Thursday and Friday passed in an odd, surreal blur. More than once
Hermione had to remind herself that life was not normal; twelve inches on
goblin rebellions and I'm pregnant. Toast and juice for breakfast and I'm
pregnant. (She'd had to skip the rest of her breakfast when she smelled
the eggs.) Need to trim Crookshanks' nails again, and oh, by the way, I'm
pregnant.
By Saturday morning the roiling in her stomach had settled into tense iron knots, and her hands had a disturbing tendency to shake as she prepared for her meeting with Professor Dumbledore. Wearing her Head Girl badge, her freshly pressed school robes over her casual Saturday clothes, she approached the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office.
"Coconut Macaroon," she told it firmly, grateful her voice at least didn't waver, and it scrambled out of her way.
The headmaster was waiting for her, and invited her to sit. She took the overstuffed chair he offered as well as a cup of tea then waited nervously, not knowing where to begin.
"You have filed an Emancipation document, have you not, Miss Granger?" asked Dumbledore finally. "Otherwise, I will be required to inform your parents of your. condition."
"Yes, sir. Last fall, when I turned seventeen. It seemed silly, having to ask them for permission all the time when I wanted to do something."
"Something meaning your activities with Ron and Harry, I take it?"
"Yes, that too. My parents and I have had several disagreements, and they've made several hints that they'd rather I finished school in the Muggle world. If they really knew what went on sometimes. They know Harry and Ron are my best friends, but they'd make me go home if they had any idea we might be involved in a war. They don't understand that I'd never turn my back on Harry."
"Your parents are simply concerned that you might be hurt, Miss Granger. And now, you have been. The Deatheaters meant to take your life that night, my dear, and it is only by chance that they did not."
"That's true. But I am of age, both in the wizarding world and the Muggle world, now. I'm eighteen. More, if you count the Time-Turner I used in my third year."
Dumbledore nodded, then took a last sip of his tea and set down the cup. "You have questions, Hermione, and I have answers. Please don't be reticent in asking."
"All right," she said, swallowing hard, and reached into the pocket of her robes for a scrap of parchment. She'd re-written the list three times, and was fairly sure it covered everything. Some part of her wanted to put this off, to discuss something, anything else, but she was a Gryffindor. Smoothing out the folds, she started at the top.
"Was my mother's godmother murdered, do you think?"
"No, my dear. I had received word that students might be in danger at Hogsmeade that weekend, which is why I had the afternoon's excursions cancelled. I was not informed of your extended absence until that afternoon, or I would have had your Head of House meet you at the Three Broomsticks. By then, it was too late."
"Is that why they chose me? I was the only student in Hogsmeade that day?"
Dumbledore pursed his thin lips. "I imagine that the original plan was to take several children from non-wizard families and abuse them, frighten them, certainly, and return them. It is my belief that their frustration at the foiling of their plan was the reason your treatment was so harsh. The Head Girl, being Muggle-born, was a prize fallen into their laps after their earlier disappointment."
"Madame Pomfrey's chart said that Professor Snape was admitted that night as well. Was he one of the Deatheaters that night?"
"Yes. He was summoned by a fellow Deatheater later that evening. Only a few Deatheaters were involved, and the attack on him appeared to be more personal than the usual. I suspect his loyalty was questioned that night, and when he proved less than enthusiastic for their plans, they turned on him."
"What happened? Was his cover blown?"
"A uniquely interesting Muggle term. No, I believe something happened that night that somehow exposed his role, but I doubt we'll ever truly know for sure. His memory, like yours, is similarly impaired, but due to his injuries, not a spell."
Hermione concentrated heavily on the paper over her knee, but the question she wanted to ask was not on it. Her voice shook as she choked it out. "Do you think. does Professor Snape remember enough of that night to know who was the one.." She took a breath to steady her voice. "Does he know who the father of my baby is?"
Dumbledore tucked his chin into his chest, his white and silver beard whispering softly against his robe as he considered how to answer her. "Severus told me that the father of your child was placed under an Imperious charm and ordered to violate you, Miss Granger. It was an act absolutely outside this man's nature, and it may eventually destroy him."
She stared at the old wizard for several moments, knowing the truth, before she could say it. "It was Professor Snape, wasn't it?"
Dumbledore's silence was answer enough, and Hermione drew a shaky breath. "Well. It's certainly easier to take than the thought of Lucius Malfoy. Unless-"
"No, Miss Granger. Just the once." He paused, then posed a careful question. "Do you remember seeing Mr. Malfoy that night?"
"No, just making an educated guess," she replied, and knew she'd guessed correctly despite the Headmaster's attempt to maintain a bland expression.
The thought that she might be pregnant with Drago Malfoy's sibling had crossed her mind more than once in the past few days. She had no proof that Lucius Malfoy was present that evening, but she knew enough of both Malfoy's depraved tendencies and ongoing if subtle animosity with Snape to suspect his participation. The resulting image was so horrific that the truth was nearly a relief. Somehow, knowing that her assailant had not been a leering Deatheater but an unwilling participant made her feel, if not better, at least slightly less horrible than before.
Hermione closed her eyes and leaned against the padded chair wing as the reality finally set in. She had been raped. She was pregnant. Tears prickled against her eyelids, and she bit her lip in an attempt to keep her breathing even. The rippling sound of more tea being poured finally penetrated her misery, and she realized Dumbledore was allowing her as much time as she needed to absorb the information he was giving her.
With a rough rasp, she cleared her throat and wiped her nose on the corner of her sleeve before accepting the freshened cup with a murmur of thanks. She sipped it, grateful as the hot liquid soothed the tightness in her throat before returning to the written questions, the orderly list keeping her thoughts in line.
"How did we - Professor Snape and I - escape that night?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "That remains unclear. I cast the Anisthetae spell to calm you down that night, Hermione. You were somewhat hysterical, understandably, and Madame Pomphrey needed all my assistance to save Severus' life. By the time he was coherent, I had made the decision to leave the spell active and let you return to your schooling. He, unfortunately, remembers nothing further than the assault on you, then their attempt to murder him."
"Is there any chance the Ministry would arrest Malfoy for this, if I had wanted to press charges?" The anger that had been lurking at the edges of her shock finally began to make its presence known. Dumbledore nodded his head as though accepting it, but his answer was negative.
"Doubtful. You are a Muggle-born witch, very young, and any reputation you have is in your relationship to Harry. Lucius Malfoy is a very powerful man. His testimony would be extremely convincing, not to mention he would undoubtedly have a raft of witnesses to attest he had been elsewhere that night."
"And it's more likely Minister Fudge would play Quidditch for England before he let an Auror give Malfoy Veritaserum."
"Exactly. Added to that is the fact that he did not directly harm you, not that we know of. He placed a spell on Severus, whose testimony would likely not be believed in any court, other than Voldemort's circle. Also, his status as a Deatheater would only add a negative light."
"Which would be far more dangerous for him. So. It would be my word against Malfoy's," she stated bitterly.
"Exactly."
Fuming, Hermione's own common sense told her that Dumbledore was right. There was no possibility that any allegations against Malfoy could have been proved, not without placing them all in far greater danger than they were already, and with very little chance of success. Angry as she was, she could find no better alternative to Dumbledore's handling. The fact that she had become pregnant was a wild card that nobody could have predicted. Indeed, that had been a possibility the Headmaster and Madame Pomphrey had considered and then dismissed based on her previous request for the Contraceptus.
"What am I going to do?" she asked softly, the anger giving way to panic once again. "Am I going to lose my Head Girl badge?" An absurd question, once she'd said it, but she was very proud of the badge. It was the symbol of everything she had worked for since she'd received her acceptance letter to Hogwarts.
"No, no," soothed Dumbledore. "I have spoken to Madame Pomfrey. There is a potion that can be made, which will cause you to miscarry." The elderly headmaster rose from his chair and went to his desk. "The potion requires several ingredients that by policy are not kept on Hogwarts grounds, however. It will take a day or so to obtain them. Also, Madame Pomfrey will need help to brew this."
"Not Professor Cluny?" Hermione blanched at her own rudeness, but drinking a potion Professor Cluny brewed was not something she'd do on a dare, let alone for her health.
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth twitched, but his voice did not reveal his amusement. "No, not Professor Cluny. This will require a Potions Master, and it just so happens I have one in my pocket, more or less."
"Professor Snape is here at Hogwarts?" Hermione guessed.
"Yes. I will ask for his assistance on this. Unfortunately, we will need to inform him why such a potion is required before he agrees to brew it. Additionally, I think it might also be beneficial for the two of you to talk over this situation." Dumbledore drew himself to his full height and looked down at her, his face more grave than she had ever seen it.
"I fear what this knowledge will do, Miss Granger. Severus Snape is not well. He came so very close to dying that night it frightens me even now to consider it, and his health since then can only be described as precarious. Madame Pomfrey is still struggling to heal some of the damage."
"You mean telling him that he's gotten me pregnant may cause him some embarrassment?" she said snidely, and regretted it immediately at the expression on Dumbledore's face.
"You are the injured party here, Miss Granger. But please bear in mind that Severus Snape was also forced to do something completely against his nature or inclination that night. To know that he performed an act so repugnant to him was terrible enough; to know that he had fathered a child on his victim at the same time may be a blow he is not strong enough to take."
"I understand, Professor," she replied, chastened. "I wish I could make this easier, but to be honest, I'm mostly numb. I don't know what to say to make this easier for all of us, but I wish I could."
"I must rely on your strength to bear this burden, Miss Granger. I would argue a man has a right to know he has begotten a child, but this situation defies normal convention." Dumbledore paused, as though he would say more, but in the end simply led her from his office and down the stairs.
Following in the Headmaster's wake, Hermione considered the absent Potions Master. From his old-fashioned, buttoned-down frock coats to his roiling, viciously sarcastic baritone voice, Severus Snape had always seemed to her to be a man who valued self-control over all else. To have been forced against his will to do anything, especially a crime that he presumably found repellant, would have been excessively humiliating.
Despite his temper and his sharp tongue, Hermione had come to respect Snape, and even feel some sympathy for a man. His was a consumate balancing act as he spied on a psychopathic enemy and walked a knife-edge path between Voldemort and his supporters, all of whom would provide him with a lingering, painful death if they found out his activities, and the Aurors who would throw him in Azkaban the instant they saw the Deatheater brand on his arm.
His virtual enslavement to Voldemort as a Deatheater while honoring his commitment to Dumbledore to act a spy meant Snape could claim very little of his life as his own. His role as head of Slytherin house, overseeing a group of students whose parents were most likely either Deatheaters or supporters of Voldemort, also required him to cater to and oversee the children of the people he was betraying. The tension of such a demanding pretense would make anyone foul-tempered.
Ron Weasley might have argued that his oily persona and harsh disposition were simply his personality, but Hermione had had her doubts for several years. Surely someone that awful would never have bothered to work as a double agent, or done what he could to save Harry Potter's life on more than one occasion.
Hermione and Dumbledore were at the Hospital Wing before she could decide on a way to cope with the imminent confrontation with Severus Snape, but she shied away from thinking of him in any terms other than the Potions Master who would brew a potion she needed. Following meekly behind Dumbledore, she decided to simply follow his lead and let him do the talking.
At the far end of Pomfrey's domain, next to the small lavatory, a frosted glass panel in a peeling wooden door announced itself as the Isolation Ward. Since wizard medicine had long ago countered any communicable diseases with easily brewed concoctions such as the Defluenza potion, the door was dusty and looked as though it would squeak horribly when forced open. At Dumbledore's touch, though, it opened easily. Light from a small window revealed three small, unmade cots which appeared to have been in the same position since Dumbledore himself had attended the school.
"Severus?" called Dumbledore. "Are you awake?" With a wave of his empty hand, the far wall faded to reveal an arch.
"Yes." The dry, sibilant voice that answered bore no resemblance to the even, resonant tones that had lashed Hermione and her fellow Gryffindors for the last seven years. As she caught sight of the man, she barely kept a gasp from escaping.
If Snape had been a black and white scarecrow of a man before, he was now a personification of Death itself. His flowing professorial robes had been replaced with a black quilted lounging jacket, worn more for warmth than for effect, and it outlined his long, lean frame. His pale hands were nearly skeletal as the clutched the arms of his chair, while his face was thin, the skin drawn and sallow over his high cheekbones. The scent of the room struck her, of illness and too much brandy, and it was apparent the house elves could only do so much. He obviously had not seen the outside of these rooms for some time, but the windows were closed with the curtains drawn, and his chair was turned deliberately away from what light managed to creep past those barriers.
The gloom evidently bothered Dumbledore as much as it did Hermione, for he made a tsking sound of irritation. "Honestly, Severus. This place looks like a tomb."
"How fitting, Albus. Perhaps the vampire allegation will finally come true." Snape's voice was still deep, but his chest rose and fell in short, shallow pants after speaking. Hermione was appalled at his appearance. She was even more unsettled when his head turned and he registered her presence beside Dumbledore. For a moment his black eyes glittered with a variety of emotions before he deliberately turned away.
"Why is she here?" he asked flatly.
"We have a situation," replied Dumbledore.
"A situation," he repeated flatly. "We always have a 'situation.'" The sneer had not diminished one whit. Snape left his chair and walked unsteadily to the table by the wall, his long fingers caressing a stack of books that showed no signs of having been read. "Go away, Albus. Take her with you and leave me out of it. My involvement can only lead to disaster."
"I must beg to differ, Severus. You involvement is entirely required."
"There is nothing that would benefit from my efforts," Snape insisted. He turned for a moment, his gaze touching on Hermione before he turned back to his unread books. "Nothing," he repeated dully, his back to his guests as if ignoring them might make them go away.
"Well, that's exactly the attitude we need, Severus," Dumbledore said, a frosty edge to his normally genial voice. "As it so happens, we are in need of a potion brewed."
"Let Pomfrey do it," came the dismissive reply.
"The Gravis Expirerato requires the hand of a Master," Dumbledore countered.
"Gravis Expir.. " Snape stared into space for several moments, before his horrified gaze met Hermione's. She crossed her arms defensively.
"I'm pregnant."
A rough sound burst from the man, hardly recognizable as laughter, with an angry, hysterical edge. Hermione could only take a few moments of it; after the last few days to have Snape laugh was too much. With a wordless exclamation she strode quickly forward.
Whether she would have shoved him or slapped him, she could not have said, but the man shrank back from her advance and stumbled, falling to the floor. The sudden flare of anger dampened as his laughter devolved into a rough cough that seemed to shake him to the core. Suddenly ashamed of herself, Hermione stood to one side as Dumbledore came to the fallen man's side and conjured a goblet of water.
Hermione was as much shocked at his retreat as she was at the sudden realization of just how frail the man was. He only allowed Dumbledore to help him to his feet then immediately shook off the older wizard's help and ignored the proffered drink. Leaning on the table and swaying slightly, Snape managed a short bow towards her, barely more than a nod of his head.
"My apologies, Miss Granger," he managed, in a hoarse voice that barely approximated his normal delivery. "I was not laughing at you; merely acknowledging Fate's tendency for endless capriciousness. You have regained your memories, then, I take it?"
"No, sir," Hermione responded. "Professor Dumbledore has removed the charm, but the memories haven't surfaced yet. He had to tell me what happened after I went to Madame Pomfrey with what I thought was a case of the flu."
Snape twitched, but did not reply, and continued to stare at the hem of her robes. For a moment Hermione thought she might have a rip or some other flaw in the material before she realized the most fearsome professor at Hogwarts was unable to look her in the face. Despite the lack of vindictiveness in her basic nature, she experienced just a flash of warmth to realize she held the whip hand, so to speak, over Severus Snape. She paused to wonder where that phrase had come from, and at the same time six and a half years of enduring his hateful remarks let her take just a long, delicious moment to revel in the sensation before her common sense and innate fairness squashed it forever.
"Professor Snape, I know you're not well, but Professor Dumbledore says Madame Pomfrey cannot brew this potion on her own, and I don't wish to ask for Professor Cluny's help either."
Snape cleared his throat with a harsh rasp. "I will assist in brewing the potion you require, Miss Granger, and do what I can to spare you the side effects. The Expirato is harsh, but much worse when improperly made. Now, if you will excuse me," he stated, and turned away with a touch of his usual sweep. Only four or five steps separated him from the chair he had occupied earlier, but Snape barely managed the distance before he all but collapsed in the chair.
"Headmaster, will you see Miss Granger out, and speak to Poppy about the potion ingredients?" he questioned. His deep voice was thin and quavered just the smallest bit. As much as Hermione had been angry with him earlier, the visible evidence of Snape's infirmity was disturbing. Dumbledore murmured something in reply that Hermione did not catch before he came to her side, tucking her arm under his and leading her from the room.
A final glance over her shoulder to the Potions Master showed the man leaning heavily to one side, his head propped on one hand while his fine black hair hung in lank disarray over his face. An aura pain and utter aloneness radiated from his gaunt body, and she was struck with a sudden stab of sympathy for a man who had never spoken a kind word to her in his life.
By Saturday morning the roiling in her stomach had settled into tense iron knots, and her hands had a disturbing tendency to shake as she prepared for her meeting with Professor Dumbledore. Wearing her Head Girl badge, her freshly pressed school robes over her casual Saturday clothes, she approached the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office.
"Coconut Macaroon," she told it firmly, grateful her voice at least didn't waver, and it scrambled out of her way.
The headmaster was waiting for her, and invited her to sit. She took the overstuffed chair he offered as well as a cup of tea then waited nervously, not knowing where to begin.
"You have filed an Emancipation document, have you not, Miss Granger?" asked Dumbledore finally. "Otherwise, I will be required to inform your parents of your. condition."
"Yes, sir. Last fall, when I turned seventeen. It seemed silly, having to ask them for permission all the time when I wanted to do something."
"Something meaning your activities with Ron and Harry, I take it?"
"Yes, that too. My parents and I have had several disagreements, and they've made several hints that they'd rather I finished school in the Muggle world. If they really knew what went on sometimes. They know Harry and Ron are my best friends, but they'd make me go home if they had any idea we might be involved in a war. They don't understand that I'd never turn my back on Harry."
"Your parents are simply concerned that you might be hurt, Miss Granger. And now, you have been. The Deatheaters meant to take your life that night, my dear, and it is only by chance that they did not."
"That's true. But I am of age, both in the wizarding world and the Muggle world, now. I'm eighteen. More, if you count the Time-Turner I used in my third year."
Dumbledore nodded, then took a last sip of his tea and set down the cup. "You have questions, Hermione, and I have answers. Please don't be reticent in asking."
"All right," she said, swallowing hard, and reached into the pocket of her robes for a scrap of parchment. She'd re-written the list three times, and was fairly sure it covered everything. Some part of her wanted to put this off, to discuss something, anything else, but she was a Gryffindor. Smoothing out the folds, she started at the top.
"Was my mother's godmother murdered, do you think?"
"No, my dear. I had received word that students might be in danger at Hogsmeade that weekend, which is why I had the afternoon's excursions cancelled. I was not informed of your extended absence until that afternoon, or I would have had your Head of House meet you at the Three Broomsticks. By then, it was too late."
"Is that why they chose me? I was the only student in Hogsmeade that day?"
Dumbledore pursed his thin lips. "I imagine that the original plan was to take several children from non-wizard families and abuse them, frighten them, certainly, and return them. It is my belief that their frustration at the foiling of their plan was the reason your treatment was so harsh. The Head Girl, being Muggle-born, was a prize fallen into their laps after their earlier disappointment."
"Madame Pomfrey's chart said that Professor Snape was admitted that night as well. Was he one of the Deatheaters that night?"
"Yes. He was summoned by a fellow Deatheater later that evening. Only a few Deatheaters were involved, and the attack on him appeared to be more personal than the usual. I suspect his loyalty was questioned that night, and when he proved less than enthusiastic for their plans, they turned on him."
"What happened? Was his cover blown?"
"A uniquely interesting Muggle term. No, I believe something happened that night that somehow exposed his role, but I doubt we'll ever truly know for sure. His memory, like yours, is similarly impaired, but due to his injuries, not a spell."
Hermione concentrated heavily on the paper over her knee, but the question she wanted to ask was not on it. Her voice shook as she choked it out. "Do you think. does Professor Snape remember enough of that night to know who was the one.." She took a breath to steady her voice. "Does he know who the father of my baby is?"
Dumbledore tucked his chin into his chest, his white and silver beard whispering softly against his robe as he considered how to answer her. "Severus told me that the father of your child was placed under an Imperious charm and ordered to violate you, Miss Granger. It was an act absolutely outside this man's nature, and it may eventually destroy him."
She stared at the old wizard for several moments, knowing the truth, before she could say it. "It was Professor Snape, wasn't it?"
Dumbledore's silence was answer enough, and Hermione drew a shaky breath. "Well. It's certainly easier to take than the thought of Lucius Malfoy. Unless-"
"No, Miss Granger. Just the once." He paused, then posed a careful question. "Do you remember seeing Mr. Malfoy that night?"
"No, just making an educated guess," she replied, and knew she'd guessed correctly despite the Headmaster's attempt to maintain a bland expression.
The thought that she might be pregnant with Drago Malfoy's sibling had crossed her mind more than once in the past few days. She had no proof that Lucius Malfoy was present that evening, but she knew enough of both Malfoy's depraved tendencies and ongoing if subtle animosity with Snape to suspect his participation. The resulting image was so horrific that the truth was nearly a relief. Somehow, knowing that her assailant had not been a leering Deatheater but an unwilling participant made her feel, if not better, at least slightly less horrible than before.
Hermione closed her eyes and leaned against the padded chair wing as the reality finally set in. She had been raped. She was pregnant. Tears prickled against her eyelids, and she bit her lip in an attempt to keep her breathing even. The rippling sound of more tea being poured finally penetrated her misery, and she realized Dumbledore was allowing her as much time as she needed to absorb the information he was giving her.
With a rough rasp, she cleared her throat and wiped her nose on the corner of her sleeve before accepting the freshened cup with a murmur of thanks. She sipped it, grateful as the hot liquid soothed the tightness in her throat before returning to the written questions, the orderly list keeping her thoughts in line.
"How did we - Professor Snape and I - escape that night?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "That remains unclear. I cast the Anisthetae spell to calm you down that night, Hermione. You were somewhat hysterical, understandably, and Madame Pomphrey needed all my assistance to save Severus' life. By the time he was coherent, I had made the decision to leave the spell active and let you return to your schooling. He, unfortunately, remembers nothing further than the assault on you, then their attempt to murder him."
"Is there any chance the Ministry would arrest Malfoy for this, if I had wanted to press charges?" The anger that had been lurking at the edges of her shock finally began to make its presence known. Dumbledore nodded his head as though accepting it, but his answer was negative.
"Doubtful. You are a Muggle-born witch, very young, and any reputation you have is in your relationship to Harry. Lucius Malfoy is a very powerful man. His testimony would be extremely convincing, not to mention he would undoubtedly have a raft of witnesses to attest he had been elsewhere that night."
"And it's more likely Minister Fudge would play Quidditch for England before he let an Auror give Malfoy Veritaserum."
"Exactly. Added to that is the fact that he did not directly harm you, not that we know of. He placed a spell on Severus, whose testimony would likely not be believed in any court, other than Voldemort's circle. Also, his status as a Deatheater would only add a negative light."
"Which would be far more dangerous for him. So. It would be my word against Malfoy's," she stated bitterly.
"Exactly."
Fuming, Hermione's own common sense told her that Dumbledore was right. There was no possibility that any allegations against Malfoy could have been proved, not without placing them all in far greater danger than they were already, and with very little chance of success. Angry as she was, she could find no better alternative to Dumbledore's handling. The fact that she had become pregnant was a wild card that nobody could have predicted. Indeed, that had been a possibility the Headmaster and Madame Pomphrey had considered and then dismissed based on her previous request for the Contraceptus.
"What am I going to do?" she asked softly, the anger giving way to panic once again. "Am I going to lose my Head Girl badge?" An absurd question, once she'd said it, but she was very proud of the badge. It was the symbol of everything she had worked for since she'd received her acceptance letter to Hogwarts.
"No, no," soothed Dumbledore. "I have spoken to Madame Pomfrey. There is a potion that can be made, which will cause you to miscarry." The elderly headmaster rose from his chair and went to his desk. "The potion requires several ingredients that by policy are not kept on Hogwarts grounds, however. It will take a day or so to obtain them. Also, Madame Pomfrey will need help to brew this."
"Not Professor Cluny?" Hermione blanched at her own rudeness, but drinking a potion Professor Cluny brewed was not something she'd do on a dare, let alone for her health.
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth twitched, but his voice did not reveal his amusement. "No, not Professor Cluny. This will require a Potions Master, and it just so happens I have one in my pocket, more or less."
"Professor Snape is here at Hogwarts?" Hermione guessed.
"Yes. I will ask for his assistance on this. Unfortunately, we will need to inform him why such a potion is required before he agrees to brew it. Additionally, I think it might also be beneficial for the two of you to talk over this situation." Dumbledore drew himself to his full height and looked down at her, his face more grave than she had ever seen it.
"I fear what this knowledge will do, Miss Granger. Severus Snape is not well. He came so very close to dying that night it frightens me even now to consider it, and his health since then can only be described as precarious. Madame Pomfrey is still struggling to heal some of the damage."
"You mean telling him that he's gotten me pregnant may cause him some embarrassment?" she said snidely, and regretted it immediately at the expression on Dumbledore's face.
"You are the injured party here, Miss Granger. But please bear in mind that Severus Snape was also forced to do something completely against his nature or inclination that night. To know that he performed an act so repugnant to him was terrible enough; to know that he had fathered a child on his victim at the same time may be a blow he is not strong enough to take."
"I understand, Professor," she replied, chastened. "I wish I could make this easier, but to be honest, I'm mostly numb. I don't know what to say to make this easier for all of us, but I wish I could."
"I must rely on your strength to bear this burden, Miss Granger. I would argue a man has a right to know he has begotten a child, but this situation defies normal convention." Dumbledore paused, as though he would say more, but in the end simply led her from his office and down the stairs.
Following in the Headmaster's wake, Hermione considered the absent Potions Master. From his old-fashioned, buttoned-down frock coats to his roiling, viciously sarcastic baritone voice, Severus Snape had always seemed to her to be a man who valued self-control over all else. To have been forced against his will to do anything, especially a crime that he presumably found repellant, would have been excessively humiliating.
Despite his temper and his sharp tongue, Hermione had come to respect Snape, and even feel some sympathy for a man. His was a consumate balancing act as he spied on a psychopathic enemy and walked a knife-edge path between Voldemort and his supporters, all of whom would provide him with a lingering, painful death if they found out his activities, and the Aurors who would throw him in Azkaban the instant they saw the Deatheater brand on his arm.
His virtual enslavement to Voldemort as a Deatheater while honoring his commitment to Dumbledore to act a spy meant Snape could claim very little of his life as his own. His role as head of Slytherin house, overseeing a group of students whose parents were most likely either Deatheaters or supporters of Voldemort, also required him to cater to and oversee the children of the people he was betraying. The tension of such a demanding pretense would make anyone foul-tempered.
Ron Weasley might have argued that his oily persona and harsh disposition were simply his personality, but Hermione had had her doubts for several years. Surely someone that awful would never have bothered to work as a double agent, or done what he could to save Harry Potter's life on more than one occasion.
Hermione and Dumbledore were at the Hospital Wing before she could decide on a way to cope with the imminent confrontation with Severus Snape, but she shied away from thinking of him in any terms other than the Potions Master who would brew a potion she needed. Following meekly behind Dumbledore, she decided to simply follow his lead and let him do the talking.
At the far end of Pomfrey's domain, next to the small lavatory, a frosted glass panel in a peeling wooden door announced itself as the Isolation Ward. Since wizard medicine had long ago countered any communicable diseases with easily brewed concoctions such as the Defluenza potion, the door was dusty and looked as though it would squeak horribly when forced open. At Dumbledore's touch, though, it opened easily. Light from a small window revealed three small, unmade cots which appeared to have been in the same position since Dumbledore himself had attended the school.
"Severus?" called Dumbledore. "Are you awake?" With a wave of his empty hand, the far wall faded to reveal an arch.
"Yes." The dry, sibilant voice that answered bore no resemblance to the even, resonant tones that had lashed Hermione and her fellow Gryffindors for the last seven years. As she caught sight of the man, she barely kept a gasp from escaping.
If Snape had been a black and white scarecrow of a man before, he was now a personification of Death itself. His flowing professorial robes had been replaced with a black quilted lounging jacket, worn more for warmth than for effect, and it outlined his long, lean frame. His pale hands were nearly skeletal as the clutched the arms of his chair, while his face was thin, the skin drawn and sallow over his high cheekbones. The scent of the room struck her, of illness and too much brandy, and it was apparent the house elves could only do so much. He obviously had not seen the outside of these rooms for some time, but the windows were closed with the curtains drawn, and his chair was turned deliberately away from what light managed to creep past those barriers.
The gloom evidently bothered Dumbledore as much as it did Hermione, for he made a tsking sound of irritation. "Honestly, Severus. This place looks like a tomb."
"How fitting, Albus. Perhaps the vampire allegation will finally come true." Snape's voice was still deep, but his chest rose and fell in short, shallow pants after speaking. Hermione was appalled at his appearance. She was even more unsettled when his head turned and he registered her presence beside Dumbledore. For a moment his black eyes glittered with a variety of emotions before he deliberately turned away.
"Why is she here?" he asked flatly.
"We have a situation," replied Dumbledore.
"A situation," he repeated flatly. "We always have a 'situation.'" The sneer had not diminished one whit. Snape left his chair and walked unsteadily to the table by the wall, his long fingers caressing a stack of books that showed no signs of having been read. "Go away, Albus. Take her with you and leave me out of it. My involvement can only lead to disaster."
"I must beg to differ, Severus. You involvement is entirely required."
"There is nothing that would benefit from my efforts," Snape insisted. He turned for a moment, his gaze touching on Hermione before he turned back to his unread books. "Nothing," he repeated dully, his back to his guests as if ignoring them might make them go away.
"Well, that's exactly the attitude we need, Severus," Dumbledore said, a frosty edge to his normally genial voice. "As it so happens, we are in need of a potion brewed."
"Let Pomfrey do it," came the dismissive reply.
"The Gravis Expirerato requires the hand of a Master," Dumbledore countered.
"Gravis Expir.. " Snape stared into space for several moments, before his horrified gaze met Hermione's. She crossed her arms defensively.
"I'm pregnant."
A rough sound burst from the man, hardly recognizable as laughter, with an angry, hysterical edge. Hermione could only take a few moments of it; after the last few days to have Snape laugh was too much. With a wordless exclamation she strode quickly forward.
Whether she would have shoved him or slapped him, she could not have said, but the man shrank back from her advance and stumbled, falling to the floor. The sudden flare of anger dampened as his laughter devolved into a rough cough that seemed to shake him to the core. Suddenly ashamed of herself, Hermione stood to one side as Dumbledore came to the fallen man's side and conjured a goblet of water.
Hermione was as much shocked at his retreat as she was at the sudden realization of just how frail the man was. He only allowed Dumbledore to help him to his feet then immediately shook off the older wizard's help and ignored the proffered drink. Leaning on the table and swaying slightly, Snape managed a short bow towards her, barely more than a nod of his head.
"My apologies, Miss Granger," he managed, in a hoarse voice that barely approximated his normal delivery. "I was not laughing at you; merely acknowledging Fate's tendency for endless capriciousness. You have regained your memories, then, I take it?"
"No, sir," Hermione responded. "Professor Dumbledore has removed the charm, but the memories haven't surfaced yet. He had to tell me what happened after I went to Madame Pomfrey with what I thought was a case of the flu."
Snape twitched, but did not reply, and continued to stare at the hem of her robes. For a moment Hermione thought she might have a rip or some other flaw in the material before she realized the most fearsome professor at Hogwarts was unable to look her in the face. Despite the lack of vindictiveness in her basic nature, she experienced just a flash of warmth to realize she held the whip hand, so to speak, over Severus Snape. She paused to wonder where that phrase had come from, and at the same time six and a half years of enduring his hateful remarks let her take just a long, delicious moment to revel in the sensation before her common sense and innate fairness squashed it forever.
"Professor Snape, I know you're not well, but Professor Dumbledore says Madame Pomfrey cannot brew this potion on her own, and I don't wish to ask for Professor Cluny's help either."
Snape cleared his throat with a harsh rasp. "I will assist in brewing the potion you require, Miss Granger, and do what I can to spare you the side effects. The Expirato is harsh, but much worse when improperly made. Now, if you will excuse me," he stated, and turned away with a touch of his usual sweep. Only four or five steps separated him from the chair he had occupied earlier, but Snape barely managed the distance before he all but collapsed in the chair.
"Headmaster, will you see Miss Granger out, and speak to Poppy about the potion ingredients?" he questioned. His deep voice was thin and quavered just the smallest bit. As much as Hermione had been angry with him earlier, the visible evidence of Snape's infirmity was disturbing. Dumbledore murmured something in reply that Hermione did not catch before he came to her side, tucking her arm under his and leading her from the room.
A final glance over her shoulder to the Potions Master showed the man leaning heavily to one side, his head propped on one hand while his fine black hair hung in lank disarray over his face. An aura pain and utter aloneness radiated from his gaunt body, and she was struck with a sudden stab of sympathy for a man who had never spoken a kind word to her in his life.