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Her Fugue, His Lie, and Their Story

Chapter 2: Souls

The pain was dreadful, and it was everywhere. No matter how often she tossed and turned in her bed; with no regard to how loud she cried out, the absolute agony never seemed to grow disinterested with her and stalk away.

Madam Pomfrey tried to distract her. She held her tightly, and whispered that they would go far away from this place, that a full recovery from such a curse was still possible, that the torment would end eventually. But even as she cooed, Hermione found her promises impossible to believe.

She lay awake at night feeling all the vastness of misery, with its icy hand, plunge down deep into her chest and squeeze the life out of her very soul. Always, for a moment, she remained still, relishing with a shiver in the sheer torture of its grasp, and then, quite suddenly, she remembered that she no longer had a soul. She had left it back in time, a time from which she had no memory, and so it was probably still sitting there, licking its wounds, and trying desperately to crawl its way back into her veins.

Of course, it didn't help the matter that there were two boys constantly demanding to see her. Both of them seemed quite enthusiastic about her survival, and went babbling on about winning something, and getting her back to what they called the Burrow. On the second day they visited, the boy with red hair became furious, and screamed that he loved her, that he couldn't believe she was being like this- how could she not remember everything they had built together? On the third day only the boy with glasses came. He did not speak, just stared with those piercing green eyes. When he finally left, he pressed an old, yellow covered book into her hands.

"This was important to you once." he said softly, "Please don't forget about us, 'Mione."

Hermione looked down at the wretched thing in her hands. It disgusted her, not because it was old and torn, but because it signified her own weakness. She wanted to hurl it across the room, to break those vials of potions lining her bedside, to scream at the young man in front of her, "If you were something worth remembering, I think I would!"

She was just so damn tired of being told to remember and yet, she did not throw the book- she could not- because somehow it did feel important, and whatever it was, buried far inside of her mind, told her he was too.

It was a silly thing for him to have said, but he had said it just the same, and then she felt a wave of guilt wash over her. He was hurting just as much as she was. Naturally, not in the same way, but she thought that saying one person couldn't hurt because another's pain was worse was like saying someone couldn't be happy because another's happiness was greater.

She looked at the boy. He said they were friends.

"I'll try."


Now that it had been nearly two weeks since that night, the collapsing Hospital Wing, and the rest of the school for that matter, was left a ghostly empty as the small group shut the doors behind.

They made quite a strange procession, climbing the steps to Pomfrey Cottage.

Professor McGonagall, still rather a stranger to Hermione, led the way, clasping her unbroken arm a little more tightly than necessary for proper support. Then came Madam Pomfrey who was taking cautiously small strides with the unconscious Snape floating in the air beside her. And finally there was Mr. Pomfrey, Poppy's husband apparently, sauntering nonchalantly behind them, unsure exactly of what to do or how to help. He had a long scar that ran the length of his face from temple to chin, and, as Hermione examined it, she wondered whether or not he had actually agreed to all of it. That was, an invalid and the comatose living with him in his home- or if Madam Pomfrey had simply given him that glare that, in just a few short days, Hermione had come to know as one not to invoke again.

The sky above them had been a dangerous gray all morning, and Madam Pomfrey mildly swore aloud when, at last, it began to leak. One moment it was only a mist and the next a downpour. Rain came tumbling from the clouds so abruptly that they had barely had the time to quicken their pace. The drops soaked themselves into the grass, and suddenly, Hermione froze- the smell- rainwater and grass- a flash of recollection overcame her.

In that moment, Hermione's vision escaped her, and she felt as if nothing else mattered in the world. She had to hold on to it, she had to feel it, she just had to remember. It was what everybody wanted her to do, wasn't it?

The girl breathed in again deeply and then, all at once, she was seized with a terror that she could not explain. A tremor overcame her. Something was closing around her neck, her skin was sticky with wet, and that scent- it was all around her- completely ingrained in her mind.

She tried frantically to pull away from the hand that was wrapped firmly around her forearm, but she was weak from fever, and only managed to convulsive in place. It was sickening. She struggled for air, letting out a cry that startled the birds from their perches in the trees.

"Stop!" Hermione shrieked, her throat was horribly sore. She continued to thrash so violently that another pair of hands came to close around her cheeks. "Get off! Stop, stop please!"

"Hermione!" she heard vaguely through the blood pounding in her ears, "Hermione, dear, it's alright- it's alright. Shh."

It felt perilous, coming back to reality, but when Hermione finally did, she found that Madam Pomfrey was holding her face in her smooth palms, eyes flittering back and forth worriedly. She stumbled backwards, splashing into a puddle. All three of the adults were drenched, their hair beginning to lie flat against their foreheads, and Professor McGonagall had pressed her slim fingers over her mouth, either raindrops or tears coming to stream down her face.

They were looking at her in such a way that made her quake. Complete and utter pity. It was the same kind of way that people looked at a prized race horse who had broken his leg and needed to be put down.

What had she become? Who had she even been?

Hermione shook her head at the ground, her heart lurching in her chest.

"I'm sorry." She said. "I don't know what that was. I think it may have been- perhaps I..." the thought drifted off as a lump in her throat jolted up. She fought desperately to keep it down, "Damn it! I can't know what is wrong anymore because I don't even know what is right!"

Professor McGonagall finally had to look away.

"I'm destroyed."

As soon as the words escaped her lips, there was a jolt of Mr. Pomfrey in Hermione's peripheral vision.

"He twitched," the man said unsurely, pointing to the near corpse of Snape "I swear I saw him move- just now, I saw it, I'm sure."

Madam Pomfrey let go of Hermione, although it seemed reluctant, and rushed over to where Snape was still floating in the air, water pelting his form. He appeared dead by all means. His skin was still as white as snow- eyes shut tightly, but there was certainly something different, something to do with his lip which had curled its way into a vengeful grimace. Hermione felt sure that had not been there before.

After a few seconds of wand waving, the matron let out a shuddering shigh of frustration, "Oh, John! You know don't have time for this sort of thing! " she threw him a nasty look and turned back to Hermione with a determined huff, "As for you, Miss. Granger- as for you, I will hear no more such talk. You're not destroyed, in fact, you're brand new, is that clear?"

Hermione nodded mindlessly, still watching for small signs of life from Snape. For some reason, she couldn't peel her eyes away from him. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks- it wouldn't be the first time…

"Now, let's get inside, for goodness sake!"


A/N: Thanks for reading. I know it's short but I've got more coming if anyone is still interested. I would love to hear what you think so far!