Mine Protector
Chapter 18: Consequence
"Have you ever seen so many flowers?" Ginny said, leaning forward to sniff a few slender irises that had been set on the windowsill. Other flowers and plants, ranging from simple gerber daisies to fanciful orchids, were crowded on the bedside table.
From her hospital bed, Hermione smiled weakly. "I'm pretty sure Harry got five times this amount when he won the tri-wizard tournament."
"That plus a few howlers," said Ron thoughtfully. There had been a few people unwillingly to believe that Harry hadn't somehow been involved in Cedric Diggory's death, after all.
"Who's that from?" Ginny asked, wrinkling her nose and pointing at an odd, fuzzy-leafed plant, studded with a few black berries.
"Professor Snape," Hermione answered, reaching out to stroke one of the oval leaves. From her office, Poppy Pomfrey tutted loudly, causing Hermione to stifle a laugh. Clearly, the medi-witch found the Belladonna to be a decidedly morbid gift—as did Professor Sprout, who had apparently required much cajoling before she would hand the poisonous plant over to Snape. But the Belladonna, paired with Snape's note, had been Hermione's favorite get-well gift of all. In spidery handwriting, Snape delivered a single line: //I trust this will come in useful the next time you are poisoned in the line of battle.//
Harry or Ron would have interpreted the note as a pointed scolding, but Hermione knew better. Both the Belladonna and the note were actually subtle signs of Snape's interest in her well-being, and indicated that he had forgiven her rash, ill-prepared encounter with Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair.
"Snape sent you THAT?" Ron asked the look on his face so priceless that it send both Ginny and Hermione into breathless giggles. "But...it's not even pretty!"
Hermione couldn't help but smile at him fondly. He and Ginny were her first student visitors; before this afternoon, only staff members had been allowed in to see her.
"What about these?" Ginny asked, indicating three white roses, blown open in full bloom. White had always been Hermione's favorite; knowing this, Ginny fingering one of the petals. "From Harry, right?"
Hermione shook her head slowly. "From Professor Black, actually," she admitted, and the name felt foreign on her tongue; she had never, not once, though of Sirius as 'Professor Black' in the private sanctuary of her own mind. And as far as Harry went, she was already aware that he had not sent her any cards or flowers, a fact that made all the other gifts seem somewhat trivial.
"Oh," Ginny squeaked, looking embarrassed. She pulled away from the roses and hurriedly looked out the window—actions indicating that she had noticed Harry's lack of well-wishes. Hermione watched the flame-haired girl silently; Ginny was a subdued individual, but she didn't doubt that a vast, worthy amount of perception lay beneath that still, untapped exterior. She somewhat reminded Hermione of herself.
"Don't worry, Herm," Ron said, helping himself to a goblet of the mango juice that Hermione had requested in lieu of the usual pumpkin beverages that the house-elves seemed so fond of (presumably because Hagrid had an uncanny ability to grow out-sized gourds in large quantities). "I think Harry is feeling a bit responsible about what happened. You know how he goes on…always thinking that you-know-who will try to hurt the people he cares for and suchlike."
Hermione nodded vaguely. The version of the story that she had given Ginny and Ron described a scenario in which she had been stunned on her way back from a late-night study session, and had later woken up to two masked men forcing poison down her throat. Snape had caught her stumbling back into the castle and, upon seeing her symptoms, had taken her promptly to the hospital wing. The rest of the school had caught wind of the story, but the rumour mill was in high gear; according to Ginny, Lavender was convinced that Hermione had pricked herself on an enchanted sewing needle that caused her to fall into a three-day coma—trust that girl to put a fairy-tale spin on the situation.
Hermione felt slightly sickened: it was one thing to let the majority of the school accept a G-rated version of her encounter, but it was another matter entirely to lie to Ginny and Ron. More and more, she found herself resenting the fortress of cleverly-crafted scenarios and excuses that she relied on to keep her facade intact. Especially after where it had gotten her with Harry.
"My…I'm awfully tired," she said, willing herself to lie once more. "Thank you so much for visiting, both of you…but I expect I should rest now." She yawned fitfully against her palm, eyelashes fluttering with feigned fatigue.
"Be well," Ginny said, rising to her feet and glancing at Hermione with a penetrating, almost knowing expression.
"I'll try," Hermione said, feeling quite alert as she watched the siblings go.
-----
From just around the doorway that led to the hospital wing, Snape watched the comfortable, friendly exchange between Hermione and the Weasleys. He was impressed: ever since he had discovered her secret, he had assumed she was merely the world's most convincing actress. Now he knew that she possessed more just an uncanny ability for deception; she genuinely *liked* Ron and Ginny Weasley, and was quite adept at tolerating most of her other classmates, as well—even Longbottom.
And she even tolerated him: Grouchy Severus Snape, ex-Death Eater gone turncoat, potions master extraordinaire; he of the greasy hair and an unmatched love of scotch. Better yet, it appeared that she actually understood him; her veiled delight as she displayed the Belladonna to Ginny Weasley was enough to convince him of that. She recognized the plant for what it was: a peace offering, from a man who was decidedly unaccustomed to the phrase 'I'm sorry'.
The sight of the rather benign-looking Belladonna plant hardly warmed *his* heart, however; serving a tincturn of Atropine to Hermione had been one of the most difficult tasks of his life. For forty-eight hours she had been magically restrained to the bed, her body bucking against the hallucinogenic, nerve-burning toxin. It reversed the effects of the Digitoxin all too well, and she went from near-catatonia to sheer delirium, her circulatory system prompted into dangerous overload. He didn't want to know what kind of hell she had experienced, unconscious under that clashing mixture of ill-sorted toxins.
He had sat beside her for the first three hours, pressing cool compresses to her forehead. The muscles of her neck had stood out vividly, ropey and taut as she gnashed her teeth, trying to bite off her own tongue--a simple cushioning charm insured that she wouldn't do so, but it was still a horror to witness, especially when paired with the gargled moans she emitted from time to time. At one point Potter had skidded into the room, pushing through the curtain that enclosed Hermione's bed before Sirius, who was standing guard, could stop him.
"McGonagall is on her way!" he announced, then stopped dead in his tracks, eyes fixed open in shock at the site of his strong, once-lovely classmate, now made unrecognizable by the agony the flooded through her veins. Her hair, once so bright that it had reminded Severus of mahogany shavings, now soaked the pillow clean through with sweat, and clung to her cheeks in disarray. Complexion-wise, she appeared whiter than the sheets that she lay upon, if such a thing were possible.
Severus glared openly at the boy's stupid expression of dismay. Sirius Black had already filled the potions master in on Harry's recent activities: owling cryptic notes, pawing through her private possessions, regarding her—his supposed best friend!—as someone worthy of suspicion.
"So you wanted to know what she was hiding from you then, right Potter?" Snape had growled, his voice dangerously composed. "Well, take a good look…everything she does is for your own welfare—for very little reward, I might add—all to keep your ungrateful, meddlesome self out of harms way. What do you think of that?"
Harry's mouth worked noiselessly, as if strung on a fishing line. He appeared beyond words.
"Well?" Snape goaded, his anger mounting.
"That's enough, Snape," Sirius said quietly. He parted the curtain and moved to his god-son's side, placing a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. But in Black's eyes, Snape thought he saw emotions equal to his own; he didn't doubt that Potter and his godfather would soon be exchanging a few terse words, once outside the hospital wing. Of course the boy wasn't directly at fault for Hermione's current condition, but he had unknowingly played a hand in this drama, just the same. The notes, the snooping—they had helped to put Hermione on red alert status. She had willingly allowed herself be delivered to the Death Eaters because she assumed they were the ones attempting to unravel her true identity; of this, Severus was certain.
And now a man was dead. Macnair. And if Ministry officials could connect his death to Hermione Granger…well, there would be more trouble than they could handle.
"This isn't my fault," Harry piped up suddenly; his shock had drained away and was being fast-replaced by staunch defiance.
Unable to stop himself, Snape let out a long-suffering snort.
"It isn't!"
As if in response to his outburst, Hermione thrashed against her restraints, her throat releasing an inhuman keening sound, eerie as a banshee's wail. At the sound, Harry paled and stumbled for the curtains, looking as if he might be ill.
"Harry!" Sirius called, making to go after him.
"Let him be," Severus ordered. Reluctantly, Sirius drew back and complied, hauling the curtains shut again. Snape fought down surprise; he never thought he'd live to see the day when Sirius Black would willingly listen to a single word from his mouth—or listen without breaking into uproarious laughter, anyway.
"He's not taking this well, you know," Sirius said, his tone icy. "And she *was* lying to him all this time, it seems."
Snape almost laughed at Black's dramatic show of parental concern for the boy. Laying before him was his honest-to-god flesh and blood, his own long- lost niece, and the man was as good as blind. And foolish, as well—when Snape had exited from the Gryffindor fireplace, he had immediately noticed that tender way that Black had been stroking Hermione's cheek, her prone body held to his chest. It was the same kind of tenderness that Snape himself used when he held a cool cloth to her brow, or tucked the sheets in around her.
Clearly, the man was over the moon for her.
But so was Severus, however much he might be dragging his feet. And so he stayed at Hermione's side (silently tolerating Black's presence, all the while) until Dumbledore arrived from London, just an hour or two before noon. At that point, the headmaster had insisted that he and Poppy be left alone with the girl, suggesting that both professors go about their usual, daily routines.
He might as well have suggested they take up belly-dancing lessons, or purchase Gilderoy Lockheart's entire set of instructional books against the Dark Arts. Teaching was the furthest thing from both men's minds—Severus himself had been too distracted to even deduct points when he caught Finnigan and Thompson sneaking a look at a Weasley-Wheezey whatever-it-was- called joke catalogue from beneath their cauldron station. Every free hour he had, he lingered just outside the hospital ward, waiting for Dumbledore's word on Hermione's condition. Sirius Black frequently did the same, as did Minerva McGonagall and a few other Gryffindors. Harry Potter, however, did not return to inquire after his friend's health.
"It appears that the Atropine has done the job," Dumbledore finally reported; at this point, Hermione had been under the will of the poison for just over two days. "Her vital signs are normalizing, and she regained consciousness just a moment ago."
"I want to see her—"
"May I come in now?—"
Both Sirius and Snape had spoken at the same time; they broke off abruptly, each man eying the other with barely masked contempt.
"I'm afraid she awoke for only a moment; she is now getting some much- needed natural sleep." The headmaster regarded both men silently; the dark circles under his eyes suggested that he was not in the mood to deal with their renewed animosity. "I daresay that Miss Granger's *Head of House* is the only professor that need visit her at the moment," he added pointedly, silently reminding both Snape and Black that, to the rest of Hogwarts, it looked a bit *odd* that they were taking such an interest in Hermione's recovery.
Seeing Snape and Black's equal expressions of hopelessness, the headmaster softened somewhat. "Please, Severus…Sirius. When Hermione is well, we will sort things out." And with that, he had slipped back into the hospital room; a wave of his hand shut the door in his wake, sealing the room from their view.
But now—about twenty-four more agonizing hours later, in fact—she was chatting pleasantly with the Weasleys, and though Snape was watching this through the slightly-ajar hospital door, he was greatly comforted by the first sighting he'd had of her since Dumbledore's return. Her curly hair was pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, and she seemed smaller, somehow, but she was smiling, and making familiar, animated gestures with her hands as she spoke. Once the Weasleys stood up to leave, however, she limply fell back on the bed, apparently exhausted by their visit.
"What are *you* doing here," Ron asked when he met Snape at the door, not bothering to hide his scowl.
"Don't be so bloody rude…" his younger sister jabbed him in the ribs. "Professor Snape made the potion that saved Hermione's life! You'd ought to thank him," she said, sounding older than her years. Severus gave the red-haired girl an approving look, meanwhile providing both students a wide berth.
"Well then," Ron said, looking uncomfortable. "Thanks, I suppose."
"Your gratitude is duly noted," Snape said thinly, though without much enthusiasm. The Weasley boy gave him a perplexed stare, then took off down the corridor, being pulled along by his younger sister.
Severus straightened his robes and involuntarily swept a few strands of his shoulder-length hair back from his forehead. –Enough primping, already…- he chastised himself. In a standard-issue hospital gown, Hermione would scarcely look her best, after all. Appearances were hardly a concern in events such as these.
What was more of a concern to Severus was the manner in which they had last parted; he hadn't forgotten the angry speech he had slapped on her as she stood shivering in his quarters, wounds cleansed and healed, but the rest of her body already suffering the affects of Digitoxin.
-All this coming and going…- he thought dully, leaning against a wall for support. His feelings for her tended to change from minute to minute: at times she resembled a mature woman of superior intellect and deep empathy; at others, she seemed no more than the insufferable third party member to a trio of legendary trouble makers, just waiting to stumble into evil's beckoning hands. The latter was, he knew, a reflection of the child she might have been, had her parents not been murdered, had her family name not been sullied by the imprisonment of her innocent uncle.
He exhaled sharply, fully aware that he was at least partially to blame for her first, shadowy childhood as 'Helena'; he had been a Death Eater during the summer her parents had been killed, after all, and a Death Eater still when Harry Potter's parents were murdered just a few weeks later. And again: still a Death Eater when Sirius Black was dragged by Ministry Aurors to Azkaban, and given a life sentence without even the benefit of a trial.
As for Hermione's duel identity, he had finally come to accept a few new realities. He felt passionate towards the woman that she was, and protective of the brazen child that she had been—but the most thundering realization was this: he loved them both.
The question now, was: how could he tell her?
-----
Hermione looked up at the soft noise of someone entering the hospital ward. She was somehow hoping that it might be Harry, finally come to check up on her. The person behind the curtain was taller than Harry, though, and was lingering there as if not fully committed to announcing his presence.
"Come in," she voiced, hoping to prompt the person into action.
It worked. The curtains skimmed aside with one quick move of his hands, and the visitor was momentarily back-lit in sunlight so bright that she could scarcely make out his characteristic shock of silvery blonde hair. But the Slytherin-green robes said it all.
"Hello, Draco." She straightened up and checked her bedclothes. Good, everything well-covered in that department.
"Were you asleep?" he asked, his face still a washed-out blur of blinding sun.
"No." She held a hand to her eyes, trying to blot out the glare. "Could you please close those curtains? I can barely see you."
He complied, and her cubicle was once again comfortably shaded. Draco didn't bother to hide his interest as his eyes traveled over the cluster of flowers on the nightstand, then finally came to a rest on her alert, albeit pale and weary, face.
"You don't look so bad," he remarked. "Not as fit as usual, but I can see that you're not dying."
Her eyes darkened. "Is that what you're here for? To check on my health and report back to Daddy?"
He shook his head casually. "'Daddy' doesn't even remember what happened, thanks to that whooper of a memory charm you laid on him."
"But I imagine his 'friends' are working to extract that lost memory even as we speak, right Draco?"
He looked taken aback at this second, uncharacteristic use of his first name. "Look," he said slowly, his lothario persona slipping away. "No one knows I'm here. I came to see that you're okay…that's all."
She couldn't help but allow a touch of amusement into her expression. She studied him over: beneath his open robes she could see that he was wearing a snug cashmere sweater and gray, worsted-wool slacks. Both items were expensively cut and fit his lean frame to perfection. From the cock of his hips, she read that the boy was used to having everything go his way. No, he wasn't worried about her…he was worried about himself. In particular: worried that she remembered who had stunned her down in the Slytherin corridors.
"I'm doing well, Draco," she said smoothly. "How are *you* doing?"
He jolted a bit, eyeing her with suspicion. "That's the third time you've said my name like that."
"Like what?" she blinked innocently.
"Like we're sharing a secret."
"*Do* we share a secret, Draco?" She leaned forward, giving him the full boon of her stare.
His normally pale complexion seemed to blotch up as her words moved him towards panic. She almost felt sorry for him; of the three boys who had stunned her, he alone had seemed concerned for her well-being, after all.
"I thought you might remember some of that night," he said, forcing himself calm. "And you do, don't you?"
She nodded carefully, a devilish smile reaching her lips. "I have to admit, Draco…when you stun a girl, you really do it like a gentleman. Just think…you carried me halfway through the Forbidden Forest and didn't drop me in the mud once."
"What?...." His handsome face struggled with unfamiliar emotion. "You mean you weren't stunned? That whole time I carried you…you were faking it?"
"I was stunned, but only for a few minutes," she said, quickly covering her tracks. "I didn't announce my recovery because I was curious as to where you were taking me. I figured it wasn't a seaside picnic…but I was curious, nonetheless."
"Alright," he said, pulling his full lips into a thin line. "So let's stop pretending. We both know what I did to you, and believe it or not, I want to apologize. I really had no idea what those men wanted…but my father swore that you would be just fine." At this, he flashed her an almost- pleading look, an gesture that seemed to render him five years younger. "I didn't know that you would be hurt, erm…Hermione."
She paused at his use of her first name. It might have been for affect, but somehow, she didn't think so. Rather, she had the impression that he had simply forgotten to call her 'Granger' or 'mudblood'. He was now collapsed in the chair by her bed, his hair mussed unbecomingly, all traces of his Malfoy dignity put aside. He didn't look sad….just weary.
"Do you want to see?" she finally asked, and he lifted his face from his cupped hands, eyes peering over them uncertainly.
"See what?"
Without answering, and carefully insuring that her lower body remained covered by bedding, she lifted her gown until a few inches of belly showed, revealing the now-healed knife wound. The scar divided her torso like a reddish, uneven smile—not exactly pretty, but she found that she rather liked it.
"Holy shit…" he murmured, his features frozen in disbelief. Yet…there was no shock. He had seen this kind of thing before—and perhaps even worse.
"That plus four broken ribs…and some nasty bruising," she said lightly, covering herself once more.
"Did my father do that?" he asked, sounding rather like he *hoped* the wounds to be his father's handiwork.
"No…Macnair."
"Oh, him. Figures," he snorted, only on him, the gesture seemed elegant. "Which reminds me…Nott's father is telling You-Know-Who's camp that you stabbed Macnair to death. Claims you tore him apart like some vicious animal. Is that true?" Now he was looking at her almost admiringly, as if he secretly hoped that *she* was a cold-blooded murderer.
"Not at all," she sighed, a touch of exasperation entering her tone. "In my attempt to escape, we struggled. He fell on his own knife."
"Oh," he said, face falling, and she almost laughed at his open show of disappointment.
"And about scars…" she began, deftly changing the subject. "I don't suppose you have one you'd like to own up to, do you Draco?"
He shot her a quizzical look, then, as she pointedly stared at his arm, he dawned on to the meaning of her question. "No, I have not taken the mark," he said, grimaced. "Father wants me to, of course, but Mother insists that it be postponed until I'm finished with school."
Hermione was inwardly taken aback. She had glimpsed Narcissa Malfoy only once before, at the Quidditch World Cup. The woman had been tall, blonde, and willowy, possessing an air of remoteness that made her seem only partially attached to this world. But if what others said was true, and she really was part Veela, then Hermione could see how Lucius might lose an argument with his wife—once push came to shove, anyway.
"But there is *someone* at this school who bears the mark," she insisted. "On Halloween someone tried to attack Ron Weasley, and deliberately showed him their marked arm."
Draco grimaced. "That was Nott," he admitted, looking a bit sheepish about ratting his fellow Slytherin out. "He hasn't taken the mark yet, but he's fond of drawing it on with ink and brush, fantasising about the day he has the real thing. Quite a good calligraphist, he is."
"So as far as you know, there are no student Death Eaters at Hogwarts?"
He nodded compliance. "Not yet, anyway. There are quite a few in line, however. Father says it will be the largest generation of initiates since he himself took the mark. 'The Great Generation' is what he calls himself and his mates, you know," Draco added, rolling his eyes as if this were the most embarrassing thing he'd had to endure throughout childhood.
A muscle in her leg cramped suddenly, and Hermione reached out to massage it, trying not to dwell on his revelation. Trust Lucius Malfoy to compare his motley clan of Death Eaters to the young soldiers who fought in World War II—The Greatest Generation, as they were called. "Draco," she started, meeting his eyes. "I appreciate you coming forward…but I don't think now is the time or place to air your father's dirty laundry."
He looked astonished. "But I thought you'd want me to tell you things like this? I mean, once the Ministry comes to arrest you, you might need my testimony, right?"
She started at him. "You think the Ministry plans to arrest me for Macnair's murder?"
He blinked, mouth dropping open rather foolishly. "Won't they?" he stammered, color pooling in his cheeks. "And when they do, I'll come forward. There are plenty of things I've witnessed that could implicate my father for any number of crimes. Life-sentence crimes, too."
"Draco," she said, saying his name without malice for the first time in her life, perhaps. "I think you're more interested in sending your father to Azkaban than protecting me. Am I right?"
He nodded, but didn't quite have the decency to blush completely. He was still Draco Malfoy, after all.
"Self-interested 'til the end, then…is that right?" she asked, unable to stop a half-grin from surfacing.
He flipped his silvery hair in mock arrogance. "Well, I had to try, didn't I?" he remarked, almost returning her smile. He rose to his feet importantly, straightening his ever-shiny prefect's badge. "Well," he said, looking her over. "Good thing you didn't die, then. Half of those idiot Gryffindor's would fail potions if you weren't around to slip them suggestions."
"Gee, thanks for the condolences," she snapped, though privately found his comment a bit amusing.
"Sure thing." He moved to leave, but paused at the curtains to flash her one last, meaningful look. "And hey, Granger?"
"Yes, Malfoy?"
"Don't go telling anyone I paid you a visit. I have my reputation, you know."
After he left, Hermione stretched out on the bed, giving a cautious sniff to her underarms. Ugh— talk about a not-so-fresh feeling. With the sweetest tone she could muster, she asked Madam Pomfrey if she might have a shower; the medi-witch didn't look crazy about the idea, but finally relented. But then, perhaps Hermione's ripeness had actually smelled up the room a bit, prompting Poppy into agreement.
The hospital wing's bathroom was plain and serviceable; two shower stalls and two toilets, juxtaposed across from each other in blazing shades of white-on-white. With relief, Hermione saw that the shower had been sensibly outfitted with support bars and a little built-in stool, and she was able to sit back against the enamled wall and let Hogwarts' never- ending supply of hot water drench her to the bone for as long as she pleased. Hanging dispensers provided shampoo, conditioner, and shower-gel, all of it smelling like sun-warmed vanilla. It felt delicious to finally work a good lather into her hair and over her still slightly-bruised body.
"Careful that you don't drown in there!" a voice suddenly called. Taken by surprise, Hermione shut off the roaring water and peeked around the shower curtain. Through the steam, she saw tiny Madam Pomfrey holding a bathrobe open for her. "Don't mind me, child," the no-nonsense witch said. "I've seen almost every student at this school in various states of nudity. I'm used to it."
Nodding, Hermione stepped from the steam and toweled her body off as best she could before submitting to the nubby bathrobe's embrace.
"Professor McGonagall has kindly brought you some of your own clothing," Pomfrey said, indicating a wall-hook from which a pair of Hermione's winter pajamas were hanging.
Hermione screwed up her face. "Pajamas? I can't put on real clothes?"
"That's right, missy! You're here until the end of the week…so that's one more day and night of bed-rest, at least."
Hermione shrugged; she supposed the knee-length flannel nightshirt would be better than a scratchy hospital gown—even if it *was* printed with ridiculously out-sized, cartoonish daisies.
"Now clean yourself up right, child. Dumbledore and the others are here to see you."
"The others?"
"That's right. Professors Black and Snape. The three want to meet with you privately," she grumbled slightly as she announced this, looking as if she didn't approve of private meetings, even if they did happen to involve the headmaster and two additional staff members.
The medi-witch left her alone then, and Hermione wrung her long hair into a towel, distracted. So the time had come for her to give the headmaster an official report on Monday night's events, then. –And just how much, exactly, am I supposed to reveal?- she wondered. –Especially with both Sirius and Severus present?- Was this Dumbledore's signal for her to come clean with her Uncle? Would she even have to speak, or would he headmaster take care of the explanations for her?
Bristling with nerves, she decided it wouldn't hurt to make them wait on her a bit longer. In a medicine cabinet she found a few Muggle-style beauty accoutrements, and set about replenishing her somewhat ravaged body. Moisturizer helped to brighten the skin that had gone unwashed for days, and there was some sweet-smelling talcum that she patted liberally on her shoulders and limbs. Her hair was still dampish to the touch, however, and she hesitated to pull it back into a ponytail. Finally, she decided to let it lay coiled down her back, unadorned; but when she pulled on the daisy- splashed nightshirt and saw her wide-eyed, impish-faced self staring back at her in the mirror, she couldn't help but blanch. Her recent experience must have caused her to lose a few pounds, because her eyes seemed frighteningly enormous above her slightly-hollowed cheeks, and her head was a bit too large for her now less-than-curvaceous figure.
Some Auror. And so much for the self-possessed, strong Quidditch beater.
She both looked and felt all of thirteen years old.
-----
-So it's to be a meeting of the minds…- Snape thought drolly, his arms crossed over his chest. Sitting on a single hospital bed, he, Black, and Dumbledore (who had wisely placed himself between the two men) waited patiently for Hermione to emerge from the washroom. Each time he heard her bump a drawer shut or run the water, he stiffened; he wasn't in favor of this so-called meeting, in which Hermione would no doubt have to re-live the events of both Monday night's attacks and her recent poisoning—or double poisoning, if one counted the Atropine as a second type of overdose, as Snape certainly did.
Late this morning, just after the Weasley siblings departure, Snape had been stopped from entering Hermione's room by Dumbledore himself, who pulled the potions master aside, saying: "A word, Severus, before you look in on Miss Granger?"
Snape had never been one to turn down the headmaster's requests, and he listened patiently as Dumbledore laid out the details of an extremely grave situation.
Roland Nott, Senior, had apparently decided to take the fall for Lucius Malfoy. He had come forth to the Ministry and put his own job with the Department of Magical Creatures on the line, claiming that he had witnessed Macnair's murder. Not only that, but Nott, Sr. (or Rollie, as he preferred to be called) had been able to provide the name of Macnair's murderer; he had seen the girl several times, of course. She was hard to miss, because aside from being a prefect and Quidditch player at Hogwarts, where his own son Roland Jr. was a sixth year, she was also the one and only Harry Potter's best friend.
The girl Nott named was Hermione Granger, of course.
The Official Ministry seal had been delivered to Dumbledore that very morning; a personally signed letter from Fudge detailing that, in two weeks time, Miss Granger would be required to attend a prilimary inquisition that was being held before a small jury, with Fudge himself playing the role of Appraiser. It was not a trial—not quite. The intent of the inquisition was to see if there was enough evidence to actually arrest Hermione. Typically, such inquisitions were un-necessary for wizarding trials, since most wizarding crimes involved magic, which of course left a signature easily evaluated by Aurors via 'prior incantato'. But the Macnair case was more along the lines of a common Muggle murder, and therefore required special circumstances.
Now they were to lay the truth of this matter out for Hermione, and in return, ask her to lay out the truth for them, so that all four of them might hatch a plot to sidetrack Malfoy and Nott.
*We're very sorry that you've recently suffered a stabbing and poisoning, but now the Ministry wants to arrest you for murder, you see…*
At this thought, Snape physically shuddered under a wave of anxiety, rocking the hospital bed a bit, and was surprised when Dumbledore patted his knee twice in a warm, fatherly way.
Snape looked at him sharply, but the headmaster was staring pensively out the window; snowflakes were beginning to freeze to the glass, catching all colors of the sun. Before now, Snape assumed that the old headmaster wanted him present simply because he had been the first one to see Hermione following the attack. Now he wondered of there was more to it than that. Was Dumbledore aware that Snape knew all about her undercover identity? Moreover, did he know that Snape had….feelings, for the girl?
There was no need to ask why Sirius had been invited along—he was the girl's uncle, after all.
But then again, he seemed to not *know* he was her uncle.
Was that also to be revealed here, on this very afternoon?
Before Snape could continue with his pondering, the bathroom door shuddered open and Hermione appeared, emerging from the rolling steam, pink-cheeked and looking no less lovelier than a siren in….happy-faced daisy pajamas? And fuzzy pink slippers?
Seeing the goggled expressions that Black and Snape shared, she frowned and belted her bathrobe tightly, effectively hiding the flowers from sight. Dumbledore seemed unfazed—but then again, the headmaster probably wouldn't mind owning a pair of daisy pajamas himself.
"Miss Granger," he said, face alight as he half-rose to beckon her forward. "It's wonderful to see you looking so clean and rested."
"Thank you, Albus," she replied, and from the corner of his eye, Snape saw Black flinch slightly at her casual use of the headmaster's first name. "Professors…." She nodded tersely at both men.
Snape tilted his head at her. Was it the silly pajamas that prompted this forced seriousness in her behavior? Or had she already guessed what they had come to tell her?
Dumbledore finally broke the strained silence. "I think we can do with more comfortable seating," he said, and then, with a lazy wave of his wand, the adjacent hospital bed disappeared, leaving behind four cushy chairs and a round table, already set for tea.
All four of them pulled up chairs and, when no one made a move from there, Dumbledore finally poured out. "I hope ceylon suits everyone…oh, and for a snack I thought we might munch on these, Miss Granger…" with that, he slid a brown-paper parcel in Hermione's direction. A knowing expression blinked across her face and she ripped off the paper, revealing a shoe-box packed with…a most peculiar assortment of food.
"What are these?" Sirius exclaimed, unwrapping plastic from a funny white disc that, after he gave it a tap on the edge of the table, crumbled into several pieces.
"Rice cakes," Hermione said, looking as if she were trying to choke back laughter.
Sirius picked up a shard of the cake and chewed cautiously. "But…it doesn't taste like anything! It's like eating…crunchy air!"
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Sugar-free, you know."
"I recognize these," Snape said, getting in on the act as he poked a long finger into the box. "Currants, right?
"Well, almost. They're raisins," she shrugged.
"Hermione," Sirius said, his expression grave. "Is someone trying to poison you again? This food is…simply awful!"
"It's a care-package from Mannie," she said calmly, replacing the box-lid. "My 'parents' are dentists, you know. They only send me tooth-friendly treats."
"You call your Mum 'Mannie'?" Sirius looked thoroughly perplexed.
She opened her mouth to answer, but Dumbledore waved a hand, cutting her off. "We'll get to that in time, Hermione. For now…I'm afraid I have somewhat distressing news."
Hermione sobered at once, her face a storm of conflicting emotions. "Macnair's dead, isn't he?"
"How did you know?" Black asked, his eyebrows twitching in surprise. Unlike Snape—or even Dumbledore, for that matter—Black never seemed to keep his feelings in check.
She paused before answering. "You could say it was just a hunch…but…"
"But what?" Sirius prompted, ignoring the sharp wand-poke that Snape delivered into his leg from under the table.
Hermione rotated her head until she was staring outside at the falling snow, her eyes distant. "Severus…the Atropine you gave me, it has a hallucinogenic effect, right?" She managed to look at none of them while asking this.
"Yes, the poison is a very powerful delirient," he said, confirming her speculation.
She trembled visibly, then tilted up her chin, apparently trying to collect herself. "While I was under the poison…I saw the most horrible things. Incredible things, too. And some of it was so beautiful…so incredible…" she trailed off, her expression rapturous at some memory, her features luminous in the watery winter light coming in from the windows. "Everything was coloured differently, so that at some moments the world appeared entirely blue, and at one point I found myself in a transluscent room from which I could view entire swimming galaxies. Only I was bigger than all of them…strange, isn't it?"
The three men said nothing, and Snape thought he felt a collectively shiver pass between them.
"But then…there were parts that were ghastly. I saw myself commit terrible acts….including a vision of myself in which I stabbed Macnair with his own knife, over and over again. When I was through, I watched myself roll around in his blood and do…unspeakable things to his dead body."
Sirius let out a strangled cry, and Hermione jerked her head around, finally meeting their eyes. Tears were shining in her own.
"It wasn't real, Hermione," Snape said, carefully choosing a detached, almost cold tone as he spoke. To speak softly would suggest sympathy, and that wasn't what the girl needed right now. What she needed was reassurance that the hallucinations were just that—the phantasms of a poisoned tortured mind.
"No, they weren't," she said, relaxing every so slightly. "But when I woke up…I *knew* that he was dead, just the same." She lifted her teacup, and then, shaking too much to get a proper grip, lowered it again. "I swear to you…all of you…I did not murder Macnair. I even thought I had healed him. We struggled, and the next thing I knew, the knife was in his own stomach. It was just suddenly there...and it seemed like neither of us had touched it." With this, she gave Dumbledore a particularly meaningful glance, and Snape thought he saw the headmaster nod back at her imperceptibly.
-And just what was that silent exchange?- Snape wondered, looking back and forth between them. In a paralyzing rush, he remembered bathing her after the attack, and how she had claimed to dispel Nott's curse by drawing a strong barrier spell out of thin air and around her body, without even meaning to. Using Anaemus magic…or so she had suggested. Had the same thing happened in her blind struggle with Macnair? Did she somehow, through an unwieldy, untapped Anaemus power, turn the knife on him with wandless, wordless magic?
"Um…" Sirius cleared his throat, appearing embarrassed. "I'm sorry to back- track, Hermione, but I still don't understand *how* you ended up being attacked in the first place. I don't mean to have you re-tell it again, but I just don't—"
"Don't trouble yourself, Sirius," she interrupted, her voice somewhat mechanical. "It's all fairly simple. Three Slytherins cornered me in the dungeons after hours and laid a heavy stun on me—which I managed to avoid. They carried me into a clearing inside the Forbidden Forest, not far from Hogsmeade, I assume. From there, I was left alone with Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair. Rollie Nott was watching from a distance, though I didn't know it at the time. Malfoy was on orders to extract information from me, and he had Ministry-grade veritaserum on hand. But I fought both men off…I ran. When Macnair caught up with me, he slashed me with his knife, then somehow stabbed himself, as well. After tending to Macnair's wounds, I obliviated both mens' memories and returned to the castle."
Sirius shot both Snape and Dumbledore looks of bewilderment, running a hand through his shaggy hair--which seemed to be a nervous habit of his, Snape noted. "There's something I'm not being told, isn't there," he said slowly. "Why would Lucius want to use veritaserum on a sixth year girl? And…" he gave Hermione a lingering look "…I know you're strong. I've seen you at Quidditch…and moreover, I've seen how you *move*. You could hold your own in a fight, I don't doubt that. But I've also seen Macnair—the man was as solid as oak. How exactly did you fight him off? It just doesn't make sense…." Now he turned back to Snape and Dumbledore, seemingly wounded. "So I take all of this to mean that there's some big secret that I don't know, isn't there? And both of you must already know it." Again he shifted his gaze, this time directing it at Hermione. "That's why you've been hanging around Snape, isn't it? Whatever this secret is…he's known for some time."
Snape winced, but shoved the feeling of guilt away. Black had actually just said the phrase 'I've seen how you move' to Hermione. He didn't plan on soon forgiving the Animagi that.
"Professor Snape found me out by accident," Hermione said heavily. "But once he saw me making the potion, there seemed little use in keeping the secret from him."
"What potion?" At this point, it didn't seem possible for Sirius to look more perplexed. "You don't mean polyjuice, do you? It's not like Harry said, is it?"
Snape had no idea what Black meant by this question, but Hermione apparently did; her hand darted out quickly, touching Black's for a moment before she withdrew it and shook her head.
"No…nothing like that." She looked at Dumbledore helplessly. "Please, Albus…where do I start? How much do I tell?"
-She's not ready to tell him she's his niece…- Snape realized at once, feeling as if he'd been suddenly submerged in ice-water. –Why…why can't she do it?-
The he remembered. It was because of Harry Potter, of course.
Her friendship with him was already in need of a serious patching-up. If she managed to take Potter's godfather away from him now, by revealing that she was Black's blood relative…well, then…could the current rift between them ever again be made right?
"There is no right or wrong way to go about this, Hermione," the Headmaster said, shaking his gray head. "Tell what feels necessary…and comfortable." Yes, of course…Dumbledore was always in favor of showing only what cards were needed for the next play—Snape was quite familiar with his tactics.
Hermione sighed, her chest hitching for a moment as if she were on the verge of retching. Then she shook back her hair once, finally steepling her hands just beneath her chin. "Very well," she began, her voice remarkably steady for one who appeared so out of sorts. "Severus already knows some of this, but since he's never had it properly explained to him, so I'll start from the beginning." She indicated Snape with a slight nod, and Black shot him a peculiar expression. Was it one of jealousy? Snape couldn't be sure.
"First of all, I'm an orphan. My parents were killed by Voldemort and one of his Death Eaters when I was seven. There were no other family members to take me in, so I was shuffled around in Ministry foster care for years."
"Wait," Sirius interrupted at once, earning him a stern glance from the potions master. "How can you be an orphan? Your parents are Muggle dentists….you just said so."
She gave him a rather fond once-over, as if she were explaining something complex to a child. "Don't worry, Sirius…I'm getting to that. So…where was I?"
"Ministry foster care," Snape supplied, his voice gruff.
"Ah, yes. Until the summer I turned eight, I stayed with a wonderful old witch; her husband was a Muggle dentist, and for years they had taken in orphans. There was quite a lot of them back then, you realize…all owing to Voldemort's reign of terror. The Fimple's—that was their name—house was always overflowing with children. Some of them were orphans like me, but a good number of them were the Fimple's own grandchildren. They had dozens, you see. Their home was a wonderful place to be…after what I had gone through. There were several cats and a large, rambling garden full of gnomes. In my memories, it rather reminds me of the Weasley house, the Burrow…a place full of so many people that it's easy to forget yourself, for once. I loved it there.
"Once I turned eight, Mr. Fimple—Gannna, we called him—fell rather ill. Nothing fatal, mind you…but it was enough to slow him down, keep him in bed. The Ministry swooped in and told Mrs. Fimple that she had too many orphans to be watching after all by herself; she protested, of course, but it did little good. From there I was shuffled around, crammed into whatever foster family they could find. There were a few families who didn't ever want me, and I often got sent away despite the fact that I was well-behaved."
"Why wouldn't they want you?" Snape interrupted without even thinking.
"Because of the way in which my parents died, for one—and they were magical, Sirius. Not Muggles at all. But even though Voldemort had been defeated by Harry at this point, people were still worried. They were suspicious about caring for a child whose family had been targeted by You- Know-Who…and there were other concerns, as well…" she trailed off.
-Of course…- Snape though, mentally slapping his forehead in disgust. –They didn't want her because she was a Black-
"On the day my letter from Hogwarts arrived, I was genuinely thrilled. Finally, there would be an end to the dreaded foster care—save during the summers, of course. My parents left me a small estate, so the tuition was easily taken care of, and from the time I stepped into the Great Hall and marveled at its enchanted ceiling, I finally felt I had a home. I thrived at Hogwarts. I was made a prefect during my fifth and sixth years, and appointed to Head Girl position during my seventh. I played chaser on the Ravenclaw house team—"
"What? Stop! Wait!" Sirius protested, half-rising in his seat. "Ravenclaw? Head Girl? But you're still a sixth year, Hermione."
She smiled placidly, untroubled, and went on as if he hadn't spoken. "I was a model student in every way, but inside, my heart was decidedly black."
Snape jumped at the double entendre, quickly glancing at Sirius to see if he'd been shaken by her choice of words. But he was only staring intently at Hermione, waiting for her to continue.
"I could think of nothing aside from bringing Voldemort out of hiding and ridding the world of his presence, once and for all. I thought I might become an Auror for the Ministry, but Fudge laughed me right out of his office; it didn't matter to him that I had top grades and Dumbledore's seal of approval. I was female, and I was young. He looked at me and saw…nothing." She paused and knotted her hands into fists, pressing both to her eyes as she drew in a sharp breath.
-Fudge….she hates him. I'm not sure if this will help her at the inquisition, or hurt her…- Snape resisted the urge to squeeze her shoulder, knowing that she had to get *this* particular poison out on her own.
"But Dumbledore offered me a way out. Albus?" She looked up at the headmaster then, her eyes faintly red-rimmed. "Perhaps you would be better at describing this part?"
"Of course," he said, and the words seemed to have a soothing affect on her. He turned slightly in his chair, so that he was facing both men now. "Hermione graduated from Hogwarts in 1991, and during that period Fudge and I were trying to prepare for Harry's arrival the next fall. I wanted extra protection at the castle, as I was certain the Voldemort was still living, and still waiting to get at Harry. Fudge though I was dotty, of course. He believed Voldemort was gone for good, and was not keen on shouldering the expense that would be required to send additional Aurors to the castle. In Hermione, however, I saw a very unique opportunity. If Harry Potter required protection…then why not have his protector masquerade as a fellow student? One he could bond with, and see as an equal? Not only would this special friend protect Harry, but she would help him grow, as well—help him fulfill his potential, so to speak. I asked Hermione if she would take on this unique assignment, and in exchange, I promised to train her in the Auror Arts…and better than the Ministry ever could, at that.
"Lucky for me, she agreed. But there was a more difficult challenge to face—her age, for one. Hermione was seventeen by this point, and since Harry would be only eleven, she would have to physically alter her appearance to that of a fellow first year. Not only was she required to look younger, but she also had to change her appearance enough so that her former professors, like Severus, here, wouldn't recognize her as their former Head Girl." He paused, evaluating Black's tight, astonished face. "Hermione? Perhaps it's time you picked up the thread again…"
She jumped in at once, as if she had been rehearsing. "I invented a complex potion, you see…one that both regressed my physical age by several years, and had a subtle, non-traceable confundus effect. It didn't matter that I didn't look very different. The confundus effect insured that I would remain unrecognized. Once the potion was perfected, if was fairly easy to slip back into the role of a first-year. I was excited, in fact. I think I wanted to out-perform my old self—see if I could get more than fifteen O.W.L.s the second time around."
Sirius was staring at her with what seemed to be interest…combined with suspicion. "So how old are you really, then?"
"Twenty-two," she answered, and Snape saw Black jolt in surprise.
"This must be what you were meeting Snape about…and during the summer, you must not take the potion…" he mumbled, mentally working the situation over as if she weren't in the room. "And this summer, that's when Harry saw you…he knew it was you, but he saw you were different?"
She nodded. "And now I need to tell him the truth. Once I've found the best way to do so…"
"There's still a few things I don't understand," Sirius said, pushing himself away from the table slightly. "Why did you have to come back as a Muggle-born, for one?"
She smiled vaguely. "When I chose my new identity, I knew I had to become someone insignificant. Someone with no notable wizarding past. Changing myself to a Muggle was the easiest way to do this. A few days after I accepted Dumbeldore's proposal, I visited Mannie—Mrs. Fimple—for the first time in years. I told her what I planned to do with my life, and thanked her for caring for me when I was young, when I thought I had nobody. We both cried a little...and I told her I was changing my name to Hermione. That was her name, you see. Hermione Fimple. Ever since then, Mannie and Ganna have gladly played the role of my dentist parents, when I've needed them too. I don't ask them to do so often, as they're both getting on in years…but Mannie still sends me plenty of sugar-free snacks." She fingered a piece of rice cake absently, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Wow…" Sirius breathed. "You really thought of everything, didn't you?"
She looked up at him sharply. "I had to. Albus was depending on me, and so was Harry…though he didn't know it then."
Sirius nodded. "He'll know now…though I'm not sure how he'll take it, honestly. I don't think he'll be happy to know that his best friend has all along been…well, a babysitter," he said, looking a bit disillusioned.
"She's not a babysitter," Snape growled, and Sirius startled, as if he had forgotten the potions master was there. "Believe me…I've been teaching Potter and Weasley for years, and Hermione has always been in on their fun and games. She's always…belonged with them, it seems."
Hermione gave him a pained look, as if his words had wounded her.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now that some history has been revealed…perhaps we should return to the present?" he suggested. With a clap of his hands, the tea service disappeared, and they had no choice but to concentrate on one another. "Hermione…there is a second issue we must discuss. Macnair."
"Yes," she said, straightening up. Snape couldn't help but notice that she looked far more comfortable at the prospect of discussing Macnair's murder than she had while relaying her past. "The Ministry has plans to charge me, don't they?"
Even Dumbledore seemed astonished by her calm speculation. "No...not yet, Hermione. But a Preliminary Inquisition has been arranged for two weeks from Saturday."
Hermione bit her lip in thought. "That's the last weekend before the Christmas holidays, isn't it? Who will be in charge of the Inquisition? Who is the Appraiser?"
Dumbledore paused for a very long time.
"It's Fudge, isn't it?" she declared, her voice squeaking. She looked fearful at first, then gradually, Snape saw that familiar, steely resolve assert itself. She apparently *relished* the thought of going up against Fudge.
Serverus himself was less confident. He knew the Death Eaters. For years, he'd witnessed their operations first hand. And when the Death Eaters wanted to bring someone down badly enough, they almost always got their man.
Or, in this case…Woman.
****************************
to be cont.
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Chapter 18: Consequence
"Have you ever seen so many flowers?" Ginny said, leaning forward to sniff a few slender irises that had been set on the windowsill. Other flowers and plants, ranging from simple gerber daisies to fanciful orchids, were crowded on the bedside table.
From her hospital bed, Hermione smiled weakly. "I'm pretty sure Harry got five times this amount when he won the tri-wizard tournament."
"That plus a few howlers," said Ron thoughtfully. There had been a few people unwillingly to believe that Harry hadn't somehow been involved in Cedric Diggory's death, after all.
"Who's that from?" Ginny asked, wrinkling her nose and pointing at an odd, fuzzy-leafed plant, studded with a few black berries.
"Professor Snape," Hermione answered, reaching out to stroke one of the oval leaves. From her office, Poppy Pomfrey tutted loudly, causing Hermione to stifle a laugh. Clearly, the medi-witch found the Belladonna to be a decidedly morbid gift—as did Professor Sprout, who had apparently required much cajoling before she would hand the poisonous plant over to Snape. But the Belladonna, paired with Snape's note, had been Hermione's favorite get-well gift of all. In spidery handwriting, Snape delivered a single line: //I trust this will come in useful the next time you are poisoned in the line of battle.//
Harry or Ron would have interpreted the note as a pointed scolding, but Hermione knew better. Both the Belladonna and the note were actually subtle signs of Snape's interest in her well-being, and indicated that he had forgiven her rash, ill-prepared encounter with Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair.
"Snape sent you THAT?" Ron asked the look on his face so priceless that it send both Ginny and Hermione into breathless giggles. "But...it's not even pretty!"
Hermione couldn't help but smile at him fondly. He and Ginny were her first student visitors; before this afternoon, only staff members had been allowed in to see her.
"What about these?" Ginny asked, indicating three white roses, blown open in full bloom. White had always been Hermione's favorite; knowing this, Ginny fingering one of the petals. "From Harry, right?"
Hermione shook her head slowly. "From Professor Black, actually," she admitted, and the name felt foreign on her tongue; she had never, not once, though of Sirius as 'Professor Black' in the private sanctuary of her own mind. And as far as Harry went, she was already aware that he had not sent her any cards or flowers, a fact that made all the other gifts seem somewhat trivial.
"Oh," Ginny squeaked, looking embarrassed. She pulled away from the roses and hurriedly looked out the window—actions indicating that she had noticed Harry's lack of well-wishes. Hermione watched the flame-haired girl silently; Ginny was a subdued individual, but she didn't doubt that a vast, worthy amount of perception lay beneath that still, untapped exterior. She somewhat reminded Hermione of herself.
"Don't worry, Herm," Ron said, helping himself to a goblet of the mango juice that Hermione had requested in lieu of the usual pumpkin beverages that the house-elves seemed so fond of (presumably because Hagrid had an uncanny ability to grow out-sized gourds in large quantities). "I think Harry is feeling a bit responsible about what happened. You know how he goes on…always thinking that you-know-who will try to hurt the people he cares for and suchlike."
Hermione nodded vaguely. The version of the story that she had given Ginny and Ron described a scenario in which she had been stunned on her way back from a late-night study session, and had later woken up to two masked men forcing poison down her throat. Snape had caught her stumbling back into the castle and, upon seeing her symptoms, had taken her promptly to the hospital wing. The rest of the school had caught wind of the story, but the rumour mill was in high gear; according to Ginny, Lavender was convinced that Hermione had pricked herself on an enchanted sewing needle that caused her to fall into a three-day coma—trust that girl to put a fairy-tale spin on the situation.
Hermione felt slightly sickened: it was one thing to let the majority of the school accept a G-rated version of her encounter, but it was another matter entirely to lie to Ginny and Ron. More and more, she found herself resenting the fortress of cleverly-crafted scenarios and excuses that she relied on to keep her facade intact. Especially after where it had gotten her with Harry.
"My…I'm awfully tired," she said, willing herself to lie once more. "Thank you so much for visiting, both of you…but I expect I should rest now." She yawned fitfully against her palm, eyelashes fluttering with feigned fatigue.
"Be well," Ginny said, rising to her feet and glancing at Hermione with a penetrating, almost knowing expression.
"I'll try," Hermione said, feeling quite alert as she watched the siblings go.
-----
From just around the doorway that led to the hospital wing, Snape watched the comfortable, friendly exchange between Hermione and the Weasleys. He was impressed: ever since he had discovered her secret, he had assumed she was merely the world's most convincing actress. Now he knew that she possessed more just an uncanny ability for deception; she genuinely *liked* Ron and Ginny Weasley, and was quite adept at tolerating most of her other classmates, as well—even Longbottom.
And she even tolerated him: Grouchy Severus Snape, ex-Death Eater gone turncoat, potions master extraordinaire; he of the greasy hair and an unmatched love of scotch. Better yet, it appeared that she actually understood him; her veiled delight as she displayed the Belladonna to Ginny Weasley was enough to convince him of that. She recognized the plant for what it was: a peace offering, from a man who was decidedly unaccustomed to the phrase 'I'm sorry'.
The sight of the rather benign-looking Belladonna plant hardly warmed *his* heart, however; serving a tincturn of Atropine to Hermione had been one of the most difficult tasks of his life. For forty-eight hours she had been magically restrained to the bed, her body bucking against the hallucinogenic, nerve-burning toxin. It reversed the effects of the Digitoxin all too well, and she went from near-catatonia to sheer delirium, her circulatory system prompted into dangerous overload. He didn't want to know what kind of hell she had experienced, unconscious under that clashing mixture of ill-sorted toxins.
He had sat beside her for the first three hours, pressing cool compresses to her forehead. The muscles of her neck had stood out vividly, ropey and taut as she gnashed her teeth, trying to bite off her own tongue--a simple cushioning charm insured that she wouldn't do so, but it was still a horror to witness, especially when paired with the gargled moans she emitted from time to time. At one point Potter had skidded into the room, pushing through the curtain that enclosed Hermione's bed before Sirius, who was standing guard, could stop him.
"McGonagall is on her way!" he announced, then stopped dead in his tracks, eyes fixed open in shock at the site of his strong, once-lovely classmate, now made unrecognizable by the agony the flooded through her veins. Her hair, once so bright that it had reminded Severus of mahogany shavings, now soaked the pillow clean through with sweat, and clung to her cheeks in disarray. Complexion-wise, she appeared whiter than the sheets that she lay upon, if such a thing were possible.
Severus glared openly at the boy's stupid expression of dismay. Sirius Black had already filled the potions master in on Harry's recent activities: owling cryptic notes, pawing through her private possessions, regarding her—his supposed best friend!—as someone worthy of suspicion.
"So you wanted to know what she was hiding from you then, right Potter?" Snape had growled, his voice dangerously composed. "Well, take a good look…everything she does is for your own welfare—for very little reward, I might add—all to keep your ungrateful, meddlesome self out of harms way. What do you think of that?"
Harry's mouth worked noiselessly, as if strung on a fishing line. He appeared beyond words.
"Well?" Snape goaded, his anger mounting.
"That's enough, Snape," Sirius said quietly. He parted the curtain and moved to his god-son's side, placing a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. But in Black's eyes, Snape thought he saw emotions equal to his own; he didn't doubt that Potter and his godfather would soon be exchanging a few terse words, once outside the hospital wing. Of course the boy wasn't directly at fault for Hermione's current condition, but he had unknowingly played a hand in this drama, just the same. The notes, the snooping—they had helped to put Hermione on red alert status. She had willingly allowed herself be delivered to the Death Eaters because she assumed they were the ones attempting to unravel her true identity; of this, Severus was certain.
And now a man was dead. Macnair. And if Ministry officials could connect his death to Hermione Granger…well, there would be more trouble than they could handle.
"This isn't my fault," Harry piped up suddenly; his shock had drained away and was being fast-replaced by staunch defiance.
Unable to stop himself, Snape let out a long-suffering snort.
"It isn't!"
As if in response to his outburst, Hermione thrashed against her restraints, her throat releasing an inhuman keening sound, eerie as a banshee's wail. At the sound, Harry paled and stumbled for the curtains, looking as if he might be ill.
"Harry!" Sirius called, making to go after him.
"Let him be," Severus ordered. Reluctantly, Sirius drew back and complied, hauling the curtains shut again. Snape fought down surprise; he never thought he'd live to see the day when Sirius Black would willingly listen to a single word from his mouth—or listen without breaking into uproarious laughter, anyway.
"He's not taking this well, you know," Sirius said, his tone icy. "And she *was* lying to him all this time, it seems."
Snape almost laughed at Black's dramatic show of parental concern for the boy. Laying before him was his honest-to-god flesh and blood, his own long- lost niece, and the man was as good as blind. And foolish, as well—when Snape had exited from the Gryffindor fireplace, he had immediately noticed that tender way that Black had been stroking Hermione's cheek, her prone body held to his chest. It was the same kind of tenderness that Snape himself used when he held a cool cloth to her brow, or tucked the sheets in around her.
Clearly, the man was over the moon for her.
But so was Severus, however much he might be dragging his feet. And so he stayed at Hermione's side (silently tolerating Black's presence, all the while) until Dumbledore arrived from London, just an hour or two before noon. At that point, the headmaster had insisted that he and Poppy be left alone with the girl, suggesting that both professors go about their usual, daily routines.
He might as well have suggested they take up belly-dancing lessons, or purchase Gilderoy Lockheart's entire set of instructional books against the Dark Arts. Teaching was the furthest thing from both men's minds—Severus himself had been too distracted to even deduct points when he caught Finnigan and Thompson sneaking a look at a Weasley-Wheezey whatever-it-was- called joke catalogue from beneath their cauldron station. Every free hour he had, he lingered just outside the hospital ward, waiting for Dumbledore's word on Hermione's condition. Sirius Black frequently did the same, as did Minerva McGonagall and a few other Gryffindors. Harry Potter, however, did not return to inquire after his friend's health.
"It appears that the Atropine has done the job," Dumbledore finally reported; at this point, Hermione had been under the will of the poison for just over two days. "Her vital signs are normalizing, and she regained consciousness just a moment ago."
"I want to see her—"
"May I come in now?—"
Both Sirius and Snape had spoken at the same time; they broke off abruptly, each man eying the other with barely masked contempt.
"I'm afraid she awoke for only a moment; she is now getting some much- needed natural sleep." The headmaster regarded both men silently; the dark circles under his eyes suggested that he was not in the mood to deal with their renewed animosity. "I daresay that Miss Granger's *Head of House* is the only professor that need visit her at the moment," he added pointedly, silently reminding both Snape and Black that, to the rest of Hogwarts, it looked a bit *odd* that they were taking such an interest in Hermione's recovery.
Seeing Snape and Black's equal expressions of hopelessness, the headmaster softened somewhat. "Please, Severus…Sirius. When Hermione is well, we will sort things out." And with that, he had slipped back into the hospital room; a wave of his hand shut the door in his wake, sealing the room from their view.
But now—about twenty-four more agonizing hours later, in fact—she was chatting pleasantly with the Weasleys, and though Snape was watching this through the slightly-ajar hospital door, he was greatly comforted by the first sighting he'd had of her since Dumbledore's return. Her curly hair was pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, and she seemed smaller, somehow, but she was smiling, and making familiar, animated gestures with her hands as she spoke. Once the Weasleys stood up to leave, however, she limply fell back on the bed, apparently exhausted by their visit.
"What are *you* doing here," Ron asked when he met Snape at the door, not bothering to hide his scowl.
"Don't be so bloody rude…" his younger sister jabbed him in the ribs. "Professor Snape made the potion that saved Hermione's life! You'd ought to thank him," she said, sounding older than her years. Severus gave the red-haired girl an approving look, meanwhile providing both students a wide berth.
"Well then," Ron said, looking uncomfortable. "Thanks, I suppose."
"Your gratitude is duly noted," Snape said thinly, though without much enthusiasm. The Weasley boy gave him a perplexed stare, then took off down the corridor, being pulled along by his younger sister.
Severus straightened his robes and involuntarily swept a few strands of his shoulder-length hair back from his forehead. –Enough primping, already…- he chastised himself. In a standard-issue hospital gown, Hermione would scarcely look her best, after all. Appearances were hardly a concern in events such as these.
What was more of a concern to Severus was the manner in which they had last parted; he hadn't forgotten the angry speech he had slapped on her as she stood shivering in his quarters, wounds cleansed and healed, but the rest of her body already suffering the affects of Digitoxin.
-All this coming and going…- he thought dully, leaning against a wall for support. His feelings for her tended to change from minute to minute: at times she resembled a mature woman of superior intellect and deep empathy; at others, she seemed no more than the insufferable third party member to a trio of legendary trouble makers, just waiting to stumble into evil's beckoning hands. The latter was, he knew, a reflection of the child she might have been, had her parents not been murdered, had her family name not been sullied by the imprisonment of her innocent uncle.
He exhaled sharply, fully aware that he was at least partially to blame for her first, shadowy childhood as 'Helena'; he had been a Death Eater during the summer her parents had been killed, after all, and a Death Eater still when Harry Potter's parents were murdered just a few weeks later. And again: still a Death Eater when Sirius Black was dragged by Ministry Aurors to Azkaban, and given a life sentence without even the benefit of a trial.
As for Hermione's duel identity, he had finally come to accept a few new realities. He felt passionate towards the woman that she was, and protective of the brazen child that she had been—but the most thundering realization was this: he loved them both.
The question now, was: how could he tell her?
-----
Hermione looked up at the soft noise of someone entering the hospital ward. She was somehow hoping that it might be Harry, finally come to check up on her. The person behind the curtain was taller than Harry, though, and was lingering there as if not fully committed to announcing his presence.
"Come in," she voiced, hoping to prompt the person into action.
It worked. The curtains skimmed aside with one quick move of his hands, and the visitor was momentarily back-lit in sunlight so bright that she could scarcely make out his characteristic shock of silvery blonde hair. But the Slytherin-green robes said it all.
"Hello, Draco." She straightened up and checked her bedclothes. Good, everything well-covered in that department.
"Were you asleep?" he asked, his face still a washed-out blur of blinding sun.
"No." She held a hand to her eyes, trying to blot out the glare. "Could you please close those curtains? I can barely see you."
He complied, and her cubicle was once again comfortably shaded. Draco didn't bother to hide his interest as his eyes traveled over the cluster of flowers on the nightstand, then finally came to a rest on her alert, albeit pale and weary, face.
"You don't look so bad," he remarked. "Not as fit as usual, but I can see that you're not dying."
Her eyes darkened. "Is that what you're here for? To check on my health and report back to Daddy?"
He shook his head casually. "'Daddy' doesn't even remember what happened, thanks to that whooper of a memory charm you laid on him."
"But I imagine his 'friends' are working to extract that lost memory even as we speak, right Draco?"
He looked taken aback at this second, uncharacteristic use of his first name. "Look," he said slowly, his lothario persona slipping away. "No one knows I'm here. I came to see that you're okay…that's all."
She couldn't help but allow a touch of amusement into her expression. She studied him over: beneath his open robes she could see that he was wearing a snug cashmere sweater and gray, worsted-wool slacks. Both items were expensively cut and fit his lean frame to perfection. From the cock of his hips, she read that the boy was used to having everything go his way. No, he wasn't worried about her…he was worried about himself. In particular: worried that she remembered who had stunned her down in the Slytherin corridors.
"I'm doing well, Draco," she said smoothly. "How are *you* doing?"
He jolted a bit, eyeing her with suspicion. "That's the third time you've said my name like that."
"Like what?" she blinked innocently.
"Like we're sharing a secret."
"*Do* we share a secret, Draco?" She leaned forward, giving him the full boon of her stare.
His normally pale complexion seemed to blotch up as her words moved him towards panic. She almost felt sorry for him; of the three boys who had stunned her, he alone had seemed concerned for her well-being, after all.
"I thought you might remember some of that night," he said, forcing himself calm. "And you do, don't you?"
She nodded carefully, a devilish smile reaching her lips. "I have to admit, Draco…when you stun a girl, you really do it like a gentleman. Just think…you carried me halfway through the Forbidden Forest and didn't drop me in the mud once."
"What?...." His handsome face struggled with unfamiliar emotion. "You mean you weren't stunned? That whole time I carried you…you were faking it?"
"I was stunned, but only for a few minutes," she said, quickly covering her tracks. "I didn't announce my recovery because I was curious as to where you were taking me. I figured it wasn't a seaside picnic…but I was curious, nonetheless."
"Alright," he said, pulling his full lips into a thin line. "So let's stop pretending. We both know what I did to you, and believe it or not, I want to apologize. I really had no idea what those men wanted…but my father swore that you would be just fine." At this, he flashed her an almost- pleading look, an gesture that seemed to render him five years younger. "I didn't know that you would be hurt, erm…Hermione."
She paused at his use of her first name. It might have been for affect, but somehow, she didn't think so. Rather, she had the impression that he had simply forgotten to call her 'Granger' or 'mudblood'. He was now collapsed in the chair by her bed, his hair mussed unbecomingly, all traces of his Malfoy dignity put aside. He didn't look sad….just weary.
"Do you want to see?" she finally asked, and he lifted his face from his cupped hands, eyes peering over them uncertainly.
"See what?"
Without answering, and carefully insuring that her lower body remained covered by bedding, she lifted her gown until a few inches of belly showed, revealing the now-healed knife wound. The scar divided her torso like a reddish, uneven smile—not exactly pretty, but she found that she rather liked it.
"Holy shit…" he murmured, his features frozen in disbelief. Yet…there was no shock. He had seen this kind of thing before—and perhaps even worse.
"That plus four broken ribs…and some nasty bruising," she said lightly, covering herself once more.
"Did my father do that?" he asked, sounding rather like he *hoped* the wounds to be his father's handiwork.
"No…Macnair."
"Oh, him. Figures," he snorted, only on him, the gesture seemed elegant. "Which reminds me…Nott's father is telling You-Know-Who's camp that you stabbed Macnair to death. Claims you tore him apart like some vicious animal. Is that true?" Now he was looking at her almost admiringly, as if he secretly hoped that *she* was a cold-blooded murderer.
"Not at all," she sighed, a touch of exasperation entering her tone. "In my attempt to escape, we struggled. He fell on his own knife."
"Oh," he said, face falling, and she almost laughed at his open show of disappointment.
"And about scars…" she began, deftly changing the subject. "I don't suppose you have one you'd like to own up to, do you Draco?"
He shot her a quizzical look, then, as she pointedly stared at his arm, he dawned on to the meaning of her question. "No, I have not taken the mark," he said, grimaced. "Father wants me to, of course, but Mother insists that it be postponed until I'm finished with school."
Hermione was inwardly taken aback. She had glimpsed Narcissa Malfoy only once before, at the Quidditch World Cup. The woman had been tall, blonde, and willowy, possessing an air of remoteness that made her seem only partially attached to this world. But if what others said was true, and she really was part Veela, then Hermione could see how Lucius might lose an argument with his wife—once push came to shove, anyway.
"But there is *someone* at this school who bears the mark," she insisted. "On Halloween someone tried to attack Ron Weasley, and deliberately showed him their marked arm."
Draco grimaced. "That was Nott," he admitted, looking a bit sheepish about ratting his fellow Slytherin out. "He hasn't taken the mark yet, but he's fond of drawing it on with ink and brush, fantasising about the day he has the real thing. Quite a good calligraphist, he is."
"So as far as you know, there are no student Death Eaters at Hogwarts?"
He nodded compliance. "Not yet, anyway. There are quite a few in line, however. Father says it will be the largest generation of initiates since he himself took the mark. 'The Great Generation' is what he calls himself and his mates, you know," Draco added, rolling his eyes as if this were the most embarrassing thing he'd had to endure throughout childhood.
A muscle in her leg cramped suddenly, and Hermione reached out to massage it, trying not to dwell on his revelation. Trust Lucius Malfoy to compare his motley clan of Death Eaters to the young soldiers who fought in World War II—The Greatest Generation, as they were called. "Draco," she started, meeting his eyes. "I appreciate you coming forward…but I don't think now is the time or place to air your father's dirty laundry."
He looked astonished. "But I thought you'd want me to tell you things like this? I mean, once the Ministry comes to arrest you, you might need my testimony, right?"
She started at him. "You think the Ministry plans to arrest me for Macnair's murder?"
He blinked, mouth dropping open rather foolishly. "Won't they?" he stammered, color pooling in his cheeks. "And when they do, I'll come forward. There are plenty of things I've witnessed that could implicate my father for any number of crimes. Life-sentence crimes, too."
"Draco," she said, saying his name without malice for the first time in her life, perhaps. "I think you're more interested in sending your father to Azkaban than protecting me. Am I right?"
He nodded, but didn't quite have the decency to blush completely. He was still Draco Malfoy, after all.
"Self-interested 'til the end, then…is that right?" she asked, unable to stop a half-grin from surfacing.
He flipped his silvery hair in mock arrogance. "Well, I had to try, didn't I?" he remarked, almost returning her smile. He rose to his feet importantly, straightening his ever-shiny prefect's badge. "Well," he said, looking her over. "Good thing you didn't die, then. Half of those idiot Gryffindor's would fail potions if you weren't around to slip them suggestions."
"Gee, thanks for the condolences," she snapped, though privately found his comment a bit amusing.
"Sure thing." He moved to leave, but paused at the curtains to flash her one last, meaningful look. "And hey, Granger?"
"Yes, Malfoy?"
"Don't go telling anyone I paid you a visit. I have my reputation, you know."
After he left, Hermione stretched out on the bed, giving a cautious sniff to her underarms. Ugh— talk about a not-so-fresh feeling. With the sweetest tone she could muster, she asked Madam Pomfrey if she might have a shower; the medi-witch didn't look crazy about the idea, but finally relented. But then, perhaps Hermione's ripeness had actually smelled up the room a bit, prompting Poppy into agreement.
The hospital wing's bathroom was plain and serviceable; two shower stalls and two toilets, juxtaposed across from each other in blazing shades of white-on-white. With relief, Hermione saw that the shower had been sensibly outfitted with support bars and a little built-in stool, and she was able to sit back against the enamled wall and let Hogwarts' never- ending supply of hot water drench her to the bone for as long as she pleased. Hanging dispensers provided shampoo, conditioner, and shower-gel, all of it smelling like sun-warmed vanilla. It felt delicious to finally work a good lather into her hair and over her still slightly-bruised body.
"Careful that you don't drown in there!" a voice suddenly called. Taken by surprise, Hermione shut off the roaring water and peeked around the shower curtain. Through the steam, she saw tiny Madam Pomfrey holding a bathrobe open for her. "Don't mind me, child," the no-nonsense witch said. "I've seen almost every student at this school in various states of nudity. I'm used to it."
Nodding, Hermione stepped from the steam and toweled her body off as best she could before submitting to the nubby bathrobe's embrace.
"Professor McGonagall has kindly brought you some of your own clothing," Pomfrey said, indicating a wall-hook from which a pair of Hermione's winter pajamas were hanging.
Hermione screwed up her face. "Pajamas? I can't put on real clothes?"
"That's right, missy! You're here until the end of the week…so that's one more day and night of bed-rest, at least."
Hermione shrugged; she supposed the knee-length flannel nightshirt would be better than a scratchy hospital gown—even if it *was* printed with ridiculously out-sized, cartoonish daisies.
"Now clean yourself up right, child. Dumbledore and the others are here to see you."
"The others?"
"That's right. Professors Black and Snape. The three want to meet with you privately," she grumbled slightly as she announced this, looking as if she didn't approve of private meetings, even if they did happen to involve the headmaster and two additional staff members.
The medi-witch left her alone then, and Hermione wrung her long hair into a towel, distracted. So the time had come for her to give the headmaster an official report on Monday night's events, then. –And just how much, exactly, am I supposed to reveal?- she wondered. –Especially with both Sirius and Severus present?- Was this Dumbledore's signal for her to come clean with her Uncle? Would she even have to speak, or would he headmaster take care of the explanations for her?
Bristling with nerves, she decided it wouldn't hurt to make them wait on her a bit longer. In a medicine cabinet she found a few Muggle-style beauty accoutrements, and set about replenishing her somewhat ravaged body. Moisturizer helped to brighten the skin that had gone unwashed for days, and there was some sweet-smelling talcum that she patted liberally on her shoulders and limbs. Her hair was still dampish to the touch, however, and she hesitated to pull it back into a ponytail. Finally, she decided to let it lay coiled down her back, unadorned; but when she pulled on the daisy- splashed nightshirt and saw her wide-eyed, impish-faced self staring back at her in the mirror, she couldn't help but blanch. Her recent experience must have caused her to lose a few pounds, because her eyes seemed frighteningly enormous above her slightly-hollowed cheeks, and her head was a bit too large for her now less-than-curvaceous figure.
Some Auror. And so much for the self-possessed, strong Quidditch beater.
She both looked and felt all of thirteen years old.
-----
-So it's to be a meeting of the minds…- Snape thought drolly, his arms crossed over his chest. Sitting on a single hospital bed, he, Black, and Dumbledore (who had wisely placed himself between the two men) waited patiently for Hermione to emerge from the washroom. Each time he heard her bump a drawer shut or run the water, he stiffened; he wasn't in favor of this so-called meeting, in which Hermione would no doubt have to re-live the events of both Monday night's attacks and her recent poisoning—or double poisoning, if one counted the Atropine as a second type of overdose, as Snape certainly did.
Late this morning, just after the Weasley siblings departure, Snape had been stopped from entering Hermione's room by Dumbledore himself, who pulled the potions master aside, saying: "A word, Severus, before you look in on Miss Granger?"
Snape had never been one to turn down the headmaster's requests, and he listened patiently as Dumbledore laid out the details of an extremely grave situation.
Roland Nott, Senior, had apparently decided to take the fall for Lucius Malfoy. He had come forth to the Ministry and put his own job with the Department of Magical Creatures on the line, claiming that he had witnessed Macnair's murder. Not only that, but Nott, Sr. (or Rollie, as he preferred to be called) had been able to provide the name of Macnair's murderer; he had seen the girl several times, of course. She was hard to miss, because aside from being a prefect and Quidditch player at Hogwarts, where his own son Roland Jr. was a sixth year, she was also the one and only Harry Potter's best friend.
The girl Nott named was Hermione Granger, of course.
The Official Ministry seal had been delivered to Dumbledore that very morning; a personally signed letter from Fudge detailing that, in two weeks time, Miss Granger would be required to attend a prilimary inquisition that was being held before a small jury, with Fudge himself playing the role of Appraiser. It was not a trial—not quite. The intent of the inquisition was to see if there was enough evidence to actually arrest Hermione. Typically, such inquisitions were un-necessary for wizarding trials, since most wizarding crimes involved magic, which of course left a signature easily evaluated by Aurors via 'prior incantato'. But the Macnair case was more along the lines of a common Muggle murder, and therefore required special circumstances.
Now they were to lay the truth of this matter out for Hermione, and in return, ask her to lay out the truth for them, so that all four of them might hatch a plot to sidetrack Malfoy and Nott.
*We're very sorry that you've recently suffered a stabbing and poisoning, but now the Ministry wants to arrest you for murder, you see…*
At this thought, Snape physically shuddered under a wave of anxiety, rocking the hospital bed a bit, and was surprised when Dumbledore patted his knee twice in a warm, fatherly way.
Snape looked at him sharply, but the headmaster was staring pensively out the window; snowflakes were beginning to freeze to the glass, catching all colors of the sun. Before now, Snape assumed that the old headmaster wanted him present simply because he had been the first one to see Hermione following the attack. Now he wondered of there was more to it than that. Was Dumbledore aware that Snape knew all about her undercover identity? Moreover, did he know that Snape had….feelings, for the girl?
There was no need to ask why Sirius had been invited along—he was the girl's uncle, after all.
But then again, he seemed to not *know* he was her uncle.
Was that also to be revealed here, on this very afternoon?
Before Snape could continue with his pondering, the bathroom door shuddered open and Hermione appeared, emerging from the rolling steam, pink-cheeked and looking no less lovelier than a siren in….happy-faced daisy pajamas? And fuzzy pink slippers?
Seeing the goggled expressions that Black and Snape shared, she frowned and belted her bathrobe tightly, effectively hiding the flowers from sight. Dumbledore seemed unfazed—but then again, the headmaster probably wouldn't mind owning a pair of daisy pajamas himself.
"Miss Granger," he said, face alight as he half-rose to beckon her forward. "It's wonderful to see you looking so clean and rested."
"Thank you, Albus," she replied, and from the corner of his eye, Snape saw Black flinch slightly at her casual use of the headmaster's first name. "Professors…." She nodded tersely at both men.
Snape tilted his head at her. Was it the silly pajamas that prompted this forced seriousness in her behavior? Or had she already guessed what they had come to tell her?
Dumbledore finally broke the strained silence. "I think we can do with more comfortable seating," he said, and then, with a lazy wave of his wand, the adjacent hospital bed disappeared, leaving behind four cushy chairs and a round table, already set for tea.
All four of them pulled up chairs and, when no one made a move from there, Dumbledore finally poured out. "I hope ceylon suits everyone…oh, and for a snack I thought we might munch on these, Miss Granger…" with that, he slid a brown-paper parcel in Hermione's direction. A knowing expression blinked across her face and she ripped off the paper, revealing a shoe-box packed with…a most peculiar assortment of food.
"What are these?" Sirius exclaimed, unwrapping plastic from a funny white disc that, after he gave it a tap on the edge of the table, crumbled into several pieces.
"Rice cakes," Hermione said, looking as if she were trying to choke back laughter.
Sirius picked up a shard of the cake and chewed cautiously. "But…it doesn't taste like anything! It's like eating…crunchy air!"
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Sugar-free, you know."
"I recognize these," Snape said, getting in on the act as he poked a long finger into the box. "Currants, right?
"Well, almost. They're raisins," she shrugged.
"Hermione," Sirius said, his expression grave. "Is someone trying to poison you again? This food is…simply awful!"
"It's a care-package from Mannie," she said calmly, replacing the box-lid. "My 'parents' are dentists, you know. They only send me tooth-friendly treats."
"You call your Mum 'Mannie'?" Sirius looked thoroughly perplexed.
She opened her mouth to answer, but Dumbledore waved a hand, cutting her off. "We'll get to that in time, Hermione. For now…I'm afraid I have somewhat distressing news."
Hermione sobered at once, her face a storm of conflicting emotions. "Macnair's dead, isn't he?"
"How did you know?" Black asked, his eyebrows twitching in surprise. Unlike Snape—or even Dumbledore, for that matter—Black never seemed to keep his feelings in check.
She paused before answering. "You could say it was just a hunch…but…"
"But what?" Sirius prompted, ignoring the sharp wand-poke that Snape delivered into his leg from under the table.
Hermione rotated her head until she was staring outside at the falling snow, her eyes distant. "Severus…the Atropine you gave me, it has a hallucinogenic effect, right?" She managed to look at none of them while asking this.
"Yes, the poison is a very powerful delirient," he said, confirming her speculation.
She trembled visibly, then tilted up her chin, apparently trying to collect herself. "While I was under the poison…I saw the most horrible things. Incredible things, too. And some of it was so beautiful…so incredible…" she trailed off, her expression rapturous at some memory, her features luminous in the watery winter light coming in from the windows. "Everything was coloured differently, so that at some moments the world appeared entirely blue, and at one point I found myself in a transluscent room from which I could view entire swimming galaxies. Only I was bigger than all of them…strange, isn't it?"
The three men said nothing, and Snape thought he felt a collectively shiver pass between them.
"But then…there were parts that were ghastly. I saw myself commit terrible acts….including a vision of myself in which I stabbed Macnair with his own knife, over and over again. When I was through, I watched myself roll around in his blood and do…unspeakable things to his dead body."
Sirius let out a strangled cry, and Hermione jerked her head around, finally meeting their eyes. Tears were shining in her own.
"It wasn't real, Hermione," Snape said, carefully choosing a detached, almost cold tone as he spoke. To speak softly would suggest sympathy, and that wasn't what the girl needed right now. What she needed was reassurance that the hallucinations were just that—the phantasms of a poisoned tortured mind.
"No, they weren't," she said, relaxing every so slightly. "But when I woke up…I *knew* that he was dead, just the same." She lifted her teacup, and then, shaking too much to get a proper grip, lowered it again. "I swear to you…all of you…I did not murder Macnair. I even thought I had healed him. We struggled, and the next thing I knew, the knife was in his own stomach. It was just suddenly there...and it seemed like neither of us had touched it." With this, she gave Dumbledore a particularly meaningful glance, and Snape thought he saw the headmaster nod back at her imperceptibly.
-And just what was that silent exchange?- Snape wondered, looking back and forth between them. In a paralyzing rush, he remembered bathing her after the attack, and how she had claimed to dispel Nott's curse by drawing a strong barrier spell out of thin air and around her body, without even meaning to. Using Anaemus magic…or so she had suggested. Had the same thing happened in her blind struggle with Macnair? Did she somehow, through an unwieldy, untapped Anaemus power, turn the knife on him with wandless, wordless magic?
"Um…" Sirius cleared his throat, appearing embarrassed. "I'm sorry to back- track, Hermione, but I still don't understand *how* you ended up being attacked in the first place. I don't mean to have you re-tell it again, but I just don't—"
"Don't trouble yourself, Sirius," she interrupted, her voice somewhat mechanical. "It's all fairly simple. Three Slytherins cornered me in the dungeons after hours and laid a heavy stun on me—which I managed to avoid. They carried me into a clearing inside the Forbidden Forest, not far from Hogsmeade, I assume. From there, I was left alone with Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair. Rollie Nott was watching from a distance, though I didn't know it at the time. Malfoy was on orders to extract information from me, and he had Ministry-grade veritaserum on hand. But I fought both men off…I ran. When Macnair caught up with me, he slashed me with his knife, then somehow stabbed himself, as well. After tending to Macnair's wounds, I obliviated both mens' memories and returned to the castle."
Sirius shot both Snape and Dumbledore looks of bewilderment, running a hand through his shaggy hair--which seemed to be a nervous habit of his, Snape noted. "There's something I'm not being told, isn't there," he said slowly. "Why would Lucius want to use veritaserum on a sixth year girl? And…" he gave Hermione a lingering look "…I know you're strong. I've seen you at Quidditch…and moreover, I've seen how you *move*. You could hold your own in a fight, I don't doubt that. But I've also seen Macnair—the man was as solid as oak. How exactly did you fight him off? It just doesn't make sense…." Now he turned back to Snape and Dumbledore, seemingly wounded. "So I take all of this to mean that there's some big secret that I don't know, isn't there? And both of you must already know it." Again he shifted his gaze, this time directing it at Hermione. "That's why you've been hanging around Snape, isn't it? Whatever this secret is…he's known for some time."
Snape winced, but shoved the feeling of guilt away. Black had actually just said the phrase 'I've seen how you move' to Hermione. He didn't plan on soon forgiving the Animagi that.
"Professor Snape found me out by accident," Hermione said heavily. "But once he saw me making the potion, there seemed little use in keeping the secret from him."
"What potion?" At this point, it didn't seem possible for Sirius to look more perplexed. "You don't mean polyjuice, do you? It's not like Harry said, is it?"
Snape had no idea what Black meant by this question, but Hermione apparently did; her hand darted out quickly, touching Black's for a moment before she withdrew it and shook her head.
"No…nothing like that." She looked at Dumbledore helplessly. "Please, Albus…where do I start? How much do I tell?"
-She's not ready to tell him she's his niece…- Snape realized at once, feeling as if he'd been suddenly submerged in ice-water. –Why…why can't she do it?-
The he remembered. It was because of Harry Potter, of course.
Her friendship with him was already in need of a serious patching-up. If she managed to take Potter's godfather away from him now, by revealing that she was Black's blood relative…well, then…could the current rift between them ever again be made right?
"There is no right or wrong way to go about this, Hermione," the Headmaster said, shaking his gray head. "Tell what feels necessary…and comfortable." Yes, of course…Dumbledore was always in favor of showing only what cards were needed for the next play—Snape was quite familiar with his tactics.
Hermione sighed, her chest hitching for a moment as if she were on the verge of retching. Then she shook back her hair once, finally steepling her hands just beneath her chin. "Very well," she began, her voice remarkably steady for one who appeared so out of sorts. "Severus already knows some of this, but since he's never had it properly explained to him, so I'll start from the beginning." She indicated Snape with a slight nod, and Black shot him a peculiar expression. Was it one of jealousy? Snape couldn't be sure.
"First of all, I'm an orphan. My parents were killed by Voldemort and one of his Death Eaters when I was seven. There were no other family members to take me in, so I was shuffled around in Ministry foster care for years."
"Wait," Sirius interrupted at once, earning him a stern glance from the potions master. "How can you be an orphan? Your parents are Muggle dentists….you just said so."
She gave him a rather fond once-over, as if she were explaining something complex to a child. "Don't worry, Sirius…I'm getting to that. So…where was I?"
"Ministry foster care," Snape supplied, his voice gruff.
"Ah, yes. Until the summer I turned eight, I stayed with a wonderful old witch; her husband was a Muggle dentist, and for years they had taken in orphans. There was quite a lot of them back then, you realize…all owing to Voldemort's reign of terror. The Fimple's—that was their name—house was always overflowing with children. Some of them were orphans like me, but a good number of them were the Fimple's own grandchildren. They had dozens, you see. Their home was a wonderful place to be…after what I had gone through. There were several cats and a large, rambling garden full of gnomes. In my memories, it rather reminds me of the Weasley house, the Burrow…a place full of so many people that it's easy to forget yourself, for once. I loved it there.
"Once I turned eight, Mr. Fimple—Gannna, we called him—fell rather ill. Nothing fatal, mind you…but it was enough to slow him down, keep him in bed. The Ministry swooped in and told Mrs. Fimple that she had too many orphans to be watching after all by herself; she protested, of course, but it did little good. From there I was shuffled around, crammed into whatever foster family they could find. There were a few families who didn't ever want me, and I often got sent away despite the fact that I was well-behaved."
"Why wouldn't they want you?" Snape interrupted without even thinking.
"Because of the way in which my parents died, for one—and they were magical, Sirius. Not Muggles at all. But even though Voldemort had been defeated by Harry at this point, people were still worried. They were suspicious about caring for a child whose family had been targeted by You- Know-Who…and there were other concerns, as well…" she trailed off.
-Of course…- Snape though, mentally slapping his forehead in disgust. –They didn't want her because she was a Black-
"On the day my letter from Hogwarts arrived, I was genuinely thrilled. Finally, there would be an end to the dreaded foster care—save during the summers, of course. My parents left me a small estate, so the tuition was easily taken care of, and from the time I stepped into the Great Hall and marveled at its enchanted ceiling, I finally felt I had a home. I thrived at Hogwarts. I was made a prefect during my fifth and sixth years, and appointed to Head Girl position during my seventh. I played chaser on the Ravenclaw house team—"
"What? Stop! Wait!" Sirius protested, half-rising in his seat. "Ravenclaw? Head Girl? But you're still a sixth year, Hermione."
She smiled placidly, untroubled, and went on as if he hadn't spoken. "I was a model student in every way, but inside, my heart was decidedly black."
Snape jumped at the double entendre, quickly glancing at Sirius to see if he'd been shaken by her choice of words. But he was only staring intently at Hermione, waiting for her to continue.
"I could think of nothing aside from bringing Voldemort out of hiding and ridding the world of his presence, once and for all. I thought I might become an Auror for the Ministry, but Fudge laughed me right out of his office; it didn't matter to him that I had top grades and Dumbledore's seal of approval. I was female, and I was young. He looked at me and saw…nothing." She paused and knotted her hands into fists, pressing both to her eyes as she drew in a sharp breath.
-Fudge….she hates him. I'm not sure if this will help her at the inquisition, or hurt her…- Snape resisted the urge to squeeze her shoulder, knowing that she had to get *this* particular poison out on her own.
"But Dumbledore offered me a way out. Albus?" She looked up at the headmaster then, her eyes faintly red-rimmed. "Perhaps you would be better at describing this part?"
"Of course," he said, and the words seemed to have a soothing affect on her. He turned slightly in his chair, so that he was facing both men now. "Hermione graduated from Hogwarts in 1991, and during that period Fudge and I were trying to prepare for Harry's arrival the next fall. I wanted extra protection at the castle, as I was certain the Voldemort was still living, and still waiting to get at Harry. Fudge though I was dotty, of course. He believed Voldemort was gone for good, and was not keen on shouldering the expense that would be required to send additional Aurors to the castle. In Hermione, however, I saw a very unique opportunity. If Harry Potter required protection…then why not have his protector masquerade as a fellow student? One he could bond with, and see as an equal? Not only would this special friend protect Harry, but she would help him grow, as well—help him fulfill his potential, so to speak. I asked Hermione if she would take on this unique assignment, and in exchange, I promised to train her in the Auror Arts…and better than the Ministry ever could, at that.
"Lucky for me, she agreed. But there was a more difficult challenge to face—her age, for one. Hermione was seventeen by this point, and since Harry would be only eleven, she would have to physically alter her appearance to that of a fellow first year. Not only was she required to look younger, but she also had to change her appearance enough so that her former professors, like Severus, here, wouldn't recognize her as their former Head Girl." He paused, evaluating Black's tight, astonished face. "Hermione? Perhaps it's time you picked up the thread again…"
She jumped in at once, as if she had been rehearsing. "I invented a complex potion, you see…one that both regressed my physical age by several years, and had a subtle, non-traceable confundus effect. It didn't matter that I didn't look very different. The confundus effect insured that I would remain unrecognized. Once the potion was perfected, if was fairly easy to slip back into the role of a first-year. I was excited, in fact. I think I wanted to out-perform my old self—see if I could get more than fifteen O.W.L.s the second time around."
Sirius was staring at her with what seemed to be interest…combined with suspicion. "So how old are you really, then?"
"Twenty-two," she answered, and Snape saw Black jolt in surprise.
"This must be what you were meeting Snape about…and during the summer, you must not take the potion…" he mumbled, mentally working the situation over as if she weren't in the room. "And this summer, that's when Harry saw you…he knew it was you, but he saw you were different?"
She nodded. "And now I need to tell him the truth. Once I've found the best way to do so…"
"There's still a few things I don't understand," Sirius said, pushing himself away from the table slightly. "Why did you have to come back as a Muggle-born, for one?"
She smiled vaguely. "When I chose my new identity, I knew I had to become someone insignificant. Someone with no notable wizarding past. Changing myself to a Muggle was the easiest way to do this. A few days after I accepted Dumbeldore's proposal, I visited Mannie—Mrs. Fimple—for the first time in years. I told her what I planned to do with my life, and thanked her for caring for me when I was young, when I thought I had nobody. We both cried a little...and I told her I was changing my name to Hermione. That was her name, you see. Hermione Fimple. Ever since then, Mannie and Ganna have gladly played the role of my dentist parents, when I've needed them too. I don't ask them to do so often, as they're both getting on in years…but Mannie still sends me plenty of sugar-free snacks." She fingered a piece of rice cake absently, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Wow…" Sirius breathed. "You really thought of everything, didn't you?"
She looked up at him sharply. "I had to. Albus was depending on me, and so was Harry…though he didn't know it then."
Sirius nodded. "He'll know now…though I'm not sure how he'll take it, honestly. I don't think he'll be happy to know that his best friend has all along been…well, a babysitter," he said, looking a bit disillusioned.
"She's not a babysitter," Snape growled, and Sirius startled, as if he had forgotten the potions master was there. "Believe me…I've been teaching Potter and Weasley for years, and Hermione has always been in on their fun and games. She's always…belonged with them, it seems."
Hermione gave him a pained look, as if his words had wounded her.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now that some history has been revealed…perhaps we should return to the present?" he suggested. With a clap of his hands, the tea service disappeared, and they had no choice but to concentrate on one another. "Hermione…there is a second issue we must discuss. Macnair."
"Yes," she said, straightening up. Snape couldn't help but notice that she looked far more comfortable at the prospect of discussing Macnair's murder than she had while relaying her past. "The Ministry has plans to charge me, don't they?"
Even Dumbledore seemed astonished by her calm speculation. "No...not yet, Hermione. But a Preliminary Inquisition has been arranged for two weeks from Saturday."
Hermione bit her lip in thought. "That's the last weekend before the Christmas holidays, isn't it? Who will be in charge of the Inquisition? Who is the Appraiser?"
Dumbledore paused for a very long time.
"It's Fudge, isn't it?" she declared, her voice squeaking. She looked fearful at first, then gradually, Snape saw that familiar, steely resolve assert itself. She apparently *relished* the thought of going up against Fudge.
Serverus himself was less confident. He knew the Death Eaters. For years, he'd witnessed their operations first hand. And when the Death Eaters wanted to bring someone down badly enough, they almost always got their man.
Or, in this case…Woman.
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to be cont.
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