Never Make Promises

Chapter 3

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: Any people or events that you recognize belong to JKR, and I'm not seeing a shred of profit.

The remaining part of the summer holiday passed quickly and without incident, and Hermione found herself regretting the fact that in little less than a week they would all be settling into the familiar routine of life at Hogwarts. Never, in her entire life, had Hermione felt anything but excitement about a new academic year, but this time...she just couldn't seem to shake the vague feeling of apprehension and regret that overcame her every time she let her mind wander towards the end of the summer and the start of her final year of school.

Regret for the inevitable loss of the recaptured camaraderie she'd managed to establish with Harry and Ron after her adventure down Knockturn alley.

Apprehension for the massive change her very bones and blood felt rapidly approaching. And not a good change at that. Her entire stay at the burrow was tainted with a nearly bittersweet nostalgia brought on by the nagging voice in the back of her mind that perpetually chanted "things can't stay this way for long."

At sunnier moments, the revolution looming on the horizon seemed nothing more than growing up and growing apart from old friends and comfortable surroundings. But there were darker feelings. Visions and voices and yearnings that appeared to her in the dreams of fitful early morning sleep. Shaky senses and flashes of alternately foreboding and exhilarating intuition that made her feel like she was harbouring delicate secrets that slightly distanced her from those around her. The curious and lonely part of her wanted to confess her fears and musings to her friends, perhaps on the small hope that one, or all, of them felt the same way. But the larger part of her, the part that enjoyed the long, inconsequential days spent simply being with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, was solidly reluctant to shatter the precious peace of what little time they had left.

So, when Hermione woke early the morning before they were all to leave for the Hogwarts Express to find that a wound she'd received from a faceless, formless presence in her dream was causing conscious pain, bleeding real blood, she quelled her primary instinct to run shaking into Ginny's room, holding her injured arm out in front of her as a twisted explanation, and simply wrapped her trembling hand around the cut, and hoped that the burning ache would subside. And, sooner than she would have thought likely, it did.

The pain, the blood, the gash—all of it instantly vanished from under her very fingers. Trying desperately to get her bearings, Hermione continued to clutch her arm as she looked around and took in the moon shining through the window onto the bed. A bizarre sense of calm overtook her. A nightmare suddenly making the leap from the formless to the concrete, and just as suddenly jumping back again should not be something she was content to chase away only moments later--but, try as she might to whip up an appropriate level of fear, it would not come.

And, truth be told, she had a harder time believing that a figment of her imagination could cause her physical harm than that she'd remained in a delusional state for a minute or two after waking abruptly up. It must have been a dream.

But even her methodical and highly skeptical mind knew this was only a sweet lie to lull her back into an uneasy sleep.

Ginny had known she and Hermione would get on well the first time she saw the older girl eat. In spite of the commonly held belief that Hermione was science and intellect from her brown curls to her sensible shoes, anyone who observed her closely would be surprised with the treat of knowing that Miss Granger was quite the closet epicurean. At that first meal, Ginny had watched her take bite after languid bite of an amaretto crème tart. Hermione's eyes had closed and every muscle in her face had relaxed as she slowly forked each dollop of crème and crumb of flaky crust from plate to mouth. When set against the rest of the table—Ron and Harry shoveling in whatever was closest, Lavender picking at anything that looked devoid of fat—she looked the very picture of contentedness. Ginny took this as a bold indication of the care that Hermione took with every aspect of her life—and she'd not been let down on that hasty assumption yet.

So when Hermione seemed jumpy and disinterested at the breakfast table, Ginny made a point to speak with her.

This was what she was planning to do as soon as Harry and Ron left them alone. The daily routine usually involved the two boys fooling around on their brooms in some semblance of a quidditch practice first thing after breakfast, but this morning they seemed more interested in indulging in a bit of fairly teenage gossip about their housemates. They both seemed convinced that she and Hermione were holding back on dirty secrets about each and every Gyffindor.

"Come on. Out with it," Harry demanded, toyingly. "Yeah, you're girls. What else do you do but sit there and eye the boys while you dissect the girls? " Ron accused.

Hermione glowered, somewhat good-naturedly, "I will not even dignify that gallingly sophomoric statement with a response."

In spite of her current mock-disgust, Ginny saw that each probing question made Hermione more and more irritated—not that Ginny blamed her. And she knew that she had to get the boys away quickly if she had any chance of getting Hermione to open up about what was bothering her. She stood to give Harry and Ron a proposition—2 juicy bits for some peace and quiet—when Harry's hand flew to his forehead with a cry of sudden pain.

Hermione leapt from the davenport upon which she was sitting and stumbled over the small table between it and Harry's chair, but Ron moved faster as was able to reach Harry just before he succumbed to a convulsion of pain which sent him writhing to the floor.

"Ginny Ginny, go get dad " Ron cried desperately, as he tried to cover Harry's body with his own in a frantic attempt to stop his spastic tremors. Ginny stood solidly, unable to tear her wide eyes away from the horrific scene in front of her. Harry was clawing at his ever-deepening scar, his eyes were rolled back into his head, his legs jerked furiously and he heaved his body from side to side. Ron was trying to hold onto him, his arms wrapped around Harry's shoulders and his legs trying to pin Harry into place. They rolled under the force of Harry's convulsions and it seemed to Ginny to be a sick parody of one of her brothers' playful wrestling matches.

Hermione's voice shook her back to the immediacy of the situation, "For Merlin's sake. Ginny Go, run, just go "

Hermione watched Ginny run from the room with wild eyes. Her stomach had dropped completely out when Harry had cried out—the cry was something out of her nightmares—keening and frightened. And now, with Ron and Harry on the floor, the feeling of helpless detachment was all-consuming. She knelt, her back against the small table, trying to keep the boys from crashing into it. It was then that she realized she was crying. Ron and Harry banged against her knees as she frenziedly tried to grasp them and hold them to her, Ron was grunting with the effort of trying to contain Harry, and her own hoarse voice broke through her tears crying over and over again, "Harry, Harry "

Then, suddenly and with frosty certainty, Hermione's brain cleared. Her terror was replaced by the hypnotic seduction of, touch the scar. Like one possessed, Hermione leaned over the jumble of sweaty, tremor-wracked limbs and bodies that was Harry and Ron, and coolly pried Harry's hands away from his forehead. Her gut still screamed, stay away from it, but she was governed by the growing erudition that if she could only place her cool hand on Harry's forehead, she could soothe the pain, calm his convulsing body. Still, something gnawed at her that even simple contact with the scar, glowing as it now was with radiant power, would make her the conduit of a sinful sort of transaction—the bearer of momentary healing and half- promises.

But the reality of her hand against the bolt of lightning piercing into Harry's skull was beyond any fantasy or fear she could have grasped. In a millisecond that seemed an eternity, Hermione felt bitter, satiny power slide from Harry's forehead through the tips of her fingers through her arm, and shoot out through her entire body. Guilt and passion and freedom shot through her and she felt as though she, Ron, and Harry weren't alone in the room, but as though an entire gallery of the faceless phantoms from her dreams were standing at her back.

And then came the pain. White hot and deathly sweet and beyond anything Hermione ever thought she could stand. Under her hand she felt Harry go limp and saw his eyes close, but she saw him as though through a turning kaleidoscope. The pain seared through every fiber and reddened the periphery of her vision, but in its wake came a climactic sensation that left every nerve ending sparking and ready for action or reaction. Barely able to breathe, reason broke through Hermione's desire to remain in this state of tortured ecstasy, and for a fleeting moment, she glimpsed the murky, nauseating backing to all of the glimmering brightness. With agony, she wrenched her hand from Harry's head, and the pain flared through her once more, deeper and more cutting than before.

And then it was all over.

Harry crumpled on the floor, Ron looking dazedly at her, still embracing Harry like a lover, and now, Mr. Weasley and Ginny standing ramrod straight at the door to the room, looking at her as if she was about to incinerate before their eyes.

Hermione's gaze darted to each Weasley's pair of clouded eyes, and she felt very drained. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come. Her throat seemed like nails, and even closing her eyes seemed to be like sticking daggers into her every inch of skin. A guttural moan was all she could manage as she locked eyes with Ron.

The last thing Hermione saw before her reality slid into blackness was him giving in to racking sobs.

Staff meetings were a hell Snape would not even wish upon his worst enemy.

As the fates would have it, however, his worst enemy was already required to attend them. Ah, yes, Snape smirked to himself, just when you think life can't get any worse, Sirius Black has to show up. Though not a staff member, he was a necessary member of the current discussion.

"Now, I realize we are all shaken, and with good cause. But we must not lose sight of the fact that this very evening, students will be returning to these halls as they have done for years upon hundreds of years. Eminent danger or no, we must protect them, prepare them," here Albus Dumbledore faltered, and he sank back into his chair, for once, no hint of hope in his tragically dull blue eyes. "Well, I'm afraid I can't see much of a point in giving the empowering speech I prepared this morning. Still..."

It had been a day since the Hogwarts staff had received the news about Harry Potter, and most of them were still in shock. At this thought, a knot tied in Severus' stomach. Most of them had not despaired this much when Cedric Diggory was killed—and Harry was still very much alive. Catatonic, true, but not gone. The only explanation Severus could find for their complete and utter unwillingness to accept the situation was that the majority of them had bought into the popular "potter-invincibility" myth. This was a jagged and bitter pill to swallow, not only because of his personal disgust with the deification of any mortal, but because it considerably lowered his esteem for many of his colleagues. Not that most of them had very far to fall, he mused as his eyes came to rest on the corner where Minerva and Sirius were seated. The ignominy of all of them, Snape mentally raged, counting on a child to be insuperable so he could save him from all of this.

Albus somehow found strength and cause to continue, "Well, I will not waste time telling you how to prepare to receive students into the school, or how to begin a new school year. All of you have gone through these same actions so often you could perform them solely on instinct," his yes softened as he saw Minerva press her hand to her mouth and set her jaw to keep from giving in to grief, "and I have no doubt that for some of you, it will come down to just that—instinct, duty, and your own indisputable skill as teacher and guide. But now...now we must discuss this most recent...situation. Poppy?"

Next to him, Severus saw Poppy Pomfrey straighten in her chair, "No change, Headmaster. Mr. Potter is still completely comatose. Miss Granger is sleeping soundly. I'm quite certain she will be well, if somewhat weak, and certainly completely distraught, by late tonight or early tomorrow."

Albus Dumbledore nodded, clearly appreciative of her cool head and businesslike manner, but Sirius Black gave a low, and still strangely canine growl, "And then we can find out what exactly happened..."

Poppy cut him off, "No. Sirius, I appreciate your concern for Harry, but Hermione is my patient as well. I must request that you leave her alone for the time being."

Sirius jumped from his chair, "But what if she knows something, Poppy. Who knows how long Harry can safely stay the way he is? Besides, you heard what Ron Weasley said 'there was something wrong with her when she touched him'. You can't possibly tell me she wasn't deeply involved in whatever happened "

Poppy sat silent and tight-lipped, and Snape felt a violent urge to strike Sirius Black for venting his anger on the innocent woman. Dumbledore diffused the situation by simply clearing his throat. "I have never had reason to complain about Poppy's judgement where medicine is concerned, so I must demand that you comply with her request to refrain from questioning Miss Granger."

Black stood, bowed slightly mockingly, and icily chimed, "Yes, of course, Headmaster," before storming out of the room.

"Oh dear," was the only response Dumbledore could muster. But Severus was acutely aware of the hurt in his eyes, and hated Black even more because of it.

As the heart-heavy Hogwarts staff filed out of the Headmaster's office to begin preparations for the sorting feast, Snape wondered what the odds were that he would get any sympathy for his feeble attempts to keep the majority of his seventh years from taking dark vows while The Boy Who Lived lay unwakeable in the hospital ward.

Not too fucking good, Severus.

Hermione woke to find a heavy black figure crouching at the foot of her hospital bed. She knew she was in Madame Pomfrey's terrain even before she opened her eyes—the distinctive pungent and healing aroma was firmly imbedded in her memory and easily placed. Not quite so clear to her was why the hell she was there—but she wasn't given time to ponder before the figure advanced upon her. A scream in her throat, she was silenced by the placing of a single padded paw over her mouth, the rest of the large black dog seated firmly on top of her.

Sirius Black

But...why?

In the dim light, Black's transfiguration back from dog to man was even more startling to her. Though he changed forms, he did not change positions. Pinning her to the bed, Sirius Black leaned his face close to hers, searching her eyes for unknown answers, before asking in a whispered snarl, "What was done to him?"

Hermione's mind was a cloudy and frightened mess. She would have registered the pressure of Black's body and his face's proximity to her own as uneasy and discomforting had she not been preoccupied with the ache that permeated every part of her. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, willing him off of her.

But Black didn't relent. He grabbed her face in his hands and bore a gaze so menacing into her closed eyes that she could feel it without opening them. "Tell me, girl "

Hermione had never seen this side of Harry's handsome, kindly godfather. She was scared, hurt, and supremely confused. What does he want to know?

But most disconcerting of all were the memories in the corners of her mind that she tried to grasp at like straws. Helpless and defeated, she began to cry.

Through her slitted eyes, Hermione saw Black raise his hand as if to strike her, and she flinched, bracing for impact—but a harsh voice rang from the doorway, stopping him.

"Off of her Black. Now." Snape's command seemed to bring Black back to himself, because he sat up abruptly and looked at his raised hand as if it was a foreign object. Then he looked down and saw Hermione's scared features and let out a groan of utter guilt and shame. "Oh, Hermione. I'm so sorry..." he reached out to cup her cheek soothingly, but she shrank back with a cry as if he'd hit her.

At this, Snape smiled victoriously, "There now, Black. You can crawl back to the pit you came from."

Sirius Black cast one more apologetic look at Hermione before shooting Snape a "go to hell and burn there eternally" as he made his way quickly out of the ward.

Severus Snape sighed and made his way towards Hermione's bed. After what had happened, he expected she would not welcome contact from anyone, and he hoped she'd be overwhelmed and slip back into her deep and dreamless sleep. In an uncanny instance of universal mercy, she was quickly fading out of consciousness once again—enough so for Snape to carefully lay her head back on the pillow and draw the blankets once again around her. He greatly disliked having to affect some sort of bedside manner, especially around students, and was about to leave, much relieved that he would not have to exchange and words with Miss Granger, when he was struck by a change in the face he saw lying on the pillow in front of him.

It was a change so delicate and slight that only he would have noticed it. How could he have missed it? He'd watched his own physical form change in exactly the same way so many years ago.

The almost unearthly shimmer that hung faintly in her skin. The depth the eyes had sunken into her face. The tautness of the skin over her bones.

Hermione Granger had been given the Cruciatus.

Dark power had run through her, and she had let it.

Voldemort had been through her and back out again.

Merlin, help us all.

As Severus Snape stumbled out of the room and towards the dungeons, the burden of this knowledge hit him.

Severus, you're the only one who knows.

Miss Granger didn't know. Albus Dumbledore didn't know. No one.

And that's the way it was going to have to stay. In this particular instance knowledge was far more damning than ignorance.

Good, well, at least that decision was easily made. That simply left him with the question of, why her?

Only two options really. One, that it had just been a fluke, that the Dark Lord had no real interest in Hermione Granger, that she'd stupidly stumbled into a deadly situation and had paid the price for it. And two, that she was some vital part of this whole state of affairs, and that Voldemort had deliberately used her to attack Harry.

Of course, even if he'd not originally planned to target her, Voldemort had now established a deep connection with her, and Severus doubted he'd hesitate to use it.

Tired, sore, and overwhelmed by this set of realizations, Snape paused to lean against the cool stone wall outside his potions classroom. But a Gryffindor? That shouldn't happen...

Severus groaned aloud and mentally slapped himself for even thinking such a thing. He knew that the Sorting Hat read the minds of the children whose heads it was set upon and put them in the houses they wanted to be in—and then they grew from there. Simple psychology, really. If a Gryffindor is constantly told to foster courage, he or she will. The same a Slytherin will grow to be cunning if that is how he or she is sure of winning respect and praise. It had nothing to do with innate personal qualities, simply with detecting childish aspirations. Perhaps not complicated, but obviously very effective for churning out a well-rounded graduating class each year.

But Severus Snape still hated the damn hat.

As he continued on to the threshold of his classroom, Severus felt himself step in something moist, and, looking down, discovered a rather significant pile of dog shit.

How comforting, that even when the world was falling down around your ears, that Sirius Black could always be counted upon to be a fucking bastard