A/N: I'm back...!

I'm sorry I haven't updated in so long. Half of this chapter had been sitting in my folder for eons... Real life and massive writer's block, you know the drill. You may pelt me with rotten avocados if you wish (ever eaten one by accident? I have. Bleck; tastes like garbage.) Anyways, apologies.

Oh, and many, many thanks to all who have reviewed! I really appreciate it. Constructive criticism is also much appreciated; feel free to tell me if they're getting OOC. I dunno, Snape's a bit tender in this one.

And now, on with the show. At last.

To Prove the Impossible:

The One With the Painful Memories

by Chibi Animagus

Snape returned with a large stone bowl that could only be a Pensive, and a bottle full of swirling, milky liquid. His eyes narrowed at the bushy-haired girl as he set it down in the grass in front of her. His jaw was clenched, she noticed.

"Your Pensive, sir?"

Snape's lip curled.

"No doubt you've read all about them."

He uncorked the flask of liquid and emptied it into the Pensive, the strands of memory floating eerily, reminding Hermione of the fog. She shivered, twisting her fingers around the heavy black material of Snape's cloak.

It smelled good, she realized, and relaxed a bit.

"As a matter of fact, sir, I---"

"Spare me, Miss Granger," Snape said. "I don't have all night."

Hermione sniffed indignantly. She had been about to say that she had not read a thing about Pensives besides the fact that they can be used to store and view memories. 'How very rude!' she thought, 'How very Snape!'

Hermione gave a start as something grasped her hand. It was Snape. She lowered her head, hoping fervently that he could not see her blushing in the dark. His pale fingers felt cool against her wrist….

Hermione tried to clear her throat, but only succeeded in making a small strangled noise. The only sign Snape gave of hearing her was a slight arching of his eyebrow. He guided her hand over to the bowl, but hesitated, letting her fingertips hover over the surface. Hermione looked up slowly, her eyebrows traveling further and further up her forehead.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment, not meeting her gaze.

"Some of these memories," he began slowly, "Are not… pleasant. I will show you as many as necessary, but do know that the more you need to see, the more unpleasant they will become. I have a flask of Dreamless Sleep Potion you may use for tonight, but I am afraid that that is the last of my personal supply."

Hermione swallowed, and nodded. Snape nodded as well, as though reassuring himself of something, and let her fingers slip down into the shimmering, gas-like substance. Immediately, Hermione felt the world shift and lurch. She felt like she was falling through nothingness….

When the world had come to a stop--- or she had, she couldn't be sure--- Hermione found herself in a small, dimly-lit sitting room that was positively coated with books. Black and brown leather-bound volumes lined the shelves and lay in dusty, disorderly piles on the threadbare rug, most of them cracked and worn. Hermione knew what a serious situation this was, so she clasped both hands safely behind her back to avoid them possibly taking on lives of their own and snatching up all the books in sight.

"Miss Granger," a voice purred in her ear, "I hope I need not remind you why we are here."

Hermione's hand flew to her throat, and she whirled around. She had not expected him to follow her. It was only then that she realized she had been staring at the bookshelves with her mouth hanging open; she promptly snapped it shut. Snape's eyes glittered.

"N-no, sir, certainly not," she said. "Where are we?"

Just then, a knock sounded from the door. Snape folded his arms and looked pointedly at the scene behind her; another Snape had appeared to answer the door.

"This is your… home?"

It didn't come out as respectfully as she had intended. In fact, it had sounded very much as though she were speaking to a four-year-old who had just told her that he lived in a cardboard box. Snape, it appeared, had noticed. His face darkened, and his eyes flashed menacingly.

"I live here, if that is what you mean," he spat out. "Whatever is the matter, Ms. Granger? Expected something grander? A castle, perhaps, for the feared fairy-tale troll?"

"No, no sir, that's not what I meant at all," she said miserably, "I was only---"

"Don't trouble yourself," he snapped.

At that moment, Hermione realized the memory had commenced without her, and tore herself away from Snape's gaze with a sigh.

Two black-clad figures were throwing back their hoods and making themselves comfortable on Snape's sofa. Snape's sofa, Hermione giggled inside her head, how pleasantly domestic. Any silly thoughts of Snape purchasing said sofa and choosing paint schemes were wiped from her mind as she recognized both of the visitors. The pale, pointed face and elegant features were unmistakeable; Narcissa Malfoy was the first, holding a glass of wine. The other... The other she recognized with a shudder, and a fierce burst of rage. Sneering at her from the front page of the Daily Prophet at breakfast, taunting Harry in that mocking baby voice, screeching with cold, cruel laughter as the man that was Harry Potter's hope fell slowly backwards to his death...

Bellatrix Lestrange. And she was making herself at home in Severus Snape's living room. Hermione wanted to smack her... desperately wanted to lose her cool and tear that--- that thing apart. Snape knew simple cleaning spells--- the couch would be fine.

Except this was only a memory, she chided herself. She knew Snape had to deal with the other Death Eaters, and was exceptionally good at acting, but she had to admit--- her palms were sweating profusely, and Lestrange couldn't even see her. How did Snape do it? All right, he was snapping at her, hardly attempting to conceal his distaste, but Hermione still had to hand it to him. Lestrange made her skin crawl.

Now--- enough idle thinking. Hermione snapped to Note-Taking Mode. High-Priority Note-Taking Mode, actually, which she used... all the time. She listened with rapt attention to Snape, Narcissa, and Lestrange, measured expressions, weighed the subtle inflections and changes in tone.

It appeared that Narcissa was in a bit of a pickle; Voldemort had ordered Draco to some highly important, loftily sought-after, but difficult and dangerous task. The task, Hermione assumed, must be to murder the late Headmaster. Narcissa was an intelligent woman--- she knew Draco would fail, and she knew Voldemort was only too aware of this. Although the Malfoy woman's over-dramatized, sweeping gestures and pleading reminded Hermione of a silly Muggle soap opera, something bigger was happening here. This was a mother, tearfully begging for the life of her son--- no matter how much of a rat-faced git that son was. A strange feeling crept up on her--- like she understood something very powerful about the Malfoy's, and it wasn't entirely bad.

If Draco Malfoy's mother died for him, as Lily Potter had died for her son, he would be utterly and completely alone, with no one to defend him.

No, she understood, then, that Narcissa couldn't do that. The best chance she had was to influence others--- manipulate them--- and gain some sort of footing for Draco. And apparently she was influencing Snape.

Memory-Snape was defending himself now, countering all of Lestrange's attacks on his loyalty with smooth, practiced excuses. For that's what they were, she knew. No--- thought, not knew! She was being open-minded, of course--- giving the man a chance.

Ugh. Admit it. You trust him already. You've always prided yourself on your intuition, and you just can't believe it would fail you now. Why would it? The man can act, but some things... well, there are some things you simply can't hide. He said he'd show me as many memories as it took...

Even so, Hermione knew that logically, her curiosity would not rest until every last question had been answered.

And it was.

She saw the Unbreakable Vow being formed, a sick feeling overtaking her. She saw Snape arguing near Hagrid's hut with Dumbledore--- shouting that he couldn't kill him, that he couldn't be asked to kill a man he looked up to as a father--- while all the while those eyes behind half-moon spectacles twinkled sadly. She saw Snape's face twisting in rage, screaming at Harry, who was crumpled on the ground--- screaming not to call him "coward," as though that cruel irony seared his soul more than anything else. She saw personal moments. Snape, at his kitchen table with his head in his hands, trembling violently. Snape, raging and cursing and kicking over his nightstand, tears coursing down his face. Snape, wild-eyed and shuddering, wrenching his hands through his hair. Snape, huddled and alone on the floor. Snape, broken and afraid.

"Enough!" she yelled.

And they were back in the clearing.

"Miss Granger," a voice said softly.

"I trust you, damn it! I trust you already!"

"Miss Granger." More insistently this time.

"I don't need to see any more bloody memories, just don't---"

She stopped short as a hand was laid on her shoulder. It was only then that she realized that Snape's dark eyes were swimming in front of her. She was crying. She swallowed, and scrubbed the tears furiously away.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, feeling utterly foolish.

"No," Snape silenced her, his voice still oddly gentle, "It is I who should be apologizing. I... I think it is best if you take this, and go straight to sleep." Then, quietly, "You're pushing yourself too hard."

A small, smooth object was pressed into her hand. Dreamless Sleep Potion, she assumed.

"But sir, we were going to discuss---"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, back to his usual demeanor, "You're of no use to me--- or Potter--- dead."

Normally she would have protested more, but her mind was reeling and she felt a bit ill. Slowly, she nodded, and got to her feet. Yet something, she felt, still needed to be done.

"Er... sir?" Hermione said tentatively, taking a step towards him in the blackness.

"Yes?"

She reached out a hand, her arm trembling a bit, and laid it cautiously on Snape's thin shoulder.

"I... I'm sorry I doubted you."

He stiffened, and backed away. She dropped her arm.

Hermoine turned, head bowed, and was about to make her way back to Harry and Ron, when he spoke.

"Tomorrow night... I will come for you. Hopefully we can begin to solve this mystery. Agreed?"

It sounded odd--- Snape asking politely for her approval. And although she was sure she hadn't much choice in the matter, still--- it was a step.

"Agreed."