Inescapable
Chapter Ten
It was past eleven o'clock when Hermione and Harry clambered through the door to the Gryffindor common room. Ron was sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, breathing deeply and slowly, a sure sign of sleep. Harry went over to wake him, and Hermione made quick use of the opportunity to slip up the stairs into her dorm room alone.
Not two minutes later, Harry's footsteps were coming up the staircase. He swore softly, noticing that she was gone. She was leaning against the door as though eavesdropping, her right ear pressed against the smooth, polished wood. She could just barely discern the sounds of Ron yawning, and then the door to the boys' room was opened, and closed.
She twisted the doorknob as quietly as she could, wishing she knew of a charm or spell to place on her own feet to make them entirely silent. Taking the stairs with the greatest caution, she stole back down into the common room. Sensing that the last students had gone to bed, the lights and fire had extinguished themselves with some inexplicable magic; the area was completely dark. Praying that her presence would not be sensed as well, Hermione made her way over to a comfortable chair in the far corner, directly under the window.
Sitting and thinking was, next to reading, what she was best at. For ten minutes straight, she remained in a trance-like state of meditation, watching the snowflakes tumble to earth in drifts; theirs was not usually a climate with heavy snowfall, but the next day would bring mountains of snow on the grounds. She traced lacelike patterns on the frosted glass of the window with her fingertips, remembering when she was younger and winter was the most exciting time of the year. The darkness, the snow, the physical steam of a person's warm breath, the cold temperatures that made her shiver with pleasure.
Those days had long past, she thought wistfully. She would enter the world of adults soon, when days to play outside were few and far between, and the chance to be a child again was rare, if not impossible. The adult world offered so many temptations, so many chances to prove herself worthy and demand respect and recognition. But somehow, she felt that maybe, now that it drew near, that world was not as enticing as she had once thought. She had spent her entire life trying to prove herself; when had she ever stopped to enjoy it?
A part of her felt that Severus could understand that-that they were, as he had once said to her, very much alike. It was comical now for her to think of her initial reaction to that statement; she'd been horrified at the mere suggestion that she was anything like the Potions master. It didn't seem such a repulsive thought now that she knew him, knew what qualities he truly possessed, whether or not he showed them to everyone else.
To feel privileged to have met the man he really was seemed wrong to her, since she had gone about it in such a scandalous way. Still, she would not regret her actions, even if their relationship came to catastrophic end. She had memories now, recollections of long conversations and meaningful words that did and always would define a part of who she was. There was no reason to feel that their friendship, the platonic aspect of their relationship that revolved around the word and not the touch, was perfectly acceptable, maybe even encouraged. Many teachers showed visible efforts to befriend their students, to grow to understand what went on in the students' minds so they might better offer assistance. Why shouldn't he do the same, expected or not?
She sighed, smearing over what was supposed to have been a sketch of a Christmas tree on the window. The house-elves would be angry to find a student's fingerprints, but it was too late now; she had etched designs everywhere, knowing they would be covered by the next morning.
Her wandering thoughts brought her back to the possible outcome-either this worked, or it didn't. She wanted to have faith that it would, and she reassured herself many times a day that what she was doing wasn't as abhorrent as it seemed at first. They had, after all, crossed no dangerous boundaries and were merely enjoying one another's words and company, if with a few kisses here and there.. She smiled. Okay, more than a few. What else could she expect? It was easier to blame it on hormones. Maybe, then, it was her fault, not his.
* * *
Gollum had finally deserted her hole for the first time in over a week. Severus was reading when he felt the familiar, if missed, sensation of smooth scales across his leg. He glanced down in time to see the snake wrap herself around his leg and climb up, eventually settling in her favorite place, around his neck. To the average person, a snake of that size wrapped around the neck would be terrifying.
She was gentle, though, and he was confident she would never harm him. Despite the independence she liked to portray, she knew perfectly well who fed her and protected her, and would never have jeopardized his life, even for a joke. That she could play pranks he was sure; he'd often found lights on when they shouldn't have been and shoes placed where they didn't belong. The snake was wilier than any animal on Earth.
Gollum flicked an explorative tongue across the pages of his book- Hermione's interest, on the use and abuse of Veritaserum-and seemed to grow bored with it. She bent her slender neck to peer up at him through liquid eyes, and he couldn't help but smile.
"It isn't my fault you aren't literate," he told her. "Find something else with which to amuse yourself; that isn't my business."
The snake, giving him a haughty look, abandoned her perch and chose instead to stretch out to her full length, six feet of black serpentine glory, near the fireplace. The winters were difficult for any cold-blooded animal, and with her fondness for exploring the colder regions of the castle, he often worried that she would become ill. But she seemed to know what was best for her, and often basked in the heat of the fire when she had the chance. She was a beautiful creature, albeit a bit daunting in appearance, and he was glad of her company.
The other members of the faculty rarely met his rigorous standards of companionship; only Minerva McGonagall came close, and they had nothing whatsoever in common. Dumbledore could be intellectually stimulating but rarely was able to address anything deeper or more personal. Not that Severus wanted to reveal anything personal about himself. He was an intensely private man, having found no one he dared say anything to. It was by sheer luck, in his opinion, that Hermione had discovered the truth about his past with Lily Evans.
He supposed the wealth of information Hermione had pried from him over the course of the past few months probably shocked and astounded her. He knew she believed him; everything he said was credible, even if it wasn't what she wanted to hear. But he trusted her to keep the information to herself, and not use to for her own purposes.
It was an odd feeling to trust someone; for many years, Dumbledore had been the only one he trusted, and that trust hadn't been the genuine article. It was borne mainly of respect and grudging dependence, not his idea of real trust. Real trust had to stem from the deepest part of a person's soul, not just their mind, and finding that he trusted Hermione-REALLY trusted her- frightened him.
But he would not be a coward; he would not sever the ties of the most promising relationship of his life because of his own pitiful insecurities. The thought had crossed his mind many times that, with the astounding potential their relationship held, he was perhaps approaching it the wrong way. He could not deny to himself the fact that he enjoyed the physical contact with Hermione-to kiss a woman and be that close was something he had missed for many years, even yearned for. Yet it was only by talking to her that he felt a real connection.
It occurred to him then that a fundamental element was missing, which might very well account for the horrible aching sensation he felt every time he kissed her. There was lust, sure-he couldn't help but be attracted to her in the way any male would. And Hermione certainly seemed to harbor her own desires, though she was just beginning to discover such intimate things in herself.
But they lacked the most important part: passion. There was the usual rush of adrenaline, the intoxicating feeling of being so close to another human being, but he felt no real passion where Hermione was concerned. Both should have reveled in the other's very presence, been blind to their surroundings when they were together in the room. They needed, he knew, the same unbreakable bond that he and Lily had once shared.
To think her name brought a wistful smile to his face. Lily had been, and always would be, the wonderful climax of his primarily painful and solitary life. To be even in the same vicinity as her had been to be in love-her eyes, her smile, even her very words, had lit up his entire life. Her presence had made his own worthwhile, and as they had sat for hours talking in the Potions classroom while working on independent projects, he had realized that he would never be half so happy without her company. The mutual respect and admiration they had shared had been overruled only by the strange and invisible force that had seemed to draw them together at every turn.
That, he thought with conviction, was passion-and he had not felt it since. It was a shame, sure, but would Hermione not be better off without him? He loathed the thought; her companionship had lit a warming fire in the frigid, barren wilderness of his life for the first time in twenty years. They could not, after all, predict what might become of them; whether good fortune would rain down or ill omen would fall upon them unsuspecting.
He smiled wryly, thinking of Potter and his surprise antics. He thought highly of Potter's affection for Hermione, but it would not be beyond him to run through the castle, screaming their secret to all and sundry. It gave him a moment of amusement to picture his colleagues' expressions. Minerva would look stoic and determined, her usually stern face becoming an impassive mask. He could picture tiny Professor Flitwick's wide eyes, and hear Professor Sprout's scandalized gasp. Of Trelawney's reaction, he had no doubt-there would be none, as the miserable wretch would never leave her tower to begin with. It was the Headmaster's response he could not quite picture, as though his mind's eye suddenly lost all contact with Dumbledore's personality. He would no doubt see it as a personal crusade to ensure that his most promising student was henceforth kept entirely from Severus' reach; but beyond that, he could not begin to guess.
Gollum began to stir from her warm stones, just enough to watch him intently. He offered a small smile, which the snake seemed to acknowledge and return. He shared a connection with serpents that no one, not teacher nor animal expert, could possibly have interpreted. Gollum returned languidly to her hole, tail swishing slowly back and forth. A tidal wave of pain swept over him in sudden longing as he realized that, despite the recent beneficial developments in his life, he was still irrevocably miserable; he even envied the life of a snake.
* * *
Breakfast the next morning was an understandably awkward affair. Hermione briefly considered skipping the meal altogether, but thought better of it when, in a moment of foresight, she realized that she would be miserably hungry and unable to concentrate come time to classes. Thus she found herself trudging down the stairs wearing wrinkled robes and an ashamed expression. What had Harry told Ron?
The two boys were sitting in their usual spots, and had saved seats for herself and Ginny. Ginny was not yet up; most likely, she was lolling behind with her friends, picking out her fifth consecutive outfit or gossiping. It was lucky that Ginny's lifestyle and her own were so drastically different-it prevented their already distant friendship from suffering irreparable blows from her relationship with Severus.
"'Morning," Ron greeted her, his smile vanishing when he noticed the expression she wore. "What's wrong?"
She quickly composed herself, taking her seat and wishing that the breakfast menu included something caffeinated to lift her weary body and soul. "Nothing. I'm just tired is all."
"You look it." He offered her some sausages, which she turned down, opting instead for a more bland and palatable bowl of oatmeal. The spoon seemed to drag through the cooked oats just as her own feet had dragged down the stairs. As her head began to grow heavy, Hermione looked up to notice Ron staring at her.
"Seriously, Hermione, what's wrong?"
She dropped the spoon with a clatter and became suddenly brusque and alert. "What has Harry told you?" There was no point in bypassing the matter-if he had not yet found out, Harry was going to tell him eventually. Harry's hardening eyes were boring into hers, but she ignored him completely and focused exclusively on Ron.
"Nothing." Ron swallowed a bite of sausage and combed over her face and body with his gaze. "Why? You're acting like I know something awful." He could not help but take in the fact that she was wearing rumpled robes, no doubt from the day before, and her hair, untended, had returned to an almost forgotten bushy state of years before.
"Just curious." She voraciously ate a few bites of oatmeal, but her appetite mellowed when she realized how truly tasteless it was, and how truly tired she was. The previous night's revelatory session in the common room had not left her with the expected feeling of peace and acceptance; rather, she felt jittery and bone-tired, as though suffering from an addiction withdrawal.
"Did you hear about the Muggle girl in London?" Ron asked, trying desperately to initiate a conversation. Hermione chewed slowly and thoughtfully. What Muggle girl?
"No. Which of the millions of Muggle girls in London?" Ron looked hurt by her stinging sarcasm, and she instantly regretted it; she would have to watch her tongue on a morning with a mood as foul as hers.
"The one You-Know-Who murdered." Hermione's eyes grew wide in response to the shock. "Well, they don't know if it was him, but it was obviously the work of Death Eaters. They even left the Dark Mark over the crime scene, just like they did years ago." Ron seemed slightly pale, but was telling her the story with a strong and controlled countenance. "She was fifteen or sixteen, walking her dog in a back alleyway. Not the smartest place to be."
"Maybe she knew the place," Harry suggested, speaking up for the first time that morning. Hermione shot him a look of suspicious wondering, and he returned it with feigned indifference, munching on sausage with deliberate slowness and refusing to respond to her bait. She would die of suspenseful agony if she could not find out what Ron knew..
"They're speculating that they'll kill again," Ron continued, abandoning his sausage to fully enjoy the telling of his tale. It was not often he held the spotlight, and several other people were now listening with awe, mouths gaping. "Maybe even closer to Hogwarts. They even think Hogwarts might be his final destination."
"It doesn't take a genius to realize THAT," Hermione snapped suddenly. "Who the hell else would he want besides Harry?"
Several people turned to stare at her in astonishment. Appalled by her own outburst, she muttered an apology and excused herself, stumbling over her leaden feet and robes as she left the table. Ron watched her go with a look of concern that quickly shifted to pained, hardened resolve.
"Why didn't you tell her?" Harry demanded, throwing his fork down and glaring at Ron. "She might as well know that YOU know. She expects I told you; she wouldn't believe me if I said I didn't."
"I know," Ron said with a sigh. "But she looked so tired that I didn't want to burden her with something else on top of it."
Harry shook his head. "You're too kind to her. You know that? You're like a puppy that follows around with huge eyes and wants to do anything and everything to please her."
"I do want to do anything and everything to please her." The response was of the utmost sincerity, and swiftly delivered. Up until then, Ron had not been sure he could make himself accept what he truly felt about Hermione, but he knew it now; even the shock of finding out about her and Snape, and as aghast as he had been, he still loved her.
"You still like her." Though Harry phrased the words that followed as a question, it was understood by the tone of voice that they were more a statement of fact. His voice lowered as he hissed what followed: "She's having an affair with the slimiest bastard in the school, a teacher even, and you STILL like her."
Ron's response was defensive. "You would too, in my position."
"Then thank God I'm not you," Harry muttered.
"I appreciate that." Harry thought that his friend seemed oddly calm and resigned, as though he had known for years in advance what would happen, and that he and Hermione were not destined to be together. As many years as they had been friends, it surprised Harry that losing the final and most important aspect of Hermione's affections did not leave Ron absolutely crushed.
"Maybe she'll get over it," he voiced hopefully, but Harry snorted in disgust.
"Yeah, and maybe instead they'll get married and have lots of little mini- Snapes to run around the castle and taunt us while we do our lessons. That's more likely, isn't it?"
"Hermione would never marry him!" Ron whispered with forced emphasis. "She knows better than that. Imagine what their lives would be like twenty years from now: she'd be his age, still brilliant, have a great job, and he'd be far too old for her. They'd never be able to do anything together, and if she DOES want children, what kind of father would he make?"
Harry rolled his eyes and speared his final piece of sausage. "I doubt she's concerned with his fathering skills."
"She should be, if she's thinking about the future."
"She obviously isn't, is she?" Having finished his breakfast, Harry rose from the table and threw down his napkin, wanting nothing more than to escape to the Quidditch field and assume the position of Beater; taking out his aggressions on a disobedient Bludger sounded the most appealing thing right then.
"There has to be a way to make her see better," Ron remarked. Hearing him as he was leaving, Harry turned to deliver his final piece.
"She knows him. She knows he's an ex-Death Eater, she knows he's a total bastard, and she knows everything he's done to us and that he's the scum of the earth. And has that made a difference? No. Either she's blind or she's in love-and both ways, there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."
But Ron was not one to give up easily, and never one to feel helpless. "Yeah? Watch me."
* * *
Did he know?
She repeated the question to herself numerous times as she stalked down the corridor, book bag in hand, heading toward Arithmancy class. Professor Vector had been complaining as of late that Hermione's attention span was waning; in the Professor's opinion, it was due to an impossibly rigorous work ethic and the dawning of graduation. Hermione did not particularly care if she spent yet another day contemplating life's many confusing mysteries rather than Vector's equations; without some serious thought, it was likely that her wonderings would eventually drive her mad.
She would not have put it past Harry to tell Ron; in fact, she fully expected it, at leas the night before. But Ron had seemed genuinely innocent when she'd asked him; with a confrontation as direct as hers, only the most talented actor could have maintained the fortitude of such a lie. Harry's returned looks had not been devious, but rather angry and vengeful; she would get no answer from him.
The corridor abruptly broadened into a small circular room, revealing a large bay window directly before one entered the Arithmancy classroom. As the other students were still breakfasting, Hermione was left alone to stare out the window at the monstrous drifts of snow that had piled themselves against Hagrid' hut and the various faces of solid objects on the grounds. The broom-shed that housed the school's Quidditch brooms and flying lessons brooms was nearly buried in the snow, and Hagrid's hut appeared a quaint gingerbread house with mounds of icing. She smiled slightly when the door burst open and Fang shot forth and proceeded to roll in the snow, baying and pawing at the fluffy whiteness.
Her parents had once talked of buying a dog, she remembered. But when she had received her Hogwarts letter, they had thought better of it. There was, after all, no point in buying a dog largely meant for her if she was to be absent from home all but a little over two months of the year. She wished she had one now, to curl up with and bury her face in the soft fur, admitting her woes and worries. Animals never passed judgment; that was the beauty of lesser intelligence.
The door to the Arithmancy classroom opened suddenly, and Professor Vector stepped out. At a far distance, the Arithmancy professor, with her short hair and simple robes, had an androgynous figure that often left observers wondering as to her gender. Up close, however, she had a woman's lilting tone and soft smile; the motherly countenance was welcome for Hermione.
"Miss Granger!" Vector jumped slightly, looking pleased and shocked. "I'm surprised to see you here so early. You've been so good these past few years about socializing with the other students."
Hermione bit back a scowl; she hated hearing references to her solitary, often nearly antisocial habits. She considered it no fault of hers that her interests lay in areas that the typical teenager did not even know existed.
"I'm mulling something over," she explained simply, "and I find it helps to be alone."
"Ah, certainly." Professor Vector was looking at her with observant eyes. "It always does. And you seem to be deep in thought, so I will refrain from disturbing you."
With another smile, she turned and retreated into her classroom to ready things for the day's lesson.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the window, closing her eyes and letting the cool air and feeling of emptiness wash over her body. Acutely aware that she was alone and unobserved, she was tempted to break down into tears, but forced them back. Crying wasn't going to help anything, and would only elicit others' pity. She never-NEVER-would need others' pity.
"Damn him," she murmured only half-heartedly, thinking at the same time about Harry and Severus. "Damn him!" Harry had infuriated her beyond description, and Severus always seemed to complicate things. She wished that his kisses would make her as brainless as thoughts of romance seemed to make her female peers; but then again, they never had. If anything, they had only caused her to worry further.
* * *
Ron was relieved when Divination class adjourned a bit early. Professor Trelawney, for the first time in five years, actually looked ill; her cheeks were sunken even further into her skeletal, malnourished face and her laborious breaths rattled in her chest.
"Class"-a cough-"I think that, in light of my apparent illness"-a series of coughs-"it would be best if you left me alone." She drew in a shaky breath, placing a hand on the nearest table to steady her wobbly legs. "Therefore, you may leave. Don't forget to complete-"
The class had to resist cheering when their assignment directions were cut off by a series of spasmodic hacking. They rushed out of the room without so much as a glance backward, leaving Professor Trelawney gasping amidst her coughs and attacks that they must wait until she finished reciting their assignment.
"Miserable old bag of bones," Harry spat as they clambered down the trap- door, not caring the slightest bit if anyone, including Trelawney, heard him. "Glad we'll be rid of HER soon. I think I might be more glad to be rid of her than Snape!"
Ron made a noise in the back of his throat that acknowledged he was listening, but only absently. He was rummaging through is book bag, pulling out crumpled papers and throwing them aside to leave them on the floor. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for.
"Hey Harry."
"What?" They turned the corner and came into the corridor leading to the library, which seemed to be the direction Ron was heading.
"I need to ask you a favor. Do you know of any charms that would give me another person's handwriting?"
Harry stopped dead in his tracks and fixed Ron with an incriminating gaze. "No. Why?"
"Just wondering. Listen, I've got some research to do, so I'll see you later, okay?"
Now Harry's eyes were wide. "You mean you're just going to skip Herbology? You can't do that! Sprout'll have to serving detention for three months! You know how picky she is about punctuality and attendance and all that."
"Yeah," Ron said with a resigned grin, "but she doesn't have three more months for me to do detention!"
Harry shook his head, both astounded and appreciating Ron's sense of humor. "All right, I'll cover for you. Bye."
They parted ways then, and Ron was pleased to see when he entered the library that no one-not even Madam Pince-was there. He felt slightly out-of- place; the library seemed so much Hermione's domain that, while he enjoyed being somewhere that seemed a part of her, he felt awkward and unsure of himself, like a young horse taking its first jelly-legged steps. He left his book bag on the nearest table and went immediately to the reference section, flipped open the nearest book, and began to scan.
Half an hour's research eventually rewarded him with what he was looking for. Whispering the words softly to himself a few times for preparation, he unearthed from the bottom of his book bag a fresh sheet of parchment and then pulled out the most important part-an old Potions homework assignment.
Using his fingers dexterously, he ripped through the parchment to separate a tiny piece that contained Snape's scrawled criticisms. The Potions master's writing was distinctive, strong and cramped and oddly tilted, and Ron knew he would never be able to successfully emulate the handwriting without magical assistance.
Placing the tiny scrap of paper onto the fresh sheet, he performed the spell.
"Scriptus imitaeus."
Instantaneously, the miniscule scrap of parchment seemed to dissolve, and was absorbed by the fresh sheet. An odd orange tinge began to spread through his parchment, seeping from the center point where the scrap had lay only seconds before. Hardly daring to believe that he had performed the spell correctly, he placed a quill to the upper left corner of the parchment and wrote Hermione's name.
What issued from the quill, however, was not his own writing; it was the unique scrawl of Snape. Smiling with grim satisfaction, Ron completed his task quickly and efficiently. In his state of reserved anger, there was nothing difficult about the process.
* * *
Hermione returned to the girls' dormitory room after dinner in a slightly elevated mood. Ron had been his usual gregarious self during dinner, which she had expected, but Harry's mood had drastically improved. He seemed to have gotten over his initial abhorrence of her and her secret, and eventually warmed up to her. His behavior toward her had evolved throughout the meal from grudgingly civil to openly friendly, and she was pleased to think that their friendship had been restored, and that it had been strong enough to weather the storm.
Fortunately, no other girls were present in the room, so she happily curled up on her bed. It was when she reached over for her latest novel that she noticed the roll of parchment on her bed-table; it was neatly and precisely sealed with a ribbon, simple and imposing.
Curious, she snatched the parchment and slipped off the ribbon. What unrolled before her was unmistakably Severus' writing. Her cheeks flushing as she wondered what the letter contained, she delved right into its depths- and almost immediately began to cry.
'It was foolish of you,' the letter read, 'to expect that I could be in any way drawn to you other than your mediocre physical attributes. Female students, however, are not usually as foolish and willing as yourself.'
What was he talking about? She choked back a sob and forced herself to continue.
'There is nothing between us, Hermione, and I am shocked that you ever thought there was or could possibly be. I have no potential use for you other than the obvious. You are far too irritating to be useful for much else. Cry if you must, but accept the fact that this entire situation is your fault-you should have known better than to so naively become involved in such a tangled mess.'
The remainder of the letter described in graphic detail his feelings about her intellectual and physical worth. Hermione began to feel as though she were detached from the grief-stricken, crumpled body that lay on her bed, and suddenly was given an outsider's point of view. It WAS her fault; she should never have allowed their situation to escalate to that first kiss, let alone encourage further evolvement. His every accusation was entirely true, and she could never deny it.
But what of his own intentions? He made it perfectly clear in his hateful writing that he had allowed her to remained immersed in his delusions because he had hoped to eventually have some personal gain, some reward. She was not so naïve that she could not guess-and with relative certainty- what he was referring to. It disgusted her, and she disgusted herself; there should have been no need for this letter to be written.
"You bastard!" she screamed, hurling the letter into the bedclothes and burying her face in a pillow. There were no sounds from the common room below to alert her to the other students' entrances; for a while yet, at least, she would have time to herself to cry. There was no longer any point in trying to barricade the flow of tears because it would be impossible. Like a toxin that had been poisoning her body, she allowed the salty water to fall from her eyes while reaching feebly for the letter.
There was no need to verify who it was from; only Severus could, at his best, sting so acidly. His handwriting was perfectly straight and evenly spaced, as though he had either put a great deal of effort and precision into composing the letter, or had been extraordinarily calm and composed while doing so. But of course he was; he had been this entire time. All those instances when she could have sworn she'd seen love in his eyes, it was only expectation.
But she, of course, had failed to be the profitable investment that he had hoped, and that meant she had outgrown her usefulness to him. She was now nothing but a burden, an unpleasant memory that he would no doubt quickly erase from his mind so as to allow him to continue with his wretched life.
What of her?
Don't be so dramatic, she chastised herself, wiping remnants of tears from her eyes minutes later and chokingly stifling her wails and sobs. You don't deserve to feel sorry for yourself. You know it's your fault.
It's not! another voice in her rebelled. It takes two in a circumstance like this.
What would her parents think? The very idea of admitting to them her transgressions brought about a fresh bout of tears and sobs that wracked her body. Her parents, who had loved and supported her for seventeen long and often-rocky years, would never approve of her actions. She could even hear their voices, reverberating through her mind.
She shamelessly seduced a teacher, lied to countless people by pure omission, and was even pitying herself for the sin. Nothing, in her mind, obliterated dignity more quickly and completely than self-pity, and it was exactly that in which she now wallowed. How she could be expected to handle the event she did not know, but it was obvious that she was not going about it in the honorable way.
Honor? She gave the only smile that would be possible in the long few weeks that were soon to come. With her tendency toward melodrama and her inability to control her emotions, she now had no honor left, nothing with which to salvage her wrecked remains from the damp pillow that she cried her sorrows into.
It was past eleven o'clock when Hermione and Harry clambered through the door to the Gryffindor common room. Ron was sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, breathing deeply and slowly, a sure sign of sleep. Harry went over to wake him, and Hermione made quick use of the opportunity to slip up the stairs into her dorm room alone.
Not two minutes later, Harry's footsteps were coming up the staircase. He swore softly, noticing that she was gone. She was leaning against the door as though eavesdropping, her right ear pressed against the smooth, polished wood. She could just barely discern the sounds of Ron yawning, and then the door to the boys' room was opened, and closed.
She twisted the doorknob as quietly as she could, wishing she knew of a charm or spell to place on her own feet to make them entirely silent. Taking the stairs with the greatest caution, she stole back down into the common room. Sensing that the last students had gone to bed, the lights and fire had extinguished themselves with some inexplicable magic; the area was completely dark. Praying that her presence would not be sensed as well, Hermione made her way over to a comfortable chair in the far corner, directly under the window.
Sitting and thinking was, next to reading, what she was best at. For ten minutes straight, she remained in a trance-like state of meditation, watching the snowflakes tumble to earth in drifts; theirs was not usually a climate with heavy snowfall, but the next day would bring mountains of snow on the grounds. She traced lacelike patterns on the frosted glass of the window with her fingertips, remembering when she was younger and winter was the most exciting time of the year. The darkness, the snow, the physical steam of a person's warm breath, the cold temperatures that made her shiver with pleasure.
Those days had long past, she thought wistfully. She would enter the world of adults soon, when days to play outside were few and far between, and the chance to be a child again was rare, if not impossible. The adult world offered so many temptations, so many chances to prove herself worthy and demand respect and recognition. But somehow, she felt that maybe, now that it drew near, that world was not as enticing as she had once thought. She had spent her entire life trying to prove herself; when had she ever stopped to enjoy it?
A part of her felt that Severus could understand that-that they were, as he had once said to her, very much alike. It was comical now for her to think of her initial reaction to that statement; she'd been horrified at the mere suggestion that she was anything like the Potions master. It didn't seem such a repulsive thought now that she knew him, knew what qualities he truly possessed, whether or not he showed them to everyone else.
To feel privileged to have met the man he really was seemed wrong to her, since she had gone about it in such a scandalous way. Still, she would not regret her actions, even if their relationship came to catastrophic end. She had memories now, recollections of long conversations and meaningful words that did and always would define a part of who she was. There was no reason to feel that their friendship, the platonic aspect of their relationship that revolved around the word and not the touch, was perfectly acceptable, maybe even encouraged. Many teachers showed visible efforts to befriend their students, to grow to understand what went on in the students' minds so they might better offer assistance. Why shouldn't he do the same, expected or not?
She sighed, smearing over what was supposed to have been a sketch of a Christmas tree on the window. The house-elves would be angry to find a student's fingerprints, but it was too late now; she had etched designs everywhere, knowing they would be covered by the next morning.
Her wandering thoughts brought her back to the possible outcome-either this worked, or it didn't. She wanted to have faith that it would, and she reassured herself many times a day that what she was doing wasn't as abhorrent as it seemed at first. They had, after all, crossed no dangerous boundaries and were merely enjoying one another's words and company, if with a few kisses here and there.. She smiled. Okay, more than a few. What else could she expect? It was easier to blame it on hormones. Maybe, then, it was her fault, not his.
* * *
Gollum had finally deserted her hole for the first time in over a week. Severus was reading when he felt the familiar, if missed, sensation of smooth scales across his leg. He glanced down in time to see the snake wrap herself around his leg and climb up, eventually settling in her favorite place, around his neck. To the average person, a snake of that size wrapped around the neck would be terrifying.
She was gentle, though, and he was confident she would never harm him. Despite the independence she liked to portray, she knew perfectly well who fed her and protected her, and would never have jeopardized his life, even for a joke. That she could play pranks he was sure; he'd often found lights on when they shouldn't have been and shoes placed where they didn't belong. The snake was wilier than any animal on Earth.
Gollum flicked an explorative tongue across the pages of his book- Hermione's interest, on the use and abuse of Veritaserum-and seemed to grow bored with it. She bent her slender neck to peer up at him through liquid eyes, and he couldn't help but smile.
"It isn't my fault you aren't literate," he told her. "Find something else with which to amuse yourself; that isn't my business."
The snake, giving him a haughty look, abandoned her perch and chose instead to stretch out to her full length, six feet of black serpentine glory, near the fireplace. The winters were difficult for any cold-blooded animal, and with her fondness for exploring the colder regions of the castle, he often worried that she would become ill. But she seemed to know what was best for her, and often basked in the heat of the fire when she had the chance. She was a beautiful creature, albeit a bit daunting in appearance, and he was glad of her company.
The other members of the faculty rarely met his rigorous standards of companionship; only Minerva McGonagall came close, and they had nothing whatsoever in common. Dumbledore could be intellectually stimulating but rarely was able to address anything deeper or more personal. Not that Severus wanted to reveal anything personal about himself. He was an intensely private man, having found no one he dared say anything to. It was by sheer luck, in his opinion, that Hermione had discovered the truth about his past with Lily Evans.
He supposed the wealth of information Hermione had pried from him over the course of the past few months probably shocked and astounded her. He knew she believed him; everything he said was credible, even if it wasn't what she wanted to hear. But he trusted her to keep the information to herself, and not use to for her own purposes.
It was an odd feeling to trust someone; for many years, Dumbledore had been the only one he trusted, and that trust hadn't been the genuine article. It was borne mainly of respect and grudging dependence, not his idea of real trust. Real trust had to stem from the deepest part of a person's soul, not just their mind, and finding that he trusted Hermione-REALLY trusted her- frightened him.
But he would not be a coward; he would not sever the ties of the most promising relationship of his life because of his own pitiful insecurities. The thought had crossed his mind many times that, with the astounding potential their relationship held, he was perhaps approaching it the wrong way. He could not deny to himself the fact that he enjoyed the physical contact with Hermione-to kiss a woman and be that close was something he had missed for many years, even yearned for. Yet it was only by talking to her that he felt a real connection.
It occurred to him then that a fundamental element was missing, which might very well account for the horrible aching sensation he felt every time he kissed her. There was lust, sure-he couldn't help but be attracted to her in the way any male would. And Hermione certainly seemed to harbor her own desires, though she was just beginning to discover such intimate things in herself.
But they lacked the most important part: passion. There was the usual rush of adrenaline, the intoxicating feeling of being so close to another human being, but he felt no real passion where Hermione was concerned. Both should have reveled in the other's very presence, been blind to their surroundings when they were together in the room. They needed, he knew, the same unbreakable bond that he and Lily had once shared.
To think her name brought a wistful smile to his face. Lily had been, and always would be, the wonderful climax of his primarily painful and solitary life. To be even in the same vicinity as her had been to be in love-her eyes, her smile, even her very words, had lit up his entire life. Her presence had made his own worthwhile, and as they had sat for hours talking in the Potions classroom while working on independent projects, he had realized that he would never be half so happy without her company. The mutual respect and admiration they had shared had been overruled only by the strange and invisible force that had seemed to draw them together at every turn.
That, he thought with conviction, was passion-and he had not felt it since. It was a shame, sure, but would Hermione not be better off without him? He loathed the thought; her companionship had lit a warming fire in the frigid, barren wilderness of his life for the first time in twenty years. They could not, after all, predict what might become of them; whether good fortune would rain down or ill omen would fall upon them unsuspecting.
He smiled wryly, thinking of Potter and his surprise antics. He thought highly of Potter's affection for Hermione, but it would not be beyond him to run through the castle, screaming their secret to all and sundry. It gave him a moment of amusement to picture his colleagues' expressions. Minerva would look stoic and determined, her usually stern face becoming an impassive mask. He could picture tiny Professor Flitwick's wide eyes, and hear Professor Sprout's scandalized gasp. Of Trelawney's reaction, he had no doubt-there would be none, as the miserable wretch would never leave her tower to begin with. It was the Headmaster's response he could not quite picture, as though his mind's eye suddenly lost all contact with Dumbledore's personality. He would no doubt see it as a personal crusade to ensure that his most promising student was henceforth kept entirely from Severus' reach; but beyond that, he could not begin to guess.
Gollum began to stir from her warm stones, just enough to watch him intently. He offered a small smile, which the snake seemed to acknowledge and return. He shared a connection with serpents that no one, not teacher nor animal expert, could possibly have interpreted. Gollum returned languidly to her hole, tail swishing slowly back and forth. A tidal wave of pain swept over him in sudden longing as he realized that, despite the recent beneficial developments in his life, he was still irrevocably miserable; he even envied the life of a snake.
* * *
Breakfast the next morning was an understandably awkward affair. Hermione briefly considered skipping the meal altogether, but thought better of it when, in a moment of foresight, she realized that she would be miserably hungry and unable to concentrate come time to classes. Thus she found herself trudging down the stairs wearing wrinkled robes and an ashamed expression. What had Harry told Ron?
The two boys were sitting in their usual spots, and had saved seats for herself and Ginny. Ginny was not yet up; most likely, she was lolling behind with her friends, picking out her fifth consecutive outfit or gossiping. It was lucky that Ginny's lifestyle and her own were so drastically different-it prevented their already distant friendship from suffering irreparable blows from her relationship with Severus.
"'Morning," Ron greeted her, his smile vanishing when he noticed the expression she wore. "What's wrong?"
She quickly composed herself, taking her seat and wishing that the breakfast menu included something caffeinated to lift her weary body and soul. "Nothing. I'm just tired is all."
"You look it." He offered her some sausages, which she turned down, opting instead for a more bland and palatable bowl of oatmeal. The spoon seemed to drag through the cooked oats just as her own feet had dragged down the stairs. As her head began to grow heavy, Hermione looked up to notice Ron staring at her.
"Seriously, Hermione, what's wrong?"
She dropped the spoon with a clatter and became suddenly brusque and alert. "What has Harry told you?" There was no point in bypassing the matter-if he had not yet found out, Harry was going to tell him eventually. Harry's hardening eyes were boring into hers, but she ignored him completely and focused exclusively on Ron.
"Nothing." Ron swallowed a bite of sausage and combed over her face and body with his gaze. "Why? You're acting like I know something awful." He could not help but take in the fact that she was wearing rumpled robes, no doubt from the day before, and her hair, untended, had returned to an almost forgotten bushy state of years before.
"Just curious." She voraciously ate a few bites of oatmeal, but her appetite mellowed when she realized how truly tasteless it was, and how truly tired she was. The previous night's revelatory session in the common room had not left her with the expected feeling of peace and acceptance; rather, she felt jittery and bone-tired, as though suffering from an addiction withdrawal.
"Did you hear about the Muggle girl in London?" Ron asked, trying desperately to initiate a conversation. Hermione chewed slowly and thoughtfully. What Muggle girl?
"No. Which of the millions of Muggle girls in London?" Ron looked hurt by her stinging sarcasm, and she instantly regretted it; she would have to watch her tongue on a morning with a mood as foul as hers.
"The one You-Know-Who murdered." Hermione's eyes grew wide in response to the shock. "Well, they don't know if it was him, but it was obviously the work of Death Eaters. They even left the Dark Mark over the crime scene, just like they did years ago." Ron seemed slightly pale, but was telling her the story with a strong and controlled countenance. "She was fifteen or sixteen, walking her dog in a back alleyway. Not the smartest place to be."
"Maybe she knew the place," Harry suggested, speaking up for the first time that morning. Hermione shot him a look of suspicious wondering, and he returned it with feigned indifference, munching on sausage with deliberate slowness and refusing to respond to her bait. She would die of suspenseful agony if she could not find out what Ron knew..
"They're speculating that they'll kill again," Ron continued, abandoning his sausage to fully enjoy the telling of his tale. It was not often he held the spotlight, and several other people were now listening with awe, mouths gaping. "Maybe even closer to Hogwarts. They even think Hogwarts might be his final destination."
"It doesn't take a genius to realize THAT," Hermione snapped suddenly. "Who the hell else would he want besides Harry?"
Several people turned to stare at her in astonishment. Appalled by her own outburst, she muttered an apology and excused herself, stumbling over her leaden feet and robes as she left the table. Ron watched her go with a look of concern that quickly shifted to pained, hardened resolve.
"Why didn't you tell her?" Harry demanded, throwing his fork down and glaring at Ron. "She might as well know that YOU know. She expects I told you; she wouldn't believe me if I said I didn't."
"I know," Ron said with a sigh. "But she looked so tired that I didn't want to burden her with something else on top of it."
Harry shook his head. "You're too kind to her. You know that? You're like a puppy that follows around with huge eyes and wants to do anything and everything to please her."
"I do want to do anything and everything to please her." The response was of the utmost sincerity, and swiftly delivered. Up until then, Ron had not been sure he could make himself accept what he truly felt about Hermione, but he knew it now; even the shock of finding out about her and Snape, and as aghast as he had been, he still loved her.
"You still like her." Though Harry phrased the words that followed as a question, it was understood by the tone of voice that they were more a statement of fact. His voice lowered as he hissed what followed: "She's having an affair with the slimiest bastard in the school, a teacher even, and you STILL like her."
Ron's response was defensive. "You would too, in my position."
"Then thank God I'm not you," Harry muttered.
"I appreciate that." Harry thought that his friend seemed oddly calm and resigned, as though he had known for years in advance what would happen, and that he and Hermione were not destined to be together. As many years as they had been friends, it surprised Harry that losing the final and most important aspect of Hermione's affections did not leave Ron absolutely crushed.
"Maybe she'll get over it," he voiced hopefully, but Harry snorted in disgust.
"Yeah, and maybe instead they'll get married and have lots of little mini- Snapes to run around the castle and taunt us while we do our lessons. That's more likely, isn't it?"
"Hermione would never marry him!" Ron whispered with forced emphasis. "She knows better than that. Imagine what their lives would be like twenty years from now: she'd be his age, still brilliant, have a great job, and he'd be far too old for her. They'd never be able to do anything together, and if she DOES want children, what kind of father would he make?"
Harry rolled his eyes and speared his final piece of sausage. "I doubt she's concerned with his fathering skills."
"She should be, if she's thinking about the future."
"She obviously isn't, is she?" Having finished his breakfast, Harry rose from the table and threw down his napkin, wanting nothing more than to escape to the Quidditch field and assume the position of Beater; taking out his aggressions on a disobedient Bludger sounded the most appealing thing right then.
"There has to be a way to make her see better," Ron remarked. Hearing him as he was leaving, Harry turned to deliver his final piece.
"She knows him. She knows he's an ex-Death Eater, she knows he's a total bastard, and she knows everything he's done to us and that he's the scum of the earth. And has that made a difference? No. Either she's blind or she's in love-and both ways, there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."
But Ron was not one to give up easily, and never one to feel helpless. "Yeah? Watch me."
* * *
Did he know?
She repeated the question to herself numerous times as she stalked down the corridor, book bag in hand, heading toward Arithmancy class. Professor Vector had been complaining as of late that Hermione's attention span was waning; in the Professor's opinion, it was due to an impossibly rigorous work ethic and the dawning of graduation. Hermione did not particularly care if she spent yet another day contemplating life's many confusing mysteries rather than Vector's equations; without some serious thought, it was likely that her wonderings would eventually drive her mad.
She would not have put it past Harry to tell Ron; in fact, she fully expected it, at leas the night before. But Ron had seemed genuinely innocent when she'd asked him; with a confrontation as direct as hers, only the most talented actor could have maintained the fortitude of such a lie. Harry's returned looks had not been devious, but rather angry and vengeful; she would get no answer from him.
The corridor abruptly broadened into a small circular room, revealing a large bay window directly before one entered the Arithmancy classroom. As the other students were still breakfasting, Hermione was left alone to stare out the window at the monstrous drifts of snow that had piled themselves against Hagrid' hut and the various faces of solid objects on the grounds. The broom-shed that housed the school's Quidditch brooms and flying lessons brooms was nearly buried in the snow, and Hagrid's hut appeared a quaint gingerbread house with mounds of icing. She smiled slightly when the door burst open and Fang shot forth and proceeded to roll in the snow, baying and pawing at the fluffy whiteness.
Her parents had once talked of buying a dog, she remembered. But when she had received her Hogwarts letter, they had thought better of it. There was, after all, no point in buying a dog largely meant for her if she was to be absent from home all but a little over two months of the year. She wished she had one now, to curl up with and bury her face in the soft fur, admitting her woes and worries. Animals never passed judgment; that was the beauty of lesser intelligence.
The door to the Arithmancy classroom opened suddenly, and Professor Vector stepped out. At a far distance, the Arithmancy professor, with her short hair and simple robes, had an androgynous figure that often left observers wondering as to her gender. Up close, however, she had a woman's lilting tone and soft smile; the motherly countenance was welcome for Hermione.
"Miss Granger!" Vector jumped slightly, looking pleased and shocked. "I'm surprised to see you here so early. You've been so good these past few years about socializing with the other students."
Hermione bit back a scowl; she hated hearing references to her solitary, often nearly antisocial habits. She considered it no fault of hers that her interests lay in areas that the typical teenager did not even know existed.
"I'm mulling something over," she explained simply, "and I find it helps to be alone."
"Ah, certainly." Professor Vector was looking at her with observant eyes. "It always does. And you seem to be deep in thought, so I will refrain from disturbing you."
With another smile, she turned and retreated into her classroom to ready things for the day's lesson.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the window, closing her eyes and letting the cool air and feeling of emptiness wash over her body. Acutely aware that she was alone and unobserved, she was tempted to break down into tears, but forced them back. Crying wasn't going to help anything, and would only elicit others' pity. She never-NEVER-would need others' pity.
"Damn him," she murmured only half-heartedly, thinking at the same time about Harry and Severus. "Damn him!" Harry had infuriated her beyond description, and Severus always seemed to complicate things. She wished that his kisses would make her as brainless as thoughts of romance seemed to make her female peers; but then again, they never had. If anything, they had only caused her to worry further.
* * *
Ron was relieved when Divination class adjourned a bit early. Professor Trelawney, for the first time in five years, actually looked ill; her cheeks were sunken even further into her skeletal, malnourished face and her laborious breaths rattled in her chest.
"Class"-a cough-"I think that, in light of my apparent illness"-a series of coughs-"it would be best if you left me alone." She drew in a shaky breath, placing a hand on the nearest table to steady her wobbly legs. "Therefore, you may leave. Don't forget to complete-"
The class had to resist cheering when their assignment directions were cut off by a series of spasmodic hacking. They rushed out of the room without so much as a glance backward, leaving Professor Trelawney gasping amidst her coughs and attacks that they must wait until she finished reciting their assignment.
"Miserable old bag of bones," Harry spat as they clambered down the trap- door, not caring the slightest bit if anyone, including Trelawney, heard him. "Glad we'll be rid of HER soon. I think I might be more glad to be rid of her than Snape!"
Ron made a noise in the back of his throat that acknowledged he was listening, but only absently. He was rummaging through is book bag, pulling out crumpled papers and throwing them aside to leave them on the floor. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for.
"Hey Harry."
"What?" They turned the corner and came into the corridor leading to the library, which seemed to be the direction Ron was heading.
"I need to ask you a favor. Do you know of any charms that would give me another person's handwriting?"
Harry stopped dead in his tracks and fixed Ron with an incriminating gaze. "No. Why?"
"Just wondering. Listen, I've got some research to do, so I'll see you later, okay?"
Now Harry's eyes were wide. "You mean you're just going to skip Herbology? You can't do that! Sprout'll have to serving detention for three months! You know how picky she is about punctuality and attendance and all that."
"Yeah," Ron said with a resigned grin, "but she doesn't have three more months for me to do detention!"
Harry shook his head, both astounded and appreciating Ron's sense of humor. "All right, I'll cover for you. Bye."
They parted ways then, and Ron was pleased to see when he entered the library that no one-not even Madam Pince-was there. He felt slightly out-of- place; the library seemed so much Hermione's domain that, while he enjoyed being somewhere that seemed a part of her, he felt awkward and unsure of himself, like a young horse taking its first jelly-legged steps. He left his book bag on the nearest table and went immediately to the reference section, flipped open the nearest book, and began to scan.
Half an hour's research eventually rewarded him with what he was looking for. Whispering the words softly to himself a few times for preparation, he unearthed from the bottom of his book bag a fresh sheet of parchment and then pulled out the most important part-an old Potions homework assignment.
Using his fingers dexterously, he ripped through the parchment to separate a tiny piece that contained Snape's scrawled criticisms. The Potions master's writing was distinctive, strong and cramped and oddly tilted, and Ron knew he would never be able to successfully emulate the handwriting without magical assistance.
Placing the tiny scrap of paper onto the fresh sheet, he performed the spell.
"Scriptus imitaeus."
Instantaneously, the miniscule scrap of parchment seemed to dissolve, and was absorbed by the fresh sheet. An odd orange tinge began to spread through his parchment, seeping from the center point where the scrap had lay only seconds before. Hardly daring to believe that he had performed the spell correctly, he placed a quill to the upper left corner of the parchment and wrote Hermione's name.
What issued from the quill, however, was not his own writing; it was the unique scrawl of Snape. Smiling with grim satisfaction, Ron completed his task quickly and efficiently. In his state of reserved anger, there was nothing difficult about the process.
* * *
Hermione returned to the girls' dormitory room after dinner in a slightly elevated mood. Ron had been his usual gregarious self during dinner, which she had expected, but Harry's mood had drastically improved. He seemed to have gotten over his initial abhorrence of her and her secret, and eventually warmed up to her. His behavior toward her had evolved throughout the meal from grudgingly civil to openly friendly, and she was pleased to think that their friendship had been restored, and that it had been strong enough to weather the storm.
Fortunately, no other girls were present in the room, so she happily curled up on her bed. It was when she reached over for her latest novel that she noticed the roll of parchment on her bed-table; it was neatly and precisely sealed with a ribbon, simple and imposing.
Curious, she snatched the parchment and slipped off the ribbon. What unrolled before her was unmistakably Severus' writing. Her cheeks flushing as she wondered what the letter contained, she delved right into its depths- and almost immediately began to cry.
'It was foolish of you,' the letter read, 'to expect that I could be in any way drawn to you other than your mediocre physical attributes. Female students, however, are not usually as foolish and willing as yourself.'
What was he talking about? She choked back a sob and forced herself to continue.
'There is nothing between us, Hermione, and I am shocked that you ever thought there was or could possibly be. I have no potential use for you other than the obvious. You are far too irritating to be useful for much else. Cry if you must, but accept the fact that this entire situation is your fault-you should have known better than to so naively become involved in such a tangled mess.'
The remainder of the letter described in graphic detail his feelings about her intellectual and physical worth. Hermione began to feel as though she were detached from the grief-stricken, crumpled body that lay on her bed, and suddenly was given an outsider's point of view. It WAS her fault; she should never have allowed their situation to escalate to that first kiss, let alone encourage further evolvement. His every accusation was entirely true, and she could never deny it.
But what of his own intentions? He made it perfectly clear in his hateful writing that he had allowed her to remained immersed in his delusions because he had hoped to eventually have some personal gain, some reward. She was not so naïve that she could not guess-and with relative certainty- what he was referring to. It disgusted her, and she disgusted herself; there should have been no need for this letter to be written.
"You bastard!" she screamed, hurling the letter into the bedclothes and burying her face in a pillow. There were no sounds from the common room below to alert her to the other students' entrances; for a while yet, at least, she would have time to herself to cry. There was no longer any point in trying to barricade the flow of tears because it would be impossible. Like a toxin that had been poisoning her body, she allowed the salty water to fall from her eyes while reaching feebly for the letter.
There was no need to verify who it was from; only Severus could, at his best, sting so acidly. His handwriting was perfectly straight and evenly spaced, as though he had either put a great deal of effort and precision into composing the letter, or had been extraordinarily calm and composed while doing so. But of course he was; he had been this entire time. All those instances when she could have sworn she'd seen love in his eyes, it was only expectation.
But she, of course, had failed to be the profitable investment that he had hoped, and that meant she had outgrown her usefulness to him. She was now nothing but a burden, an unpleasant memory that he would no doubt quickly erase from his mind so as to allow him to continue with his wretched life.
What of her?
Don't be so dramatic, she chastised herself, wiping remnants of tears from her eyes minutes later and chokingly stifling her wails and sobs. You don't deserve to feel sorry for yourself. You know it's your fault.
It's not! another voice in her rebelled. It takes two in a circumstance like this.
What would her parents think? The very idea of admitting to them her transgressions brought about a fresh bout of tears and sobs that wracked her body. Her parents, who had loved and supported her for seventeen long and often-rocky years, would never approve of her actions. She could even hear their voices, reverberating through her mind.
She shamelessly seduced a teacher, lied to countless people by pure omission, and was even pitying herself for the sin. Nothing, in her mind, obliterated dignity more quickly and completely than self-pity, and it was exactly that in which she now wallowed. How she could be expected to handle the event she did not know, but it was obvious that she was not going about it in the honorable way.
Honor? She gave the only smile that would be possible in the long few weeks that were soon to come. With her tendency toward melodrama and her inability to control her emotions, she now had no honor left, nothing with which to salvage her wrecked remains from the damp pillow that she cried her sorrows into.