiling. "Alone in what?"
"In the particularly dubious honor of having committed patricide."
Draco's lips press into a thin line. He thought they'd decided to avoid this particular subject, along with the sordid details of whatever has developed between Tom and Hermione.
It seems Tom still has a flair for the sadistic.
Draco's teeth grind. "Because I definitely want to talk with you about it while we're in the bloody room."
"We can change rooms."
"You know that isn't my point, Tom."
The other boy lets out puff of smoke as he considers Draco. The lines of his handsome face shift, softening the barest amount. "You're going to have to talk about it with other people. The most obvious of whom is your bloody mother. You might as well practice with me. At least you know I'm hardly in a position to judge."
It's perhaps the most thoughtful thing Tom has said to him. It also makes Draco want to stab his brilliant sapphire eyes out with the horrifying wand he still clutches. "Then I'll let you know when I'm ready."
Tom takes a long drag. Smoke curls from his nose and mouth when he replies, "fair enough. But are you going to keep the wand?"
"Only until I get a new one." He narrows his eyes at Tom. "Why are you so against me finding another wand anyway?"
The darker boy shifts, raising the cigarette to his lips. Tom's hiding something. Something that upsets him. Something that Draco's wand reminds him of.
Draco knows better than to pry, especially now. If he wants Tom to leave his demons alone, he can't dive into Tom's.
"I thought it would feel good, when I killed my father and grandparents, but it didn't," the cigarette glows bright between his lips. "It felt like nothing at all."
Draco understands, but says nothing.
Tom's azure stare slides to him. "You can ask, you know."
"About?"
Tom is so scattered today that Draco genuinely has no idea what he's talking about. It could be anything from the bodies they've heaped in the yard to the mundane contents of the kitchen.
The dark boy snuffs out his cigarette in a broken ceramic vase. Draco can hear his mother gasp. It's oddly reassuring to know she's still in his head.
"Hermione."
Ah. So that's the can of flobber worms Tom has chosen to pry open this afternoon. Having spent several weeks with Hermione alone, the topic isn't nearly as daunting as it once seemed. He still has no desire to delve into it at present.
"I'm perfectly fine remaining blissfully ignorant."
"Well, I'm not." Tom states, throat working. "I need you to know."
"Why?"
Tom chews his bottom lip as he considers the question. Outside, birds chirp merrily in the bushes and the distant sound of a train's horn cuts the late summer haze.
Draco thinks of his mother. Of the blackberry bushes just beyond the stone wall of the garden. Of mouths stained deep purple and smiles that lasted forever.
Now there are corpses piled against that wall.
He's a long way from the child who ate berries and dreamed beside his mother. He's been a long way from that child for so long he's forgotten he was ever anything else.
His fists clench and he's thankful when Tom finally constructs a reply.
"Because you matter to me. Even when Hermione gave up on me, when she decided she couldn't overcome my past, you never stopped pushing me to be better." Tom brings a hand to his temple and slowly massages it. "This entire plan would have failed if Harry hadn't been here. If he hadn't realized what was wrong. And he wouldn't have been here at all if it weren't for you and your vision of us defeating that pathetic creature together."
Of course, Harry would also still be alive if Draco hadn't dragged him into this entire mess.
Draco swallows and thinks of anything else. "What are you trying to say?"
"That what's growing between Hermione and I doesn't change how I feel about you."
It's more than Draco expected. He blinks slowly. "And what exactly does that mean? You know Hermione and I care for each other, but neither of us is interested in the other on any level beyond friendship."
Tom's stare heats and Draco feels a flush rising. The other boy's tongue darts out to lick his lips and Draco can't help the sudden rush of blood south. The things that boy can do with his tongue.
"As much as I'd very much enjoy the two of you in my bed, I'm aware it's never going to happen." Tom's pout is far too potent.
Draco raises his eyes to the ceiling. "You're being deliberately inflammatory. Get to the bloody point."
"I don't want to end things between us." Tom pauses, fingers playing with the butt of his cigarette. "But I will. If that's what she needs."
And there it is. The truth he has always known.
Tom Riddle will always choose Hermione Granger.
It's bigger than it used to be, when it was merely Tom protecting Hermione from the world. Now it's about tongues and teeth and lust and sweat and love and truth.
He once believed Tom didn't love Hermione, that he was not in love with her. And it was true, right up until it wasn't.
It's a change he couldn't see coming. The moment everything shifted is impossible to pinpoint. It's a rock tumbling in a riverbed, sharp and craggy one day and then smooth another. Change so slow it seems like nothing is happening until it has.
Draco stares at his father's wand in his hand.
Change finds a way.
"I know," he breaths and drops onto the divan beside Tom. "I've always known we came with an expiration date."
Tom looks down at his lap. He wears a pair of Draco's sweats and one of his tee shirts. His traditional black attire was coated in blood—his and the Dark Lord's, which is perhaps indistinguishable. In either case, Tom didn't clean the clothes and when Draco finally awoke from Hermione's dreamless sleep dose, Tom raided his wardrobe. The sweats are a tad short, but his shirt fits Tom like a glove.
The sight of the dark boy in his clothes does nothing to help this conversation. If anything, it makes his chest ache more.
He and Hermione talked about this. He knows what her answer will be.
But Draco's not ready to give up Tom yet.
So he simply sighs and drops his head against the wall behind them. "Let's figure out the dead bodies first, yeah?"
Tom lets out an inelegant snort that ruffles his dark hair. "Agreed. Even I don't like mixing decaying flesh with sex."
It takes two full days for them to pull themselves together and deal with the mess they've made. Two days for Draco to convince Tom and Hermione that Severus Snape is their best and only option.
It makes sense. Snape has a foot in both worlds. He can help them contain the remaining Death Eaters while providing support when the time comes to explain to the Order why Harry is dead. She's not entirely sure they'll ever tell the Oder that Tom is… alive.
It doesn't seem like the best term to describe his current state of being, but it's all that comes to mind. Tom has his entire soul now. She and Draco watched the grey strands of all his remaining Horcruxes spool into Tom's chest, as if they belonged there the entire time. And perhaps they did. Tom is certainly more himself than the reanimated corpse they called Voldemort ever was.
The trip to Spinner's end sends the contents of her stomach onto the cobblestones below. Draco is still getting used to his father's wand—she hates it far less than McNair's—and Tom refused to help. She doesn't exactly blame him. Despite Voldemort being well acquainted with the former Potions professor, Tom has never met the man.
He hangs back when they've gathered their bearings, his ebony hair obscured by the dark hood of a sweatshirt he wears under his usual leather jacket.
She found his clothes in a wad under their bed—it's weird to think, but they haven't slept apart since the night Tom's breath labored on the precipice.
Blood—Tom's, Voldemort's, who knows whose—had soaked through the fabric so thoroughly the black material crackled when touched. It took her full arsenal of cleaning charms, but she returned his attire to its former glory. With the appropriated items from Draco's closet, Tom has something close to a functional wardrobe. They'll go back for their things at the coastal cottage, but not before they know it's safe.
Tom appears comfortable enough as he trails behind them, a dark silhouette in the night. Harry's invisibility cloak is stuffed into one of his jacket pockets, just in case things take a turn for the worst. Beyond that, his wand is tucked into the waistband of his dark jeans, a lethal line against his back.
She swallows down the jumble of nerves creeping up her throat. Hermione knows without a doubt Tom can take care of himself.
"You're sure he'll be here?"
"Every Death Eater still alive knows the Dark Lord is gone. Snape will have gone to ground until he figures out the details," Draco replies to her nervous query.
It's what she would do and despite how much she despises her former professor, she doesn't doubt his intelligence.
The windows are all dark when they reach the doorstep, but Hermione knows any variety of protective enchantments can account for that.
Draco uses his wand to scribe a complicated set of runes just above the heavy oak door. When he finishes, they blaze like shooting stars before disappearing just as quickly.
Hermione can hear each of them breathing. Draco's breaths are steady, sure of what will come next. Hers are more frantic, the edge of her anxiety manifesting. She expects the rhythm of Tom's to match Draco's, but they resonate closer to Hermione's unsteady tempo.
She reaches blindly behind her. His fingers slip into hers a heartbeat later. She draws him closer to her side. Whatever comes, they will do this as a united front.
She jumps, her grip on Tom tightening, when the door slides open. No one stands on the other side.
Unfazed, Draco steps through, motioning for them to follow. Hermione and Tom step as one across the threshold. The door slams shut behind them, its hinges jangling. Draco seems to know what he's doing, so Hermione trails him, eyes darting to the shadows crawling along the dark walls.
They come to another door and Draco repeats the process with a new set of runes. This time, the door opens immediately.
Snape perches on a stool in front of a Potions bench, his wand stirring a milky purple potion. Hermione thinks it must be some sort of sleeping draft based on the faint aroma of valerian.
His expression remains inscrutable as he examines each member of their party.
"Draco, it's good to find the rumors of your demise are just that, rumors." His keen gaze cuts into Hermione like sharp onyx. "And Miss Granger. It seems your death is also not as permanent as we feared."
"I won't apologize for doing what was necessary to get Hermione out of the Manor." The look Draco casts Snape is full of undisguised venom. Hermione realizes abruptly that Snape was in a position to rescue her as well, but chose not act. She understands it was probably a decision for the greater good of the Order, but the truth is no less of a blow.
"And I'm afraid I don't recognize the final member of your…group."
They debated long and hard about what to say and while none of them believe the Order needs to know his true identity, Snape is too important. They need him to back them and that means they can't lie.
Tom gently disengages his fingers from hers and steps into the space between Draco and Hermione. "Tom Riddle."
The unflappable Severus Snape tips off his stool. His wand clatters to the tile below as he rakes his eyes over every inch of Tom.
"You must know—"
"We do," Draco cuts in. "We know exactly who he is."
"And he's not Voldemort." Merlin, it feels good to say that name like it's any other, cheap and meaningless. "But he is Tom Riddle in his entirety."
Snape's wand is back in his hand and pointed at the handsome boy beside her. Tom doesn't so much as flinch.
"Explain," the professor growls.
"I suppose I should do the honors," Tom murmurs as he takes a step toward Snape. "It is my life and death, after all. I suppose I could begin with a very dark spell I once learned in the darkest corners of Hogwarts. I linked my life to a book, a very dark book that turned the magical essence of any who wrote in it with blood into my own. Thus, allowing me to regain body and magic.
"Different than a Horcrux, mind you, but powerful nonetheless. Then I discovered Horcruxes and found a way to put a piece of my soul into the book as well. For safe keeping." Tom's lips curve into a feral grin. "We don't really need to go over the specifics of how, do we? This entire room is well acquainted with my affinity for murder."
Hermione bores a hole the back of his skull with her stare. They're trying to convince Snape he's trustworthy, not rehash a litany of his darkest sins.
"What Tom is saying rather poorly is that he created a way to bring himself back, not triggered when he died but rather when someone gave the diary what it needed, blood and magic." She takes a breath to continue, but grinds to halt as she realizes what part of the story comes next.
Tom swings around, his aloof façade crumbling in a heartbeat. His hands are on the sides of her face, his lips at her temple. "I've got this," he whispers. "I'm sorry about before. I'll do it properly this time."
Snape's expression is nearly worth the agony of remembrance. He looks between Hermione and Tom, eyes wide and jaw unhinged. She almost wants Tom to pull Draco into their embrace, so they can truly shock the dreadful professor.
Tom keeps an arm around Hermione's waist as he continues. The scent of cloves clinging to his leather jacket is enough to calm her breaths and send the past back where it belongs. She doesn't listen to his words, but rather the deep vibrations of his chest against her cheek.
Snape asks a number of sharp questions that she deliberately avoids thinking about. It's only when they're talking about Harry and the confrontation with Voldemort that she allows herself to fully engage.
"You mean to tell me he is truly gone? All versions of his Horcruxes destroyed?"
"I had my doubts about Nagini, since technically she's alive—like Harry, not that I knew about him until it was too late." Both Hermione and Draco stare at him. He never mentioned anything about the snake. "She was, after all, a woman once up a time. I decided to be careful and used my knife on her in the hall before we entered the parlor."
Hermione realizes they would have known if an unsevered link remained. The black cord between Harry and Tom was impossible to miss. Thinking about what it took to cut that cord nearly brings her to her knees. Tom's draws her closer into him.
She sags against him, beyond caring what Snape must think of her.
Snape's raven brows are drawn together. "Your knife?"
Tom flashes a wicked grin that she can feel down to her toes. "I'm afraid that's all the details you'll be getting on that particular magical artifact."
The professor grunts, but doesn't push him. The rest of their story is a jumbled mess, Draco and Hermione chiming in when Tom's memory goes dark. By the end, Snape looks at them like they've lost their bloody minds.
"Potter and the Dark Lord. Both truly dead." He shakes his head like he can't believe it. As Hermione looks closer, she realizes his dark eyes are overly bright.
"Excuse me, sir," she says softly, "but I'm confused as to why you care so much. I was under the impression you hated Harry."
Snape holds her stare. She can see unmistakable anguish fracture his features. His voice is rough chop when he speaks. "You will find, Miss Granger, that people are rather more than they appear. You seem to have discovered this truth in both your young companions."
She certainly has. "Then perhaps you'd be willing to share?"
Snape eyes them warily for a long moment before he lets out a shuddering sigh and collapses onto his stool.
"Who else would ever listen?"
The question sends sadness lacing through her veins. She has never bothered to see beyond his façade before. How many others have been similarly limited by his gruff exterior and solitary manner?
The professor turns to Draco. "Before I begin my particular tale, and I will keep it brief because I truly wish to be doing anything else than telling you, I wanted to say how very sorry I am, Draco, that I never acted before. That I never took action against your father even after I learned what he'd done to you and your mother."
Draco's jaw clenches, but he nods stiffly. "There's nothing you could have done, Severus."
"There is so much I could have done and I will always regret that I failed to act."
Draco's eyes are wide mirrors. "I… thank you."
"Don't regret the fate your father met. You may have demons, but don't allow this to be one of them."
Hermione imagines it's impossible not to have killing your father haunt you until the end of days, but once again, she can't relate. Her parents were the best a girl could wish for.
Snape's deep baritone echoes across the potions lab as he explains his childhood, his friendship with Lily Evans. His fate in Slytherin and his treatment at the hands of James and his friends. Then his choices to serve Dumbledore and protect Lily. Hermione finds herself melting into Tom, until they're pressed together from thigh to shoulder, their breaths rising and falling in tandem.
She tries to imagine loving someone as much as Snape loves Lily. She looks up at Tom and finds him staring back, sapphire eyes engulfed by bold emotion.
Merlin, is this real?
Could he truly feel so strongly about her?
He ducks his head, their lips pressing together softly.
Snape lets out a strangled hiss and they break apart, but it's Draco whose eyes she meets. He isn't angry or even hurt, but she can see that something has changed.
Tom reaches out to him and catches his hand. Their fingers lace together, but Draco doesn't respond to Tom's tentative smile. Their house of cards is falling.
Snape clears his throat and the agonized moment shatters.
Hermione shudders in a relieved breath. She isn't prepared for what comes next between the three of them.
"I absolutely don't want to know," Snape announces to the room in general, turning back to his potion.
She doesn't blame him. She would turn away from this too, if she could.
She does the next best thing and changes the subject.
"So we're going to need your help breaking all of this to the Order."
Snape lifts a brow as he glances at her over his shoulder. "You're going to need more than my help. You're going to need a bloody miracle."
"Well, clearly, we're not going to tell anyone about Tom."
The professor gives a derisive snort. "Of course not. Can't have the entire world knowing the lot of you shacked up with the Dark Lord himself."
Draco lets out an annoyed huff. "Will you help us or not, Severus?"
"Hardly seems like I've got a bloody choice," Snape gripes. "Now hand me that mortar and pestle, boy. If I'm going to help you, you'd better make yourselves useful."