Never Make Promises

Chapter 4

By Elizabeth Sofia

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

Hogwarts' very air seemed to drip with nervous energy as days slipped by and Harry remained in some shadow world, suspended between the living and the dead. Classes went on as always, but everyone was tainted by a staggering calm. No rules were broken, no house points were taken. Usually the rapidly growing totals of points awarded would have been the cause of wild teenage celebration, but no one even seemed to notice. All of the houses were oddly subdued—but Gryffindor was oppressively so. There were no games of exploding snap in the common room, no jovial quidditch discussions at breakfast, and certainly no mention of the fact that The Boy Who Lived couldn't even move his fingers.

Hermione was sick and tired of it.

No one was more upset than she was over Harry's unfeeling, unmoving, simply breathing sleep—but she couldn't take another day of downcast eyes and pretending that silence would somehow make the whole thing go away. She kept as busy as she could—her rigorous academic schedule and duties as Head Girl allowed her to escape into the library or her private room most of the time—but no amount of schoolwork or labor could keep her from noticing the change in the way people treated her. Students shied away from her in the halls unless they had to ask for her help in the capacity of head girl. Professor Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey constantly found excuses to corner her and enquire as to her mental health—always in the guise of casual concern, of course. Most of her teachers regarded her with eyes that bespoke pity, worry, or alarm as the case varied. Even Ginny was listless and looked for excuses to cut any of Hermione's attempts at conversation with her short. But worst of all was Ron.

Ron Weasley. Her comrade in arms. The friend she felt she had known for a hundred years. The boy she had been sure she loved. The one person she needed the very most, whose familiar presence would have been so welcome in these endless days of waiting.

Ron Weasley refused to even say her name.

The few times she'd managed to get him to look her in the eye, the confusion and distrust was so evident that she felt criminal just being in his presence. After she'd been released from the hospital ward, Hermione had gotten Ron to relay what had happened after Harry fell to the floor clutching his scar, feigning a cloudy memory.

Actually, Hermione remembered the whole incident with cursed clarity, but it all seemed so unreal that she needed someone to confirm that it had even happened. Ron's account had been short—he'd tried to subdue Harry while Ginny ran for Mr. Weasley—Hermione had watched, crying; and then she'd become "possessed"—she'd acted like Ron wasn't even in the room—she'd leaned over and pressed her palm firmly to Harry's forehead—Harry had opened his eyes and stared at her while he screamed—he'd been afraid—Hermione had closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if she'd been trying to latch onto some strong, sweet aroma—Harry had given one final, primal scream and then passed out.

After Ron had finished, he'd fixed her with an accusatory glare, "What happened?"

Hermione had sighed, "I don't know Ron. I have no idea."

He'd obviously not believed her. "Fine. Just bloody fine. My best friend is good as dead, and you choose now to start admitting you don't know every damned thing in the universe."

As Ron had stormed off, the only thought in Hermione's head had been "I used to be your best friend..."

The only other time they'd conversed was when Ron had chastised her for not visiting Harry. She'd made up a lie about how busy she was with her studies. Ron simply shot her a disgusted frown and shrugged his shoulders. Hermione had known then that whatever happened when Harry woke up—and he would wake up...wouldn't he?—things between her and Ron had been forever changed. Even when it's unintentional, what gets hurt will never be the same.

The truth was, Hermione did go to visit Harry. Every night, when she was sure no one would be around. She just couldn't take the questions and the stares of anyone who might be present as she approached Harry's bedside. They all seemed to think she was holding back some vital part of information—the key that could bring Harry back to them so that they could once again truly believe in the magic they all claimed to study and control. And maybe she wasn't telling them the entire truth—but their desperation still made her feel queasy.

And really, how could she explain what she'd felt in that eternity of the few seconds her hand had been on Harry's scar? She'd not even digested it herself. She had no command over the kind of words it would take to even begin to make someone else understand what had happened. So, she guarded her memories of the flashing, probing, excruciating force like a miser—taking them out and looking at them long after everyone else had gone to bed.

Sometimes Harry's frightened face flashed in front of her dreaming eyes, and she felt dirty and alive and lush with power.

Sometimes she woke up, half-hearing a scratchy voice call her name from somewhere unplaceable in her dark room.

Some nights she didn't trust herself around Harry, so she locked herself into her room and gave herself up to the feelings of despair and fear and longing that had no name.

Hermione felt alternately like a pet and a pariah. Alone and out-of-sorts with the entire rest of the world. No one seemed to remember that only months before she'd simply been loudmouthed Hermione Granger. No one...except perhaps Professor Snape.

As opposed to every other teacher at Hogwarts, Snape still deducted points, berated students, and scowled in the general direction of anyone who showed the slightest sign of fear or despair. He alone mocked her, looked at her with scorn, but never trepidation, and, once in a blue moon, praised her as if she were simply another student. Had she not been in such a troubled state, Hermione would have found the fact that Potions class now seemed to be her one breath of fresh air in every dirty day supremely amusing.

As it was, she was simply grateful for the two hours of scholarship uninterrupted by poorly-disguised attempts to unmask whatever secrets everyone seemed convinced she was hiding. As a seventh year, Hermione had chosen three courses to focus on, and they each met for two hours every day. Potions was her last class, after Arithmancy and Transfiguration, and her anticipation of a lesson in the dungeons usually got her through the day. Today, however, Hermione wasn't even certain she'd make it through breakfast.

She was, as always, sitting at the very end of the table. Very early on in the year, she'd taken to bringing a book with her to meals. Eating in verbal silence was rotten, but eating in mental silence had been unbearable. There had been a time when the experience of the food would have been enough, but now everything seemed to turn sour on her tongue. She ate little and said less. Every so often, a short letter from her mother (sans Lloyd, thankfully) or father would break the tedium, but they were infrequent and rarely contained much more than complaints about certain former spouses, bland inquiries as to her health, and the standard hope-the- year-is-going-well-love-and-kisses.

Sighing, Hermione turned a page and let her gaze drift from the stillness of her own table to the early-morning chatter of the Slytherins. Envy gnawed at her as she saw them wolfing down eggs and bacon and sharing a copy of the Daily Prophet. Well, she had to hand it to them—slimy little demons though they may be—Slytherins always seemed to possess a certain resilience that the other houses lacked. So much for Gryffindor bravery in the face of danger, eh, kids?

It was then that Hermione noticed that Draco Malfoy was looking back at her, eyebrows raised. Hermione quickly looked back down at her book. The last thing she needed today was snide remarks about her shoddy parentage, appearance, wit, etc., etc., etc. But before she looked away, she could have sworn she saw Draco wink at her. Odd.

But considering she was the girl who woke up bleeding from phantom wounds, Hermione couldn't trust her senses enough to be sure it had really happened.

Two whole months without a summons. Days upon days without pain, without residual tremors in his arms and legs, without the lingering effects of the Cruciatus on the surface of his skin. No torture, no inquisitions, no having to lie to Albus, Poppy, and the rest of the well-intentioned but unfailingly, cloyingly dense Hogwarts staff.

Severus Snape should have felt like a free man.

But the chains that bound him now were more subtle and insidious than those that previously shackled him. At least he could consistently see through the torture to his twisted former-master's grotesque logic of evil. But he could find no method to Voldemort's madness this time. Attacking Harry and then coiling into silence? Running himself, his every crystal tone and desire, through the blood of a muggle girl? Was it to put them all on edge? Have them shaking in their shoes before he delivered a crushing blow? Re-establish himself as a force to be reckoned with in the front of the minds of his enemies?

All definite outcomes of the attack. And all highly unlikely to be his motives.

In spite of what most of the wizzarding world thought, Voldemort was not all blood and glamour. He was, and always had been, a brilliant and vile mind. Severus knew that the Dark Lord would not make a show of force unless it was meticulously planned and had an explicit purpose.

And behind all of these convictions was the lingering fear over the fact that Voldemort had not informed him of any of this.

Meaning it could be a grand gesture to show him that he was under great suspicion.

Or even that he'd been completely found out.

And then, there was never any freedom from the nightmares that came to him in the fitful, defenseless and darkened hours between midnight and dawn. There was never a morning where Severus awoke without having fought desperately for his sanity and eventually negotiated a bloody armistice with the demons in his head—always taunting that in twelve hours he would again be thrown to their mercy.

No, indeed. Physical freedom bought no spiritual repose for Severus Snape.

To top it all off, he still had classes of frightened and dull students to deal with. The Slytherins hadn't been much of a chore. Unfortunately, most of the seventh years had themselves invested outside of Hogwarts walls anyhow—all looking forward to the bright day of their initiation into a realm of evil so cold and gripping their not a single one of their young minds could have noticed its sting. They would be blindsided, all of them. Dark little bloodied lambs led of to slaughter for a cause that was dead or dying. What a waste.

But their refusal to be shaken by the unfortunate "Potter Incident" that seemed to have bound the hands of the rest of the school rubbed off onto the younger students and made them no less trouble than their usual spoiled and surly selves. The other houses were pathetic in their grief and fear. Gryffindor especially was a veritable morgue of spirit-dead children. Little, bitter fights sprung up between one-time friends. If this was really all it took to defeat the So-called stoic lion-hearted, perhaps the cause to which his house's pupils were sacrificing themselves was not dying as quickly as Severus had thought. In one small exertion, Voldemort had brought the next generation to its proverbial knees. So effective, Divide and Conquer.

Severus looked up and down the rows of seventh year potions students. They were a mix of the brightest from all of the houses—no one took advanced potions just for the fun of it. The particular potion they were brewing was quite uncomplicated, and it allowed them some room for quiet discussion while they worked. In any of his other classes, the dim murmur would have sent Severus into a rage, but he found himself relaxing a bit around the students who really understood and cared about the art of potion making.

Then he noticed something strange. Hermione Granger was sitting, as always, as far away from everyone else as she could possibly get—seemingly completely absorbed in the potion she was making. Severus doubted this was the case, since the brewing process was so elementary and Miss granger was an exceptionally bright student; but that wasn't what caught his eye. He became aware that, across the room, Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin seventh years were watching her closely and whispering amongst themselves. If it had looked like they were mocking her, Severus wouldn't have given it a second thought, but it looked decidedly like the were appraising her—maybe even debating talking to her.

"Mister Malfoy. I can see that you find my assignments less than challenging. Perhaps you would like some extra work?" his voice Slytherin affection, rather than the snarl students from any other house would have received, Severus made his way to the group of whispering students.

Draco looked up and shot a smile completely devoid of sincerity, "No, sir. I apologize for the disruption, sir."

Severus simply nodded and returned to the front of the room. He had bigger problems to worry about where Draco was concerned than whether the boy wanted to play bait-the-Gryffindor. In a week the invitations for Death Eater initiation would be sent out. Since he hadn't been summoned, he had no idea who would be receiving them, though he had his suspicions. And he was quite sure he'd failed to subtly dissuade a single one from going to the other side.

Chalk up another losing point for Severus Snape, the great failure of the century.

Nothing to do now, but sit and wait.

Hermione held her candle high aloft as she entered Harry's little room. Moonlight from the open window splashed onto his pale, boyish face, and a summer breeze moved his hair gently over the mark on his skin. Oh, Harry. Wake up.

Some days she missed him so much it was a physical ache in her chest. Others, like tonight, she just wanted to talk to him. She'd had such a queer day.

After potions, Draco Malfoy had stopped her outside the dungeon classroom. "Mudblood, what're you doing with your time now that the red-head brigade seems to have disowned you?"

The words were the same as his usual insults, but the tone was different. Besides, Hermione had no strength to pick a fight. She shrugged and sighed, "What's it to you, Malfoy?"

He sneered at her, flanked by the other members of his house, "No need to get defensive, just thought you might be a little bored. Not that I'd assume Weasley ever provided any scintillating conversation."

This was decidedly strange. Granted, Draco was Head Boy and they'd spent more time together this year, what with endless staff meetings and student projects, but they'd certainly never made any overtures to friendship. Previously, Hermione wouldn't have even considered speaking to Malfoy unless someone was holding a gun to her head and forcing the words out of her mouth, but that seemed a lifetime ago.

Besides, she was lonely.

"No, you're right. He didn't, really. But why do you care whether I'm bored silly or not?"

Hermione's concession that Ron Weasley was not a god among men caught Draco off-guard, but he recovered quickly. "Care? What makes you think I care, mudblood? I just enjoy deriving pleasure from the misery of others. Or, hadn't you heard that was all we Slytherins are good for?"

Then he'd abruptly turned and walked away, a cotillion of his classmates trailing behind him.

Had that been a joke at his own expense? If so, the world was certainly coming to an end.

Not a hard event to fathom as she looked into the peaceful, silent face of her friend. She was just about to bend down and smooth away a stray hair with her hand when a voice from the doorway stopped her—

"Careful, Hermione. Bad things tend to happen when you touch Harry." The words could have easily been an accusation, but their tone was soft and gentle—a simple joke to gloss over the pain. She turned to see Sirius Black standing near the doorway. Hermione involuntarily flinched as she answered, "Sorry...I was just..."

Sirius sighed and interrupted her, "No need to apologize, Hermione. I'm the one who should be sorry. What I did," he stopped himself as he crossed the room to kneel in front of her, "the way I behaved, Hermione, was heartless, brainless and cruel. My girl, forgive me?"

Hermione looked down at him—a knight from some lost and long forgotten era, and didn't have the heart to withhold her forgiveness. "Of course...we're all a little tense these days."

"It's no excuse." There was a long silence as Sirius rose and they both watched Harry.

Finally Hermione screwed up her courage enough to ask, "Ron, Ginny...how are they doing?"

Sirius had enough tact not to comment on the falling out between Hermione and the Weasleys, and he simply answered, "Scared, like the rest of us," he paused before saying meaningfully, "looking for answers."

Hermione inhaled sharply, "I told you before, I don't remember anything! Why does everyone think I'm lying?" Because you are, stupid girl.

"You have to remember something! Hermione, you're all we have."

She took a deep breath before turning to face him, "Okay, here's what I remember. Harry fell down, and Ron jumped on top of him. He was clawing at his scar, and I wanted to pull his hands away from it—s-so he wouldn't...hurt himself. I thought I could soothe it. Like...like a mother easing the pain of a cut with a touch...I touched him...and he...he was gone."

Sirius regarded her blankly, "Something just doesn't fit, Hermione."

Hermione exploded, "Why is everyone hounding me? Ron touched him too. Ron was there. Why doesn't anyone suspect Ron of hiding something?"

"Because Ron tearfully spilled his story to anyone who would listen, Hermione. Because he didn't pass out when he touched Harry. Because getting information from him isn't like pulling secrets from a stone wall!"

At this, she leapt to her feet, enraged that her composure had damned her, 'Oh, I understand. Had I been prone to melodrama I'd be above reproach. Well, I'm sorry, I just don't see how howling and gnashing of teeth is getting us any closer to helping Harry."

Hermione fixed Sirius with a steeled glare and he began to walk out of the room. He stopped, turned back to her, and almost tearfully choked out, "Hermione...please...it's just that...I failed Lilly and James. I don't want to fail their son."

Had someone said those words to her at the beginning of the Summer , Hermione would have broken into repentant, sympathetic sobs right then and there, but times had changed. She felt nothing. "I am sorry about that. But it's not my problem."

Sirius looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, but there were the beginnings of a flicker of respect in his eyes as he left the room with a curt nod.

After he was gone, Hermione was unable to keep the ice in her veins any longer, and she felt the tears begin to come. She collapsed into the chair next to Harry's bed and buried her head in the blankets next to his right arm. "I just...I can't. I can't! I'm so sorry, Harry. I didn't know...and I just want to get out. And I have this feeling inside, there's something coming, but I just can't hold onto it...and I'm ugly and odd and I'll never belong anywhere!"

Had she been in an even slightly less disheveled state of mind, she would have been embarrassed by her odd outburst to a comatose body, but she really didn't care anymore. It wasn't as if anyone would hear to care anyway. And then she heard the applause from across the room.

"Very good, Miss Granger, very good. Had you not completely ruined the effect with your childish hysterics just now, I would have awarded you house points for sheer Slytherin cold-heartedness."

Hermione gasped as she saw Severus Snape unfold himself from a chair set back into the darkened corner. She fumbled for something to throw at him and her hand closed around the handle of a ceramic water pitcher next to Harry's bed. She flung it as his head and hissed, "Fucking bastard..."

Severus deftly ducked and avoided the pitcher. As it smashed into the wall to the right of his head he tutted, "Temper, temper...and language! You kiss Mr. Weasley with that mouth, Miss Granger?"

The girl flinched visibly at that. It had been a low blow, he was well aware of the animosity between her and Mr. Weasley, but he never said he was a pleasant man. Never claimed he wasn't a complete prick.

"How dare you spy on me?"

"Spy on you, Miss Granger? You are gravely mistaken. I was here long before you came in. It is you who have intruded upon my midnight vigil."

Hermione looked at him, disbelieving, "You were watching Harry?"

Severus Snape cocked his right brow as he answered, "Of course, Miss Granger. Fucking bastard I may be, but even I have my duty to the students of this school. Or do you really believe that I don't care whether Mr. Potter lives or dies?"

Hermione's brain was reeling too quickly to come up with an answer, so she remained silent. Instead, she studied the man in front of her. He didn't look as physically worn as she'd seen him in Diagon alley, but the same stalking sorrow haunted his dark eyes. Deciding she would leave before he had the opportunity to read her the riot act for her attack and subsequent disrespect, she made to go.

"Why did you lie, Miss Granger?"

At this, Hermione froze in the doorway. No, no, no no no. Not him, too. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Professor."

Severus Snape regarded her from the corner of his eye as he lazily charmed the pitcher back together and the water off of the floor, "Not that I blame you in the least. There are truly some things it would not be fit to share with the rest of the world, am I correct, Miss Granger?"

Hermione bit her cheek hard enough to draw blood, and the taste of it was a new copper penny on her tongue—but it helped her to maintain her innocent voice and perfect poker face, "What things, Professor?"

As he answered her, Severus took slow, seductively advancing steps towards where she stood. "You know what things, Miss Granger. You may be able to hide them from Dumbledore, from Black, from Weasley—but not from me." Hermione shook her head violently and looked at him with tearful eyes, willing him to stop, but he kept going. "The voices, the hands all around you, the fleshy, tingly light on your neck, the blinding, powerful knowledge. And the control. Oh, the sweet control of it in every vein. And yes, Miss Granger, the pain. Stabbing, ripping, gutting, seering, bitter and glorious and filling. Am I close to the mark?"

She was bound to the place where she stood, unable to move. His face was right above her and she could feel the power rippling from him in tangible waves. Feel his breath hot and feather-light on her cheek as he leaned down to whisper in her ear, "They told you what to do. You obeyed. And you liked it."

There.

He'd said it.

And she snatched herself back to reality and tore out of the hospital ward like a thief in the night.