Never Make Promises

Chapter5

By Elizabeth Sofia

Standard disclaimer--not mine, JKR's--I just make them mumble lines and act out scenes in my head.

The mists divided and she stood alone--once more a princess in the little kingdom of her dim and searching mind. The clearing in which she stood was completely familiar, and yet she new she'd never physically inhabited this realm. It had been there, though. In the corners of the waking fantasies of her entire life--and here she was.

The field seemed to stretch out lovingly to the black, crashing sea in the distance. Thousands of lights twinkled like diamonds imbedded in the dewy grass upon which she stood.

The faceless phantoms and avaricious beckoning that had led her to the grassland where she stood--mistress of all she surveyed--had vanished. All that remained was the moorish wind --borne soft over the sea to her fresh, young skin--singing songs of spicy lands that knew no winter.

And every sparkling light before her hardened into a gem--each one a possibility and future all her own.

At first a wave of childish excitement passed through her. All of this splendor! And no mysterious, threatening, compelling voices to invade her peace! Which to claim as her own...so very many pretty jewels for the picking...

But then...dread. She wasn't alone. Every choice she made carried with it unnamed onerous responsibilities. Chose one, leave another. One person dies, another lives.

Pick a hard one, and you're safe.

Pick a shining one, and you're loved.

Why her? Why did she have to pick a single one at all?

Far out to sea, a storm was brewing. Lightning rent the ebony sky and forced her to shield her tender eyes.

She felt two armies pressing against her--one from either side. To her right she could sense demands and honor and betrayal. To her left; lust and power and despair. Alone in the middle of a whirlwind. Just like always.

From inside her mind, a voice forced her attention back to the glinting diamonds of choice littering the battlefield of her dreams. Choose well. Choose wisely. Choose quickly.

But the voice in her mind was not her own. Nor was it the haunting hiss that had compelled her to touch Harry's scar.

The voice was satin against the soul and smooth ice to a ragged, burning mind.

And it bore a perilous resemblance to Snape.

"There now, dear. Don't try to open your eyes too quickly. You've had a nasty blow to your head."

Hermione was vaguely aware of Madame Pomfrey standing over her and of a pounding by her right temple. In spite of the motherly witch's warning, Hermione forced her eyes open and was rewarded with a wave of pain and nausea that made her gag and sink back onto the soft, white bed.

Madame Pomfrey tutted, "I told you not to do that, Miss Granger. Just be still now."

Hermione felt something cool and wet pass over her face, and instantly felt her nerves mellow. Madame Pomfrey must have treated the cloth with some sort of calming potion. But before she allowed herself to be pampered back into sleep, Hermione felt the need of an explanation.

"How....?"

"Hush. You were running down the stairs and you must have tripped. Quite a fall. You're going to have quite the bruise on your cheek, I'm afraid."

Ah, yet another bruise she could chalk up to Professor Snape's bizarre behavior. Hermione nodded, confirming that she understood Madame Pomfrey's account.

"My classes?"

At this, Poppy Pomfrey laughed, "It's Saturday, child! Now, for once, don't worry. Please. I've seen far too much of you for so early in the school year."

Sighing, Hermione allowed the crisp sheet to be pulled around her--but she was far from sleep.

Sirius Black had frightened and hurt her with his relentless attempts to pry secrets out of her unwilling mind--but he was predictable. He was all bellow and physical strength, and she'd truly believed him when he'd said he was sorry for laying a hand on her. Hermione had gotten to know him fairly well over the past few years, thanks to many holidays spent with Harry and Ron at Black's secret seaside retreat, and she knew that, whatever else he may be, he was a man bound by his own, decidedly Gryffindorian, moral code. And she was quite sure that, under those rules, attacking a girl was a big no-no.

But Snape was terrifying. He was, and had always seemed, a time bomb. Things that were overlooked with an off-handed sneer one day were enough to send him into a fit of rage the next.

His tongue cut like no one else's could.

And, worst of all, he had a trump card.

He knew.

Hermione had no idea how, but somehow he knew exactly what had happened inside her mind. His words the previously night had wound in through her ears and taken up residence in her gut.

He understood things about her that even she couldn't explain.

Which put her at his mercy. Not a very pleasant place to be. Especially not after you both physically and verbally attacked him, eh?

Peeling the sheet from her and opening her eyes, much more slowly this time, Hermione swung her legs out of the bed and hopped down. Her mind was reeling too quickly to spend the rest of the day simply indulging in pensive introspection under the watchful eye of Madame Pomfrey. Hopefully, she'd be able to sneak out and be back in her rooms before anyone even noticed she was awake.

Luckily there was a great commotion in the next room as a pair of Hufflepuff girls were brought in, joined at the hip. Seems they'd been trying to create some sort of "Best Friends Forever" spell.

How very Hufflepuff, Hermione mentally scoffed as she crept back towards Gryffindor tower.

"What happened to your face, Granger?"

Hermione wheeled around to see Draco Malfoy leaning casually against the wall. How is it that all Slytherins seem to possess the capability of leaning so insidiously?

"I fell," answered Hermione curtly.

Draco shrugged and pushed himself away from the wall so that he was standing upright in front of her. "No matter. A couple of us are having a...." his eyes took on a wicked and conspiratorial gleam, "study session in the owlery. It might be in your best interest to be there..."

"Okay, look, Draco. I don't know what it is you're trying to pull, but I wish you'd stop beating around the bush and come to the point. What do you want from me?"

To her great surprise and chagrin, he laughed. "Come on, mudblood. Don't pretend you're not curious about what Slytherins do for a good time." H

e held out his hand, inviting her to come along with him.

Well, it's not like you had big plans, anyway.

If Hermione had possessed any preconceived notions about what a Slytherin "study session" would be like, they would have been shattered in five minutes.

As she stepped through the creaky wooden door into the chilly owlery, she was assaulted immediately by two undeniable realities.

The first being that no one seemed to resent her presence among them. True, not one of the seventh year Slytherins seemed thrilled to see her, but, all- in-all, it was a warmer welcome than any she received from her own housemates these days.

And the second was that no one was talking about quidditch.

What kind of twisted safe-haven has he brought me to?

For the next three hours Hermione felt bewildered, then suspicious, and finally grateful. At some point in time, between the heated debates about Hogwarts internal politics and German philosophy, Hermione had realised she was being tested--felt out by this little group of hard-edged, dark-minded aristocrats.

And she had a feeling she was passing with flying colors.

Early on she'd struck out by feebly trying to insert her intellectual opinion, which had only gained her a few scathing glares and poorly-hidden eye-rolls. But, from listening to the others (well, except for Crabbe and Goyle, who still really didn't speak) she'd quickly picked up the art of packing in a witty barb along with whatever point it was she was trying to make.

The respect from the Slytherins was grudging, but evident.

She was in.

Not that she was any closer to understanding why they would condescend to speak with her, or why she would even allow herself to spend time in their midst--but her confusion was quited by the phrase which was becoming a familiar refrain in her life--I just don't care.

This stimulation was breaking up the monotony of the rest of her life, and stilling that which had been so restless inside of her.

"All right, now for a little fun..." Hermione watched Draco pull a worn, leather-bound book from his bag and saw the eyes of the others light up with excitement.

"What's this? A Slytherin bedtime story?" she asked in a coyly sweet voice.

But Draco regarded her coldly, "This is more than you can possibly imagine, Mudblood."

Hermione was about to shoot a ready-insult back at him, but then he began muttering a spell--chanting words so soft and low that she couldn't even tell what language they were.

And at once the air was perfectly still. And then it was crackling with power--the same force that came to her in the night and had ripped energy through her fingers from Harry's forehead.

A smoky phantom figure began to materialize above their heads and everything snapped into place in Hermione's mind.

Power, Dark, Death Eaters...all of them...me?

So many diamonds. Stay or leave?

Stay.

"Treacherous playthings for children under Dumbledore's ever-vigilant lookout." T

he phantom vanished as Draco's incantation was broken by Professor Snape's black-tinted drawl.

Given his typical favoritism, Hermione suspected he would leave the members of his own house alone after a reminder to be more discreet, but the look in his eyes was scarlet rage.

"You ignorant fools! All of you...toying with things that could destroy us all! Back to your rooms now. And as for the pure-as-snow, Muggle-born head girl..."

He didn't have to finish his sentence because the Slytherins had raced off as soon as they could find the strength and courage or uproot themselves from the floor and run for their lives. Professor Snape hadn't raised his voice a notch, never reaching more than a sinister growl, but Hermione had never been so frightened of the anger residing in a single person in all of her life. She was certain that his fury was so all-encompassing that if he focused it, he could strike her dead with a look.

And with the disappearance of the last of his students, the anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving the tired shell of a man she'd seen in Diagon Alley.

He knelt down beside where Hermione was still sitting on the floor and grasped her shoulders in her hands. His eyes searched her face quickly and desperately, trying to ascertain why she was there and what she'd been part of. "Merlin's breath, girl..."

But instead of finishing what he'd been about to say to her, he got up abruptly saying, "Come." before swishing out of the room in a swirl of black robes.

Hermione got up and followed him, feeling very much as if she'd been robbed of all of the diamonds she'd once called her own.