Macbeth: Act Four, Scene Five

Disclaimer: How far do writers own their stories? Perhaps, from the stories' point of view, they own the writers. In which case, Shakespeare is owned by Macbeth, and JKRowling is owned by Harry Potter.

Thanks for 861 reviews goes to: heartofglass, RedWitch1, Hermy-luvs-Draco, Highlandcoo, cuznhottie, Marti Is So Cool, Lisi, Bubbles, hidden relevance, willowfairy, Nathonea, Genevieve Jones, Dreaming One, Flavagurl, leavsfan4eva, langocska, draconas, samhaincat, Jewell, DracoDraconis, Tayz, Silvestria, mswyrr, Kou Shun'u, Satan's Advocate, logicube, yourGUN-myhead, BouncingDelta88, elektra30, Stoneage Woman, insanemaniac, Nikki, Sever13, Alexi Lupin, G, Catelina, transcendent-sin, Janie Granger, brettley, Carpetfibres, heart of glass x (x2), PsychoJo, ToOtHpIcK, Opalfire, heavengurl899, red briar rose, Chiinoyami-chan, sugar n spice 522, Searching for Stars, Icy Stormz, Ickis Krumm, Brinneybit, Calixte Ammonian, h0ll0ws0ng, AerinBrown, Madam Midnight, lulu hendrix, Plaidly Lush, alexia75, CocoaFlavourPunk, LittleGreenPerson, Bo-Jay, Beloved-Stranger, Shaney Of Goldenlake, pensive puddles, booklover (x2), FromHereToThere, Simrun, Rachel, Nik Nak, nady (x5), KawaiiRyu, Nymphadora Tonks the 2nd, Fuchs-chan, dfd, Bella, kazhdu, FuschiaNicole, Jessica (x2), thesnowcrane.

A/N: Yes. Lou utterly forbade me from doing any Fallen for the next month (well, three weeks now). And well, yes, I do need a break. I know some people thought I was sacrificing Fallen for the sake of Macbeth; to make a long ramble short, no. It's simply that, well, after writing a fic for over a year, and spending weeks dealing with the plot details and difficulties (it is a flipping complicated story) and so on, you get… well, worn out. Tired. In a rut. And… yeah, time off is necessary to recharge, so to speak. Don't worry; I'll be back soon. Note about last week's question. Never play that game with the aforementioned evil Lou. She is far too good at it, reducing my brain to mush with five minutes of pairings, culminating in a devastatingly timed Vetinari/Lucius, which reduced me to incoherency and sent me running for the 75 stuff dad keeps hidden in his secret drawer to drug myself into numbed bliss. (Alright, alright. It's chocolate. 75 cocoa content dark chocolate. Fooled you, didn't I?) (I also loved your suggestions, especially Hermione/Faustus, Ophelia/Draco, and AliceInWonderland/Draco!)

Oh, and in response to a review: I'd personally try anything but defending Lady Macbeth (That would be impossible.) Defending Macbeth would be most interesting, though prosecuting either of them would be easiest.)

In other and more positive news… remember that audition I had, ages ago, for the Pirate Queens thing? Where you do workshops with the writer and then she goes away, writes it, and you get to be in it next year? The one I asked people to help me think of an object for? And I didn't get in? Guess what… someone dropped out. And they asked me to take her place! Of course, they're over halfway through the workshops now, but hell, it's still brilliant.

In even more news of a drama-related bent, and even Potter-related bent… One of my friends and readers of this fic, Silvestria (a long-standing HHr shipper. We'll convert her!) is both a rabid Latin and Greek nut and a rabid Pottermaniac. This can lead to only one end. Yes. In assembly, on the fateful twenty second of March (beware the… er… ten days to the Kalens of April! Doesn't have the same ring, does it?) we will be performing, in front of the whole school, a version of the final dramatic events of the first Harry Potter book.

In Latin.

I kid you not. I'm playing Hermione, as I have both the hair for it and the initials HG. I shall tell you more afterwards, from my cave in Siberia where I shall be hiding from the ridicule of the entire student body.

And on that note, onto the chapter. In apology for the lateness and lack of Fallen, my Muse seemed to decide that making the chapter half as long again as the average chapter length was a good idea. Apparently making the ANs ridiculously long as well was also a good idea… Onto the chapter. Enjoy!

Hermione first thought was: of course.

It made sense, in a horrible twisted way which made her stomach grow cold. For someone who'd been taught from birth, as Draco surely must have been, that everyone who wasn't a Pureblooded wizard or witch was no more than an animal – animals at best, freaks of nature at worst. For someone like that to grow up and start killing Muggles and Muggleborns, as his creed told him he ought to, and then to find himself driven to such guilt by the act that it started to warp his sanity, to send him mad…

And then to have no one to turn to except for one of these 'freaks', these 'aberrations', who for some reason – Hermione herself couldn't remember why and didn't much care – was worried and wanted to help him. And then – yes, she remembered it happening, the hints she hadn't picked up on at the time. The way he'd asked her to come here, a few days or a lifetime ago, and told her there was a meeting that night and he was scared. The way he'd come to her room, even half-mad, even soaked in blood, straight to her room and her bed to find comfort and warmth and a hand to clean the blood and guilt away. Just the way he smiled, the way he laughed… why hadn't she noticed?

And then to fall in love. No wonder he'd been avoiding her.

Draco let out a small, hitched half-sob of pain, which dragged Hermione back from her amazement to reality. This wasn't the time for thinking about it; Draco… Draco needed her help. Love – was it really? – and all the associated questions could wait.

Feeling a little braver now, she didn't resist her impulse to reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder. 'It's alright,' she whispered, her voice seeming to float, like the dust, in the air. 'Don't get upset about it. It's over now. You're not there any more, it's all in the past, you're here. Here with me. And it's okay.'

Hermione was well aware that it wasn't okay, and it wasn't over, but what else could she say?

Draco shook his head, her hand moving with his cheek – he still hadn't moved it from his face. 'There'll be another meeting,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'And another and another. And the screams, and the blood. With twenty trenched gashes on his head, or the Cruciatius, or you can slit a seam down the spine and use curses to slowly turn them inside-out. We are yet but young in deed.' He flinched, suddenly, and Hermione wished she didn't have to ask herself whether he'd cast that curse or seen it or only imagined it. She was frightened of the answer.

Instead, she slowly slipped her arm further around him, her palm resting between his shoulder blades. He bent his head forward slightly, closing his eyes, and sighed.

'There's something wrong with me,' he whispered mournfully. 'Making me go mad. It hurts.'

Hermione shook her head, although she knew he couldn't see her. 'No,' she told him firmly. 'There's nothing wrong with you, other than the…' Her fingers briefly brushed the back of his head, his impossibly soft hair, before settling on his back again. 'And apart from… apart from thinking Muggles aren't human. And that's not your fault, it's what your parents taught you, and you couldn't help that.'

Draco shook his head, an amused twist of a smile coming to his lips, eyes still closed, rocking backward and forwards slightly. 'No, no, no,' he muttered. 'That's not wrong. That's right. I'm wrong, because…' His eyes opened, and Hermione was relieved to see a slightly saner light in them. He stopped rocking, looking lost, sickened. 'Because I can't kill them. Because I feel guilty about it.'

Hermione's stomach twisted sharply, nauseous, and she opened her mouth to interrupt. But Draco kept talking, his voice a dull monotone. 'Because it… it hurts. To kill them. And it shouldn't hurt, because they're just animals, vermin. It's meant to be like a sport. I'm meant to enjoy it. It's meant to be fun, the killing and torturing, because they're just animals really and they don't matter, but I can't… I can't…' A deep shiver ran through him; he blinked briefly, and when he opened his eyes he seemed to have come back to himself.

Draco looked around, seeming startled and then angry, and dropped her hand from his cheek as though it were poisonous, lethal. 'What are you doing?' he spat, as though he hadn't noticed her there, and leapt up suddenly as though her hand on his back had turned red-hot. 'Don't touch me, Mudblood,' he hissed, but his face was so pale and his eyes so wide and frightened that it didn't feel like an insult. It felt like a last desperate defence thrown up against an invading force, a flimsy wall against a battering ram or the last attempt at dignity of a dying man, and Hermione felt something inside her heart twist in a painful, hurting sympathy.

'Draco-' she began, but he turned sharply and left, walking just short of a run for the door and slamming it behind him, a reverberating clash which shook heaps of dust into the air to swirl in the silent dim light.

Hermione's hands dropped to her lap, and she stared after him in despair. What could she do? Following him would do no good, but she found herself getting to her feet anyway, twisting her way through the boxes towards the door. She'd just make him angrier, but she couldn't just let him leave, not like that.

She was too late to see which way he went, so chose left on impulse. It led to the Great Hall, anyway, so it was most likely…

'Miss Granger?'

Snape's voice, cool and slightly impatient as always, caused her to stop suddenly, at first nervous, then relieved.

'You're out of the Hospital Wing?'

Even as she asked it, she wished she hadn't spoken; he was sneering at her and she took a nervous step back. He had been amiable enough when she'd told him about Draco; what had she done to make him act so… so coldly? Had he seen Draco? Did he think she'd done that intentionally?

'Indeed, Miss Granger,' he remarked coldly. 'And what do I find upon leaving? Deliberate provocation of a fellow student? Entering the Muggle Studies storeroom without a teacher's permission?'

You didn't need permission to enter storerooms; not unless it was something dangerous, like Snape's rarer Potion ingredients or some of Hagrid's creatures. And as for provocation… 'Do… do you mean Draco? Professor, I… I thought I explained… he…'

A raised eyebrow brought her to silence. Surely Snape must know she wouldn't hurt Draco willingly…

'Detention, Miss Granger,' he said with a cruel sneer, and Hermione had to stop herself from gaping in shock. Detention? What had she done that warranted detention?

'Professor,' she gabbled, a dazed and horrified attempt to explain, 'I really don't understand, I didn't-'

'Spare me your excuses, Miss Granger,' Snape said, mock-wearily, 'I have an important meeting to attend. Be at my office at five o'clock. It is imperative you are on time.'

He gave her a brief frown and stalked off, heading quickly in the direction of Dumbledore's office, leaving Hermione to gape after him at the unfairness of her undeserved detention. Was it something to do with Draco? Was Snape angry with her for telling? No, he would have been angry when she told him and he hadn't shown any sign of it, so what…

She forced herself to take a deep breath. There were, after all, far more important things to worry about than Snape. A detention was vindictive, and underserved, and utterly confusing, but she had other more important things to worry about. More pressing things.

Draco Malfoy loved her.

It was flattering, in an odd kind of way, Hermione reflected half an hour later as she sat in the common room. An odd way which made her feel somehow guilty. It was a frivolous feeling; she was meant to be trying to work out what to do, not feeling flattered by a situation which could potentially make everything worse.

But she did feel flattered. Hermione was well aware that she wasn't particularly pretty. She brushed her hand through her hair, acutely aware of her shortcomings; her hair was too frizzy and her face too plain, although her teeth were shortened now. She was passable, mediocre; there were a few minor bad points and a few minor good points. Nothing special. Apart from Krum, and a few rumours about crushes which had come to nothing, she had never had much attention of that kind. She hadn't particularly wanted any, either.

Until now.

Hermione sipped her drink, a wizarding variation on tea which left a lovely liquorice aftertaste, and frowned. It was flattering; that couldn't be denied. Even if it made things harder, even if Draco was insane, even if Draco still thought she was some freak of nature. It still felt nice, and there was a warm, glowing feeling at the bottom of her stomach which wasn't entirely due to the tea. A happy feeling, a feeling like… she didn't know, and turned her mind away from it.

To be liked. And she knew it was more than a friendly kind of liking; she was sure that it was more, as well. His expression, the way he'd held her hand… and besides, he'd been friends with her before, to a degree, and that hadn't set him off. Waking up next to someone in a bed, wrapped in their blanket, holding their hand… She smiled at the memory of falling asleep beside him. That was the kind of thing that could have caused him to realise it was, perhaps, more than friendship which he felt. And that was the kind of realisation which would cause him to start avoiding her.

Because, of course, he'd been taught from birth that Hermione – not her specifically; Muggleborns and Muggles - weren't human. Animals at best. Freakish mutants to be feared and loathed at worst. Realising he was in love with one of them, with her…

Hermione couldn't imagine it. It must be impossible, to like and hate and love and fear and be disgusted by someone all at once. The ultimate case of conflicting emotions, compounded by insanity and guilt.

What else could he do but avoid her?

The first question was, of course, how to help. And the best thing to do was to try and help him see past the prejudice, to understand – but how? You couldn't argue with prejudice. Logic wouldn't work. Prejudices like Draco's ran deeper than that, deep into the bone, into the heart, so that they were almost gut instincts, and they couldn't be argued with. Words would not work, and neither his feelings for her – she felt herself flushing – or his guilt had helped.

He needed to see, to understand and accept, what his conscience and his heart were telling him; that the people he was told to murder and torture were just that – people. And that the Muggleborn he liked – Hermione couldn't think me; it was too dangerous, too frightening – was a human being, and just as worthy of his affection as any of the Pureblood girls. More so, because she was the one who helped him, who cared.

But that wasn't something Hermione could help with. The change had to be from the inside, not the outside, and with someone like Draco it could take years to for the rock-hard beliefs which his upbringing had been cemented firmly in his mind to be broken down.

Years might be too long.

Hermione knew that the real root of the problem the prejudice itself. Without it, she doubted he'd have joined the Death Eaters, not without a protest. Or have refused to go to Dumbledore for help, no matter how little good he thought his Headmaster could do.

Then there was the clash between beliefs and conscience. There's something wrong with me, he'd said, and the plaintive, lost words echoed in her mind as she sat by the fire, sipping her cooling tea. He thought that the guilt was something wrong, because of course he'd been brought up to believe that killing and torturing Muggles was not only fun but desirable; vermin control, protecting the Pureblood's world.

Hermione's hands wound tighter around her mug. She swore, if she ever got her hands on Draco's parents…

This was no time to go off on a tangent. Thinking that this guilt, this perfectly natural and moral outbreak of conscience, was something wrong like a disease or a twisted, evil, perverted force, thinking that there was something wrong with you for feeling it… well, it wouldn't make the problem any easier, that was for certain.

She was avoiding thinking about the actual issue, wasn't she?

Hermione closed her eyes, breathing in sharply. She was, and she knew it. She hadn't come here to think about what was causing Draco's insanity; she'd thought about that enough before.

The issue was that Draco… Draco liked her. Loved, except that was somehow frightening in a way Hermione didn't really want to think about. And she had to decide what to do about that, not ponder on how Draco's prejudices were affecting his insanity.

The easiest option, and one she was sorely tempted to take, was simply ignoring the issue. He didn't know she knew; he'd probably far rather she never did, and telling him that she had realised would only make things more difficult between them. It was going to be hard enough to persuade him to stop avoiding her already. Getting him to do it with this issue rearing itself between them would be near impossible.

For a brief, wild moment, the idea of confronting him about it, of somehow persuading him to give in to his feelings, of… but no, that was a wild flight of fancy. It would never work anyway.

Really, ignoring the issue was the best option. Nothing could ever come of his feelings anyway, not while he was half-mad with guilt.

Almost satisfied, except for a tiny tendril which nagged and doubted in her stomach, Hermione drank down the remnants of her tea, put the mug aside to be returned to the kitchens later, and turned to her Arithmancy homework. She put all thoughts of Draco and guilt and love out of her head.

'Miss Granger.'

It was five minutes to five: Hermione was early, having vowed that, if Snape was going to randomly and vindictively give her detention, she was going to do absolutely nothing wrong during that time. If she did nothing wrong, he couldn't fault her on anything, and whatever bitterness he may have wanted to take out on her would remain bottled up. It was a form of rebellion, in a way.

'Professor Snape,' she replied, nodding politely. 'I'm here for detention.'

She ought to be angry with him, Hermione thought, but she wasn't angry so much as irritated. And perhaps a little betrayed, as well. She had, after all, told him about Draco, and that had been no easy decision to make. She had thought he would help – and he probably would, of course – but why the detention?

There was no hint of a clue on Snape's face; he simply nodded, stood back from the door and gestured for her to enter, which she did with some hesitation. It wasn't the most reassuring of rooms. The walls were lined with various potions specimens in glass jars, the coloured potions making even perfectly ordinary things look bizarre and otherworldly. The effect was only emphasised by the curved glass of the jars which distorted the objects within. Hermione deeply suspected that he kept most of them for the sole purpose of terrifying those unfortunate students who were summoned here.

On the other hand, a fire glowed sullenly in the grate, the heat welcoming after her walk through the cold corridors and the reddish glow somehow comforting. And one wall was lined with books; the reassuring old leather-bound type which Hermione always found soothing. It wasn't, she reflected, as if there were no concessions to comfort.

She didn't have long to consider, though, because Snape was stalking across the room. 'I have a store of cauldrons in here,' he said, opening a door and revealing what should really be classed as a reasonably large cupboard. 'I require them all to be cleaned. Without magic.'

Hermione bit back a groan; cleaning cauldrons was her least favourite activity. Preparing Potions ingredients was at least educational, but what purpose did hand-cleaning cauldrons have? Besides being hard work, and frequently disgusting. The most horrible things could be found in the bottom of cauldrons. Neville swore he'd found a decomposing rat once, though Hermione was rather dubious about that claim. Sludge and slime and the remnants of diced livers, however, she was sure of.

Resigning herself to a horrible hour or two, she stepped forward into the small room, eyeing the cauldrons before her with wariness. Without warning, Snape swiftly closed the door behind her, plunging the tiny room into darkness at the same time that Hermione stumbled and fell, hard to the floor, just avoiding bashing her head on a cauldron.

Very quietly, blinking in the pitch darkness, she swore, pulling herself up to a sitting position and rubbing a rapidly bruising arm. Damn Snape, what did he think he was playing at? Giving her detention for no reason, in a bloody cupboard…

None of what he was doing made any sense. If she'd known why he was seemingly angry with her, she could do something, but he had nothing to be angry about. She had helped him, for goodness' sake.

Coughing slightly – the room was decidedly dusty – Hermione reached for her wand. She might have to clean without magic, but she wasn't doing it without light as well. 'Lumos,' she muttered, and light flared from her wand tip, revealing dark, forbidding cauldrons, arrayed in rows around her, grey stone walls, and…

A glint of light.

Frowning, Hermione moved closer, peering to see what the light was shining off. It was lodged in a gap between two cauldrons, but she could clearly see it was a glass vial, filled with what was presumably a potion, a piece of parchment tied around the neck. She reached out for it, picked it up.

Well, that explained what she'd fallen over. Rubbing her knee, which she suspected was also going to bruise, Hermione flicked open the label. She had, after all, a long time in which to clean cauldrons.

Perlucidus Potion (The Spy's Potion)

The use of a small amount of Demiguise hair gives this potion the unusual property of making solid objects transparent, but only in one direction. For example, if applied to one side of a wall, anyone standing on that side of the wall will find that the wall appears invisible. If standing on the other side of the wall, however, said wall will still be visible. The potion has, therefore, been traditionally used by spies, hence the name.

The potion should be applied by painting the rune laguz on the solid object to be made transparent. Its effects last approximately fifteen hours.

Snape must have left it here by accident, Hermione reasoned; though what he'd been doing with it in here she hadn't a clue. She was half-temped to use it. After all, Snape wouldn't be able to see into the cupboard form the other side… She decided against it. He'd notice that she'd used some, and really, what could she see that would be of any interest? Snape marking homework?

Setting the vial to one side, she got to her feet, sighing, and drew the nearest of the cauldrons towards her. Best to get started, she reasoned, holding her wand gingerly and peering into the cauldron.

It was completely clean. Not even a speck of dust.

Pushing it carefully back into place, she pulled out the next, checked that one too. Clean. And the next one, and the next…

Hermione sat back on her heels, bemused. Why would Snape tell her to clean cauldrons that were already spotless?

And as if on cue, she heard a soft knock. Not on her door; on the door of Snape's office. One knock only, a single rap against the wood, sounding almost unwilling. Then footsteps. Then Snape's voice.

'Draco. Thank you for coming.'

Hermione had to stifle a laugh. Of course! It all made sense; Snape hadn't given her a detention out of pure spite and vindictiveness. He wasn't angry with her at all; it was simply so that she could eavesdrop on his conversation with Draco, with a convenient excuse for her friends. That was why the cauldrons were all clean already, and – of course, the potion!

'Professor,' came the quiet reply, as Hermione grabbed up the vial and pulled out the cork, then tipped a small amount of the viscous liquid onto her finger. 'What… what did you wish to see me about?'

Draco's voice was unusually tight, Hermione noted. Tense; which was only to be expected. After all, the last time he'd seen Snape, he'd almost killed the man, albeit not by his own free will. It was not going to be the easiest of meetings.

She finished drawing the rune, a vertical straight line with a shorter diagonal one attached at the top, and stood back. The door itself seemed to shimmer, to fade, and then she could see the room before her.

It looked no less ominous than it had earlier; the dark shadows and menacing jars made only slightly less threatening by the ruddy red fire. Snape and Draco stood by the door, a study in uncertainty, in tension. Snape's expression was guarded, caged, the only indication of what he was thinking in his slightly taut eyebrows.

Draco was more obvious, or perhaps she just knew how to read him better. His eyes betrayed fear, and despite the misleading reddening effect of the fire she could tell he was pale, more so than usual. His shoulders were tensed, but held high and his chin was tilted slightly upwards, which meant he was determined not to back down in fear. Even Slytherins had courage, after all. Even Gryffindors had cunning, for that matter, when they needed it.

'Come sit down, Draco,' Snape said after a long pause, holding the door an inch wider. Hermione noticed the fact that he was using Draco's first name; usually he referred to everyone by their surnames. Why was he doing that? Intentionally? She couldn't imagine Snape doing it by accident. Why, then? To set Draco at his ease, to reassure him that he wasn't angry?

Hermione realised distantly that she'd been using Draco' first name, too. When had she started doing that?

A brief flash of dread passed over Draco's face, as though he'd rather do anything than step into Snape's office. His eyes flicked around the room as he stepped through the door, made his way to the seat Snape gestured towards, sat in it. Hermione had a perfect view of him from her cupboard; he sat with his back straight and tense, his hands resting nervously in his lap, picking at the fabric of his robes. Still he met Snape's eyes as the other man sat down at his desk, facing him.

The silence was thick and heavy; neither of them knowing quite how to begin. Hermione hardly dared to breathe, lest she was heard, lest she broke the building tension.

'Draco…' Snape began, and she realised that Snape, who was usually never lost for a quick retort or a smart reply, was struggling to find words to say. 'I wanted to speak to you – to ask you, really – about-'

'I'm sorry.' Draco interrupted him, a quick burst, and then the words started flying from his mouth as though a dam had been smashed. 'I… I didn't want to, Professor, but I… How can you say no to him? He'd... he'd have had me tortured too, I… I should have been braver, I should have done something, I… I'm sorry. Please, Professor…'

Snape held up a hand for silence, and when he spoke it was with something like understanding. It was, to Hermione, a very odd thing to hear in Snape's voice. 'There was nothing you could have done, Draco. Gryffindor acts of defiance and protest would have won you nothing and cost a great deal. As you say, he would have tortured you. That would have led to one death and one torture, instead of one death. In your place I doubt I would have done any differently.'

Snape sighed, then, and Hermione wished she could see more of his face; he was sitting with his back half to her so she could see only a sliver of his expression. 'Besides,' Snape continued, 'you con console yourself with the knowledge that you were easier on me than many of the other Death Eaters would have been. Had it been someone else, I may not have survived, even with the Order's rescue.'

There was a short pause; no sound except for the curious, half-imagined sound of the fire, roaring just below and behind Hermione's hearing, too silent to be real. Draco was the next to speak, his voice timid, half a whisper. His head was bent; she couldn't see his face properly.

'You aren't angry?'

'I was more worried about you then angry with you,' Snape replied, leaning back in his chair.

'Worried?' Draco glanced upwards, his expression a mixture of suspicion and puzzlement. 'Why?'

Snape paused before answering. 'Would you like a drink?' he asked eventually. 'I have only water, but…'

Draco interrupted. 'I'm fine, thank you.'

Snape nodded, and silence fell again, while Draco kept his eyes tentatively on Snape. Hermione sat curled on the floor, feeling the tension as if it were her own, which in many ways it was. She cared as much about what was going to happen as either of them.

'I was worried,' Snape began eventually, 'because I could imagine the… effect… that it would have on you. Torture and murder are not things that are often borne lightly or easily by the conscience, especially not-'

'So you were a spy?' Draco cut in, fidgeting in his chair. He seemed, Hermione realised, not to want to know what Snape was going to say, while at the same time drawing the topic towards it. He was scared and curious, nervous and desperate to know all at once.

'Yes, I was,' Snape replied shortly. 'The documents he claimed to prove my guilt were, of course, faked – I would hardly leave incriminating evidence lying around – but obviously I had been the suspicious link for long enough for my benefits to outweigh my costs. I became a spy before you were born, because I realised that my conscience could not accept what the Dark Lord was doing. Draco…'

He sighed, pausing for a brief second, agonizing to Hermione in its length. 'I know that you do not want to be a Death Eater.' Draco was about to interrupt; Snape held up a hand for silence. 'I know that what you are called on to do leaves you guilty and afraid; I know because I was in your position once as well, or very close to it.'

Draco's eyes were fixed on Snape with a host of jumbled feelings; fear, nervousness, disbelief, suspicion, and somewhere a glimmer of hope as well. He was still tense, still wary. 'Only close?' he asked.

'Only close,' Snape said, and then, oddly quickly, added, 'Because I kept my sanity intact.'

She saw Draco start at that; his head snapped upwards, skin paling even more until its only colour was the unnatural light of the fire, the black of his pupils suddenly very large. 'Professor...' he stammered. 'I'm… I'm not…'

'You do not need to deny it; I know already,' Snape said, and though his voice was oddly gentle Hermione tensed. This was it; he would tell Draco how he found out, now, and then…

Draco would be furious.

She didn't want him to be; she wanted him to like her, wanted him back to practice lines with, to talk to, to argue with. Yes, to help him back from insanity, if that was what he needed. Her fingers strayed out towards him, touched only the solid wood of the door, and she winced at that knowledge of the barrier which would soon slam down between them.

For his own good. He needed this, though he'd hate her for it, and that hurt like a knife, like the Cruciatius cast on her heart.

'When I first noticed your guilt, I began to watch more closely, and that led me to realise that being a Death Eater was troubling you in more ways than just guilt,' Snape told him. 'You hide it very well, at the meetings.'

'He knows,' Draco said, almost a whisper. 'He… he likes it, it amuses him, that's why he chose me to… because he knew it would…'

'I know,' Snape replied. 'He is in many ways just as cruel to his followers as to those he considers inhuman.'

'They are inhuman,' Draco muttered, though with no real insistence behind it. He was slumped in his chair now, looking scared and lost and somehow childlike; Hermione had the urge to give him a hug and a mug of hot chocolate.

When was Snape going to tell Draco that she'd told him? She was on a knife-edge of tension; just say it, if you're going to, get it over with…

'Are they?' Snape asked carelessly, before continuing. 'What do you intend to do, Draco?'

'What can I do?' he replied, desperation in his voice. 'I can't leave him, he'd hunt me down, torture me, kill me… I can't stay. It's… it's…'

'Dumbledore will provide protection for you, if you ask him,' Snape suggested quietly. Draco scoffed.

'Protection? What can he do? He can't… he can't keep me safe. I don't want to spend life looking over my shoulder waiting for the Dark Lord to find me. Dumbledore can't save me, not from him. Look how well he protected you!'

'I was, by my own free will, attending incredibly dangerous meetings as a spy, and Dumbledore still protected me for years.' Snape pointed out. 'And, Draco, and I draw your attention to this fact – when I was about to be killed at the Dark Lord's instructions, he gathered forces and rescued me from what would have been certain death. Dumbledore was there himself. He… he may have some odd quirks, the occasional lapse in judgement, but he is an intelligent and understanding man who I have the greatest respect for.' Snape was silent for a moment. 'I believe he can offer you the best chance of survival and happiness.'

Draco swallowed, blinking hard, looking down at his lap. 'I can't,' he said. 'He won't offer me help, he can't keep me safe, not forever. Not from him. And… And I shouldn't be guilty anyway, I should be pleased! To be ridding the world of… of vermin… I shouldn't be guilty…'

Snape appeared to consider this for a moment. 'Tell me, Draco. Would you consider Miss Granger as… vermin?'

'Yes,' was Draco's immediate reply, and Hermione winced in some horrible, horrible pain until she realised how his voice was cracking, his shoulders shaking. 'She's… she's Muggleborn… that makes her…'

'I was under the impression you'd come to be quite friendly with her,' Snape remarked casually. Hermione wondered how much he knew, what exactly 'quite friendly' meant.

Then she wondered if he was about to tell Draco that she had been the one to tell him about the insanity, and her heart seized up in fear again.

Draco didn't seem about to reply, and after a second Snape spoke again. 'What a piece of work is a man,' he remarked. 'How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god…'

Looking at Snape in puzzlement, Draco asked, 'Shakespeare?'

'Hamlet,' Snape said, nodding in agreement. 'Something to consider. Think how the witches are portrayed in Macbeth, for that matter. Evil, unnatural, inhuman vermin to be feared and distrusted. Funny how they thought that magical people were the inhuman ones, don't you think?'

Draco eyed Snape in confusion. 'What do you mean?'

'Simply that many attempts have been made to draw lines around who is human and who is not human,' Snape replied. 'Some of which were better than others, most of which are flawed. According to skin colour or race, for example, has been one very common way of dividing people up in the Muggle world. Religion, sexuality, gender, class… it is not always explicitly said that 'they are not human', but it is always implied.'

Draco was watching Snape very closely now, uncertainty in his eyes. 'But we're right,' he said, insistently. 'All those things are silly, but… but Muggles aren't human.'

'Are they? Is your friend Miss Granger?' Snape asked, his tone light, casual. 'I wonder what the true definition of humanity is, and whether any of us will come across it. '

Draco was silent. Hermione, curled against the door, longed for the war which she could see, so clearly, going on behind his mind – between what he'd learnt and what he really thought, between blind belief and the twists of doubt – to be won, longed for one bright moment in which the prejudices drilled into him came crashing and crumbling and breaking down, letting the light in, the truth in.

It didn't happen. Draco continued to look miserable and confused until Snape stood up. 'And I believe that is enough of a conversation for one night, Draco,' he said. 'I… I would ask that you think about what I've said tonight. Not just about humanity, about going to Dumbledore as well. He can help you, Draco.'

Silently, Draco rose from his chair. Snape crossed to stand before him, and after a moment of hesitation placed one hand on Draco's shoulder. 'And do not forget that I do not blame you for what happened. You had no reasonable or easy options, and the one you chose was the most sensible. You have nothing to feel guilty for there.'

Draco nodded, and allowed Snape to steer him to the door. 'Thank you, Professor, he mumbled – Hermione could just about hear him – and then he was gone.

She let out a breath. Snape hadn't told Draco that she had told his secret, and – she felt a flickering hope well in her chest – it seemed to have done a lot of good. With time, with persuasion, with help, perhaps…

Snape waited a few seconds, then crossed the room, opening the door to her cupboard – it looked very odd to see him reach for and turn a doorhandle that was not there. 'Miss Granger?' he asked, before she could speak. 'I trust the cauldrons are clean?'

'Yes, Professor,' she replied. He didn't seem about to mention the conversation he'd just allowed her to eavesdrop on; she followed his lead. 'They're all clean.'

'In that case, Miss Granger, I suggest you return to your common room,' he told he, then turned away, disinterested, and sat down at his desk.

She walked to the door quietly, but couldn't stop herself from turning as she reached it. 'Thank you, Professor,' she said. He didn't acknowledge it; she turned and left the room to find herself in the cool corridor, mind full and heart thumping.

AN: For the potion: Perlucidus means transparent. The Demiguise is the animal from whose fur Invisibility Cloaks are woven (see Fantastic Beasts) and the rune laguz symbolises revelations and hidden things, as well as emotions, fears, the unconscious and counselling, which fit the scene rather well, methinks…

NOTE FROM SILVESTRIA: Cyropi's computer is playing up on her, so I'm uploading this for her! Um... hi! Just to say, she's an amazing person and a brilliant writer! Incidentally, I'm the director of this crazy Harry Potter in Latin play, so if she is permanently traumatised by the event, blame me! (And I am very flattered she's mentioned it in her fic!) And now, back to the person you really want to hear from!

For this week's question, some advice. You know how long I've been writing fanfiction. Years and years and years, namely. Well, in all this time, neither of my parents have found out about my fanfic. This is due to a mixture of them being content to give me plenty of privacy and myself being incredibly secretive, due to the fact that they'll spent, oh, about ten minutes ooohing and ahhing and praising me to heaven, utterly embarrassing me in the process (I've banned the use of the word 'proud' in my presence) and the rest of eternity nagging me to write more original stuff (which I fully intend to do starting after Macbeth, incidentally.)

It is, however, very surreal to realise that there is this huge part of my life about which my parents know nothing, and it would be very helpful for them to know (so that when dad wants me to come into town with him on Saturdays and do some shopping, for example, when I'm late with the update, I don't have to resort to don't feel like it/too tired/homework/I have cramps excuses and get chided for laziness.)

So. To tell or not to tell, that is the question to which I desire answers. And if I should tell them, how should I tell them? Accidentally leave a printout of some fic where they'll find it? Casually mention it in passing? Do the brave and, heavens help us, Gryffindor thing by marching up to them and simply saying it?

What about my English teachers, of which I have four? Should I tell them?

Review!